At night we rode up to the old railroad tracks on the west side of town, turned the headlights off, and waited for the dead to appear. My cousin Nikki and I had seen the phantom lights of the old passenger trains maybe, just once when we were kids and sneaking out, but it was—and I believed this even at twelve—likely a trick of the light, our eyes bleary and tired. And still, whenever we went cruising, this was the place we ended up. Staring into the dark, wishing to be scared.
“Annie, why do we come out here?” Nikki said, her blond curls making a funny halo around her wide, sharp-boned face.
“Something besides doing donuts in the Walmart parking lot?” I squinted my eyes, but the only speck of light was from a cell tower past the interstate, miles ahead and outside of town. “You see anything?” I ran my fingers lightly up her arm like a spider and she swatted me.
“God, we’re so lame,” she said, and tugged on the tight-fitting halter top she’d decided to wear. Without checking the mirror, I knew I’d already smudged my new liquid eyeliner.
“We’re so lame? This was your idea,” I said, and turned the ignition. “We’re all dressed, might as well get a drink somewhere.”
“Mixer’s.” Headlights on, a cloud of dust swirled in the beams. A tremor of fear—was something circling our car in the dark?—but branches swayed in the trees and I realized it was just the wind picking up. We bounced in our seats as I drove over the rickety tracks.
