These days, it only takes the wrong kind of glance to get people suspicious.
Especially with everyone on edge and all.
“What’s going on?” I ask. Steve stops walking and slings his backpack from one shoulder to the other.
There are two police cars parked in front of Old Hilborn’s house with lights flashing. The sheriff questions the decrepit old man while two deputies crowd him on both sides. The afternoon is hot and Hilborn is dressed in his underclothes and knee-garters that hold up his black socks. From where we are standing, we can’t hear what he’s telling the officer, but his arms wave above his head.
“I don’t know,” Steve finally responds, transfixed on the spectacle. “Oh wait.”
“What’s up?”
“I overheard some girls in the hall, maybe it was Shelly English? But yeah, anyway”—he licks his lips—“I think she was saying something about Hilborn saying something to her about her being pretty or something.”
“What?”
“I don’t know, but you know how it is. Especially now.”
I do know how it is. I think of the neon flyers.
Shelly English. Hilborn makes some comment at her. She tells her parents. They call the sheriff. This is how I imagine what happened.
Steve and I stare from across the street as Hilborn flails his arms and calls the officers “assholes.” The deputies grab him by the arms and shove him against his door. We hear the old man’s pained groan from where we stand. The sheriff leans in close and jabs his finger into Hilborn’s chest, accentuating each whispered word. Bullies, I think, and then imagine Colt in a police uniform.
The trio eases off Hilborn, who slumps against his door, relieved from the pressure. The sheriff whistles and motions for the others to follow. They obey and leave the scene. Hilborn sends them off with his middle finger. He sees us looking at him from across the street. He shakes his head. One of his garters comes loose and the sock falls down. We continue on our way home.