Free The Tragic Age by Stephen Metcalfe

doesn’t show it. “See you, Little Red!” he says, all smiles, as he’s pushed into the back of the police car.
    The policeman closes the door and, adjusting his belt, turns back to us. His holstered gun looks like a block of metal on his hip. Like the Taylors’, I’m pretty sure it’s a Glock.
    â€œYou two need a ride?” he says, sounding bored now at the prospect.
    â€œShe’s called her dad,” I say.
    â€œLet’s be careful who we drive with next time,” he says.
    â€œYou mean her dad?” I say.
    The policeman gives me a look. He shakes his head at Gretchen as if he pities who she’s stuck with. He turns and gets in the cruiser. His partner already has it started up and the two of them pull away. In the backseat Twom looks like he’s whistling again.
    And then they’re gone.
    The only thing that could make the evening more of a disaster now would be getting mugged, which is sort of what happens next.
    Gretchen has turned, moved to the car, and is resting now against the rear bumper. I join her. We sit there for a while in silence.
    â€œYou know, I’ve been asking around,” Gretchen says, not really looking at me.
    â€œAbout what?” I say.
    â€œYou,” Gretchen says softly.
    â€œReally. What have you found out?” I’m not so much curious as I am alarmed.
    â€œPeople don’t know what to make of you. Some people think you’re kind of cool. Most of them aren’t sure. A couple of girls think you’re going to come to school someday and shoot people.”
    â€œI’m not,” I say.
    â€œI know,” says Gretchen. “Still … I feel like I should worry about you, Billy.”
    I know that her eyes are green and in the light of the street lamp I can see, or maybe it’s just that I can imagine, a single tear running down her cheek.
    It’s just not fair.
    Norepinephrine, phenylhydrazine, and dopamine, which act like amphetamines, hit my brain’s pleasure center like a locomotive. My pupils dilate. My heart pumps faster. The chemical oxytocin floods my body, creating intense feelings of caring, attraction, and warmth. Physical contact produces endorphins and continued high doses of oxytocin. These chemicals are all natural opiates that create a druglike dependency.
    Translation?
    I am so screwed.
    I lean toward her. Closing her eyes, Gretchen leans ever so slightly toward me. I kiss her. Her lips are the softest thing I’ve ever felt. I lean into her and her body presses against me. I gasp and almost pull away as her fingertips caress my right cheek.
    â€œSorry,” says Gretchen quickly.
    â€œNo,” I say. “It’s okay.”
    And it is. Her touch is delicate and beneath it, as if under a special wavelength of light, I feel my cheek taking on vivid hues. We kiss again. Her tongue touches my lips—
    And then a car horn blares and blows the moment right out of the water. We move away from each other, startled. We squint at the headlights of the van as it pulls up and then moves to the side of us. The passenger-side window glides down.
    â€œLet’s go, you two!” calls Gretchen’s dad. He sounds like a cheerful friar who’s come to deliver a chastity belt.
    I wonder if Gretchen’s going to get into the front but she doesn’t. She climbs into the backseat with me. As we pull away, I turn and look over my shoulder. The Caddy looks like a tired beggar, alone under the streetlight. I wonder if anyone thought to lock it.
    Even though he’s been pulled out of his house at, like, ten-thirty at night, and even though he’s seen me lip-locked with his daughter, Dr. Quinn doesn’t seem especially upset. “Well. Other than the police, did you two have a pleasant evening?” He glances in the rearview to see if anyone is smiling at his joke. Or maybe, like Twom, he’s waiting to see if I’m going to jump his “Little