1993

The sound system twins pull into the parking lot of our apartment complex and swirl their white Firebird smooth into a corner spot. The music emanating from their open windows is all bass, unintelligible but purring in the concrete beneath feet. We stop what we’re doing almost entirely–we want to seem disinterested, but not too much. If we are lucky, the twins will usher a few of us girls to sit in the backseat where the speakers will vibrate the teeth in our pretty little skulls. The twins are gold chain Ralph Lauren curse words with weak chins and lid-heavy eyes. Their white t-shirts stay white. They love their car. They love standing over the open trunk pinching Marlboros between their forefingers and thumbs. Scowl-y little mouths when they take a drag. It is a big deal to sit in their car and have our eardrums blasted by their pride and joy: a sound system. A sneak peek into a potential future–these high school identicals and us junior high girls. We took in the pristine interior–gleam of the dash and whiff of cologne(strong, since they wore the same kind). This might be their prelude to a night out which meant gunning it for the video store less than a mile away where Monica works. She hooks them up with free candy and they wait for her to lock up. She is older with a thicket of black hair and a grip of keychains that were hard to miss splayed on the counter. She is brand name jeans and lipstick. We are Salon Selectives and butterfly clips. We were still gonna marry whoever we tongue kissed. A gawking swell of young, impressionable enough to leave tracks in. What do we do? We learn how to throw the perfect spiral from the neighborhood boys. There’s just enough grass behind the buildings to pull off a hail mary. Dirt smudged hoodies at dusk. Late summer is all crickets–come fall they run out of things to say. Fallowed fields mean the stadium sound travels well; from the bedroom window you can hear every play.