Trailer Trash(11)

The near side of the store was much like any other drugstore, only smaller. Greeting cards, ChapStick, cheap toys. But the entire length of the back wall was taken up by the counter and stools of the old-fashioned soda fountain. At the far end were a couple of booths, and that’s where the teens were, some lounging at the tables, some occupying the stools across from them.

Nate and his dad chose stools at the counter on the near side, as far away from the teenagers as possible, and Nate did his best to ignore their curious stares. He and his dad ordered grilled ham and cheese sandwiches and vanilla malts. The lady working the counter even asked if they wanted them thick or thin (the former for his dad, the latter for Nate). Afterward, his dad excused himself to use the restroom. Nate didn’t want his dad to leave him there alone, even for a minute, but he resisted the urge to follow him like a little kid.

“You’re the new guy,” one of the teenagers said to Nate as soon as his dad was gone. The teen in question was the perfect prep—letter jacket over a polo shirt with the collar flipped up. Nate could imagine Cody’s disdain, and it was safe to assume that attitude went both ways.

“Yeah,” Nate said, seeing no way around it. “Nate Bradford.”

“We’ve seen you around.”

What was he supposed to say to that? They sat there awkwardly for a second, until one of the girls stepped forward.

“We’re going out to the old mine tonight,” she said. “Why don’t you come along?”

“Yeah,” one of the other girls said. She had poofy, permed hair and bangs that stood straight up like a tidal wave. “You’re just two doors down from me, you know. You can ride with me.”

“I don’t know—” Nate started to say, but the first boy cut him off.

“We scored some beer.”

Nate wasn’t sure if that made it more tempting or less. Unfortunately, his dad came around the corner just then. The guy who’d mentioned the beer did his best to look casual. The girl with the tidal wave bangs smiled at Nate. “I’ll pick you up at eight?”

“I’m not sure I can go,” Nate started to say, but this time it was his dad who cut him off.

“Why not?” he asked. “You should get out of the house more.”

Nate got out of the house plenty. What his dad really meant was, Nate should meet more people his age, and it wasn’t like Nate could argue with his new “friends” listening in.

“Great,” he said, wondering if his severe lack of enthusiasm was evident. “See you at eight.”



The girl with the tidal-wave bangs showed up promptly at eight. She told him her name was Jennifer. Nate climbed into the passenger seat of her Toyota Tercel, and wondered for the hundredth time what he was getting himself into.

“There’s an old mine northeast of town,” she told him. “We’re not supposed to go in there, but we do. We have bonfires and stuff.”

And stuff. Nate was afraid to ask what that meant.

There were two guys in the group: Brian, the one with the letter jacket from the drug store, and Brad, who was smaller and obviously spent most of his time in Brian’s shadow. There were three girls. Two were named Jennifer, and the third one was named Christine. The Jennifers didn’t seem to like her, and it took him a bit, but Nate finally figured it out.

There was nothing like fashion to build the brick wall between the “haves” and the “have nots,” and in high school, being a “have” was the only thing that mattered. Those with money proved it by sporting labels—Guess, Gitano, and Esprit, accessorized with Swatch watches and Reebok tennis shoes. If you wanted to look like a rebel without looking like your folks were dirt-poor, you went for the acceptable alternatives: Converse, Doc Martens, and Levi’s 501s. The Jennifers were designer all the way, from their United Colors of Benetton earrings to their scrunchy Gap socks. Christine, on the other hand, had none of it. Everything she wore had probably come courtesy of the Sears or JCPenney catalogs, and not the high-dollar pages either.

The Orange Grove residents may have had more money than the rest of Warren, but despite what Cody seemed to think, none of them were rich. Not by the Texas standards Nate was used to, at any rate. They were solidly middle class. Upper middle class at best. What truly seemed to set them apart wasn’t so much their money, but their attitude and their awareness of the outside world.

“Can you believe we still don’t have MTV here?” Brian said to Nate. “It’s like living in the Old West or something.”

“It isn’t as bad as I thought it’d be,” Nate confessed. “I was worried we wouldn’t even have cable.”