Free All American Boy by William J. Mann Page B

about you ,” he tells Wally coyly, throwing in a compliment for good measure. He reaches forward to slap his palm against Wally’s chest. “Nice body. Guess you have to stay buff, being an actor, huh?”
    Wally feels himself blush, even as he remains acutely aware of the kid’s machinations. “Yeah,” he says. “Never know when I’m gonna get the call asking to take over from Arnold in the Terminator franchise.”
    â€œThere’s that sarcasm again,” Dee says. “I’m not sure it’s all that becoming on you.”
    â€œI’ll work on it.”
    â€œSo can I go clothes shopping with you?” Dee asks. “I love going clothes shopping.”
    â€œIf you like.” Wally sets his razor and shaving cream on the bureau. “You can show me how modern Brown’s Mill has become.”
    â€œModern? Brown’s Mill? You say those words in the same sentence?”
    â€œHey, I saw an Internet cafe on Main Street when I came through.”
    â€œYeah, it’s got two computers.” Dee flops down on the bed. “And still on dial-up. You have no idea how much I want out of this town.”
    The same words, the same room. I’ve got to get out of this town. That’s the only answer. I’ve got to get out .
    â€œI really am a good actor, you know,” Dee is telling him. “I did Molière in my sophomore year.”
    Wally stands over the kid, looking down at him. Dee’s shirt is pushed up higher now to expose even more flesh. “Well, then,” Wally says, “Shakespeare in the Park can’t be too far away.”
    Dee grins. “You know, I think it’s cool for older guys to have sex with younger guys.”
    Wally can’t think of a quick retort.
    â€œI mean, about you and Zandy. I don’t think it was nasty or anything.”
    â€œGee, thanks, Dee.”
    â€œI had sex with a guy when I was eleven.”
    â€œThat’s not cool, Dee. I don’t know who it was, or any of the circumstances, but at eleven there’s no way you could have known what you were really getting into.”
    â€œLike you could at thirteen?”
    â€œI’m not saying I did.”
    â€œSo then you think you did the right thing in sending Zandy to jail.”
    Wally feels himself getting angry at the kid. “Look, I need to make a few calls on my cell phone, okay? You get lost for a while, and I’ll find you when I’m going shopping.”
    â€œAll right.” Dee hops up off the bed. “Can I get a pair of jeans? I’ll pay you back later, I promise.”
    â€œGet out of here.”
    Wally closes the door. He leans against it, closing his eyes.
    They would meet here, in Dogtown. Strange folk lived down here on the riverbanks, the kind who drove rusty old VW vans and smoked pot and wore patchwork-covered bell-bottom jeans. Every house seemed to have a big old dog tied to a post in the front yard, digging holes all through the lawn and going spastic whenever anyone walked by. Hence the name: Dogtown.
    â€œDon’t go down there,” Wally’s mother warned, but he turned a brazen shoulder to her pleas, hopping on his bicycle and pedaling as fast as he could from his quiet little cul-de-sac down Washington Avenue and into the swamps of Dogtown. There he would sit and listen to Zandy’s tales of the world beyond Brown’s Mill, and let him touch his body with those rough and beautiful hands.
    But a little more than a year later he would give his statement to the police that caused Zandy to be arrested and sent to jail.
    He gave it willingly. To say otherwise now would be a lie. His parents did not coerce him. Wally walked briskly into the police station ahead of his father, and even spelled Zandy’s name for Officer Garafolo, who sat behind his desk, egg salad in his bushy black mustache. Wally had just turned fifteen years old.
    â€œAnd now I’m back,” he