Cape Cod Noir - By David L Ulin Page 0,14

try and stop Chad from “stealing” the Mustang or from cooking up Ritalin and Talwin—which, they explained, is as good as mixing coke and heroin—in that valet booth, or even putting back half a case of beer while driving. They made a big deal out of the drinking and driving as if everyone else around here didn’t do it. But I never said anything to stop Chad. It wasn’t just because I knew there was no stopping him once he set his mind to a thing, or that I knew how badly he needed to win at something since coming back home. It was that I had wanted us to win together.

Cunningham ended up revoking Saturday privileges because we all knew that Freddie and Tiny were planning to steal the boat and never said anything about it.

Bobby tried to reason with Cunningham: “But if you had never known about it you never would’ve gotten upset, so you don’t need to punish us because there was no reason to tell you. Besides, Tiny had been talking about stealing Second Chance for weeks. Until they didn’t come back, nothing bad had happened, so what was there to say?”

Freddie and Tiny were punished with extra wood chopping. Bobby had to shovel shit all week.

I still remember what it felt like going over the bridge in that Mustang. All I could feel was how high and fast we were, Chad and me together, set free from something inside.

“Pop me another cold one,” Chad said.

I reached into the backseat, grabbed one of our beers, and cracked open the bottle as we were nearing the exit. But we were in the left-hand lane and the exit ramp was already in sight. Chad’s friends were right behind us. Chad floored the Mustang to get ahead of an SUV next to us and ferry over straight onto the ramp. But the SUV driver gave us the finger and accelerated too, cutting us off from the lane. Chad slammed on the brakes. My head whipped forward. The beer went flying out of my hand. The bottle sailed into the windshield and exploded. A spray of beer stung Chad’s eyes. He lifted his hands off the wheel. Shards of glass cut his face, his hands.

My shoulder hit the window. The seat belt cut into my neck. And the Mustang slammed into the driver’s-side door of a Honda Civic that was trailing the SUV.

Katelyn Robichard, UMass Dartmouth freshman and Corsairs striker, 2009 Little East Conference Women’s Soccer Offensive Player of the Year, was at the wheel of the Honda. Her seat belt stayed secured, but her airbag didn’t inflate. And pretty little Katelyn Robichard snapped forward at her waist, just like a jack-in-the-box that sprung up out of its lid and collapsed.

Freddie and Tiny were out doing their time, chopping a forest full of wood for the third day in a row, when a periwinkle shell flew out of the clouds and pelted Freddie in the head.

“Muthahfeckah,” Freddie muttered and slammed his axe down on a piece of wood.

Another shell came hurling toward him. He swung at the clouds with his axe and yelled, “Come down here, you bitches! You want a piece of me? I’ll show you a piece of me, ya shiteating birds.”

The sky filled with cackles, like God was slapping his thigh at the sight of Freddie blowing his top.

A gull dive-bombed his head and tore at his hair. A shrieking Freddie covered his head with his one free hand and continued swinging his axe overhead. More gulls flew at him. Tiny started throwing pieces of wood into the sky.

We hated those giant, hungry clouds of birds, but we hated Freddie and Tiny more for getting us all in trouble.

Except for Bobby, who was in the outhouse, we were all inside supposedly doing homework and chores. But we got up to watch the big show out the kitchen window. Freddie was swinging his axe around like some murderous fuck. “I’m wicked pissa sick o’ bein’ out here with all these birds shitting on me all the goddamned time!”

“It’s not the birds that’re causing the problem,” Cunningham said. He stood on the porch, the picture of calm. His voice sounded out low and deep, like a horn through the fog.

Tiny could always tell when Cunningham was about to deliver one of his living-like-a-homesteader-is-good-for-you lectures. “Astern, astern! Eye-roller coming on!” he would shout, like a rogue wave that only he could see was moving through Cunningham. But for now, Tiny