Free Sweet Dream Baby by Sterling Watson Page B

rack with the propeller above it. He pushes a button, and the propeller spins until the chocolate malted swells up to the top. He puts the two malts in front of us, and I hear the two boys slide out of the booth behind us.
    Sifford says, “Last chance for that ride, Delia.”
    My Aunt Delia’s voice is mocky and sing-song. “Last chance to learn something about yourself before they teach it to you at Princeton, Bick Sifford.”
    Sifford laughs, and his friend follows with his own hee-haw. The two stretch and groan and shuffle, but we don’t look at them. Before they get to the door, there’s a loud rumble and an engine races, then cuts off, and I see Mr. Tolbert’s eyes go hard.
    I turn and look through the green glass at the front of the drugstore. At the curb, there’s a boy in a black leather jacket and loose jeans and black engineer boots getting out of a midnight-blue street rod. Sifford and Bishop stop at the front door and watch him. Sifford looks back at us and says, “Hey, Delia, maybe you want to go for a ride with old Duck’s Ass out there. How ’bout that?”
    Mr. Tolbert says, hard, “Sifford, you know I don’t tolerate language in my store.”
    Sifford says, “Sorry, Mr. Tolbert,” but he doesn’t mean it. Then he says, “See you around, Delia. We got all summer for that ride,” and it sounds like Jimmy Pultney telling me he’s going to climb over that fence and stomp my ass if I don’t give back his arrow. Delia says to her malted milk, “See you, Ronny.”
    The two boys go out and stand on the sidewalk watching the boy in the leather jacket. The midnight-blue rod has cool red flames painted on its sides. The flames swell up from the engine like it’s on fire. It has moon disks and Lakes Pipes too. When I grow up, I’m going to have a car like that.
    The boy in the black leather jacket stops in front of Sifford and Bishop, and they say something to him, and he says something back, and Mr. Tolbert takes off his apron fast and goes around the counter. He’s got his hand on the front door when Sifford and Bishop look in at him and smile and get into the red Olds and the Ford pickup and drive off. Mr. Tolbert sighs and comes back to the counter. He leans on it and says, “Miss Delia, I don’t know what gets into those boys, do you?”
    My Aunt Delia says, “Often as not, conceit gets into them, and moonshine whiskey.” She looks at Mr. Tolbert, and he sighs again and shakes his head and starts washing glasses.
    Outside, the boy with the black leather jacket is working on his engine. He’s got the hood open and he’s leaning in, and the engine’s running, and he’s making it rev and come back down with a loud pop-pop-pop. He leans back and stretches, and the sides of his jacket fly out like black wings, and he looks up at the sun, and I can see the sweat on his pale cheeks and forehead.
    My Aunt Delia says, “Turn around Travis and stop staring.”

Nine
    I like the way the tennis racket feels in my hand. It’s got a tan leather grip and shiny varnish, and the strings are tight and white, and it says, T.A.D. across the bottom. My Aunt Delia says that stands for Thomas A. Davis, but the kids just call it a Tad racket. She says she’s going to teach me to play tennis, and we’re going to play a lot, and by the end of the summer I’ll be as good as Pancho Gonzales.
    Delia takes a twenty and a ten out of her pocket and puts them down by the cash register, and Mr. Tolbert says, “How ’bout some balls, Miss Delia?” And my Aunt Delia says, “Why not? Travis is starting a new year of his life today. We might as well start out with fresh ones.” Mr. Tolbert reaches under the counter and brings up a red can that says Spalding. It has a key on top like a can of tuna.
    My Aunt Delia waits for her change, but she’s watching the boy outside