shrub and stickers, feeling fine.
Brant admitted time after time that we were all brave for going
along with him that day, but he never brought up the fact that we
all had run away, he and Dewey in the lead. Somewhere in my
mind, the fact appeared to me that somewhere in Brant, his ego
ended and his brains began. That's why I listened along with the
others, and why we all wound up going with him that night when
he began scheming up another mastermind stunt.
'First we make it over the fence. When we do, we head for the
SkyCoaster. Here's the trick: we'll all meet in the station and start
up the tracks - not the wooden beams - the tracks, and, in single
file, climb to the King drop, then back down.' 'You're fuckin nuts,
Brant.' 'Maybe. But at least I'm not fuckin' pussy.' 'Who's
pussy?' I asked, pulling my Converse All-Star tennis shoes on.
'You in?' asked Kirby, his lower jaw shaking. It was almost like
that shaking jaw and those glassy, scared deer eves of his were
trying to pull me back, to help me forget about the dare and get
back to reading another chapter in Amazing Detective Stories - as
if that once shaking jaw were a sonar, bouncing off waves of
detection and coming up with the same reading: Dangerous Barrier
Ahead.
'Don't be ridiculous, Kirb. 'Course I'm goin'' I shot a glance at
John and Dewey, who both gave me nods of bravery and
confidence, mixed highly with regrets of Brant's ever being with us
that night. We left the flashlights on in the tent in case John's dad
peeked out the back windows of his house to check on us. It turned
out he never did.
Skybar can be pretty damn dark at night with no lights on. Few
people know that like I do since most have only seen it in the
daytime with sunlight bouncing off of the metal roofs of Pop
Dupree's and the Adults Only freak tent or at night with the
magical lights blazing lazily around on the Ferris wheel and bulbs
flashing crazily in single file, creating a racing form of neon
display up and down the hills of the 100 foot high SkyCoaster.
There were no lights that night, however. No lights, no moon, no
light clouds, zilchamundo. Brant had stopped on the way to pick
up a couple of his friends from the White Dragons. The Dragons
were a street gang that held a high position in thc field of respect
with all wise kids back then, and luckily they brought spare
flashlights, matches for their cigarettes, and 5-inch steel Randell
switchblades (in case some maniacal drunk or thug was claiming
the park space as a home base for his operations).
Both of the White Dragon members appeared to be gods in the
eyes of all of us that evening - their hair slicked back to their scalps
James Dean style, black leather jackets with pale, fire breathing
dragons on them, a general air of confidence and security beaming
off them as if they were more protective beacons for us than
general good company joining us in the daredevil fun.
Five more members of the Dragons were to meet us after a field
party they were having up on Grange's Point. Brant hadn't let us in
