Boys of West Denton ✓

chapter nine

Harris

I was surprised that Seb let me drive his truck. Like, everyone knows I accidentally hit Mason Pedersen's brand new Mustang that one time. Luckily, it was only in the high school parking lot, and Mason wasn't mad after Liam hooked him up with his dealer. Probably the only time Liam came to the rescue—making sure I wasn't pulverized by some massive brute of a football player in the middle of the parking lot. (Mason Pedersen is massive. I low-key owe Liam my life now.)

Anyways, Seb's reaction probably would have been different if he knew about all those other cars I've secretly (accidentally) nicked in parking lots, but I would just like to point out that my mom's old car had no steering fluid and an issue with the brakes. So. Is it really my fault?

I drive us—without crashing, thank you—to the south side of Denton, the part where paved streets with quaint little houses turn into gravel roads with trailer parks and the occasional farmhouse. Of course Sebastian recognizes where we're headed; after all, we were here together only last night.

"We're going to Lake Franz?" he asks. Even though it's his truck, I guess he didn't think to adjust the seat, for whatever reason. His legs are stuck awkwardly in front of him, knees pressed uncomfortably against the underside of the glovebox.

"Indeedly-doodly." Which isn't entirely a lie. We are headed to Lake Franze. It's just our parking spot, though, not our final destination.

"Cool," he says quietly, which would be my response to someone taking me there too. I fucking hate Lake Franz. Bottom ten lake for sure.

Hopefully he enjoys where we end up. Hopefully.

Seb's head is resting against the window. I can't see if his eyes are closed, or if he's watching the golden-brown gravel dust puff up along the sides of the truck. The ditches next to the sides of the road aren't overgrown—for once—but they're flooded with water from a combination of last weekend's storm and the last of the winter's melted snow. Sometimes, the flooding gets so bad that the water from Lake Franz spills out, and you'll end up with fish in the road ditches, even all the way out here.

My mom had a boyfriend who would take me out trying to fish in all the ditches, seeing who could catch what. It was a wild goose chase more often than not, but we'd catch young catfish and the occasional carp every now and again. The ditches are mostly frog spawn, though, regardless of floods. Soon enough, the ditches will dry out, and either the frogs will make their way to Lake Franz, or they'll die here, just like the fish we'd rarely catch.

I used to think that the ditch fish were fascinating when I was a kid, but now I think it's just sad. I went from wondering what it would be like to end up there, to realizing what an awful fate it was. The kind of flooding that lets you get out of the pond doesn't last long. Before you know it, you're stuck somewhere else, praying for another summer storm to come, slowly starving to death while simultaneously drying out. I don't know if fish can sense impending doom, but for me, the mere thought of the ditch fish nowadays just makes me viscerally uncomfortable, and a little sad.

We wind along the last elongated turn in the road, where the gravel goes from golden to rust-red, and wooden lake cabins of various sizes begin to pop up along its sides. At the end lies a wide gravel lot, where only a few trucks are parked. People are likely out on the lake, but they won't be by here. This side of Lake Franz, the side where last night's party was, has notoriously awful fishing. It's likely a mixture of the cliffs and the designated swimming area—although who would want to go swimming here is beyond me.

I park the truck at the very end of the lot and turn to Seb. Before I can say anything though, he puts his hands up and says, "Sorry Harris, but I don't think I'm down to make out in a parking lot in broad daylight."