We went out to the Dunes Apartments. Gar dimmed, then cut the lights. We blackened our faces, hoisted the gas can and walked in the dark all the way out to where the bonfire was waiting, dry and thirsty. It was autumn in Texas, but the night air was still plenty sticky.
“Do you think they’ll figure it was us?” I asked.
Gar looked at me, a slow smile formed on his lips. “Maybe, but if nobody sees us, they got nothin’.”
The woodpile rose up in front of us like an ancient funeral pyre revamped for the Gods of Football. Without this traditional sacrifice, our enemies would not be able to hold their major university event. The Sigs would not be able to deliver their speeches in their golf shirts. The girls who wouldn’t talk to us would have nothing to replace their Look-At-Me I’m A Football Queen calling…
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