"Shut the window, John."  Randy pulled his blanket up to his chest.

            "I will, I will.  Just a minute."  With my eyes shut but my ears open, I lay in bed listening to the big kids partying at the bottom of Suicide Hill through the window.  I lived on the outskirts of town, just up the road from Suicide Hill, and although none of the big kids or the grown-ups called it that, the little kids who lived out near the county line did because riding your bike down that hill at full speed was just asking to kill yourself.  It was a steep quarter mile drop of asphalt and gravel that bottomed out at the Crossover, an old, wooden county bridge where the big kids were.  Everybody called the bridge the Crossover--little kids, big kids, grown-ups--because it was just that.  Once you crossed over that bridge going west, you were officially in Fullerton, our neighboring county. 

            It was Friday night, a little after eleven, and it sounded like the big kids were having some kind of a time down there.  I was tuned in, not about to miss one sound.  It was pitch black outside, the night clear and quiet.  Sometimes I'd hear somebody holler--some big kid shouting out some random obscenity that made no sense because I couldn't hear the rest of what was said (but I made the rest up if I had to).  Whatever was going on sounded really important though because there was a "shit" or a "fuck" or some other curse word used for emphasis.  I'd hear some catcalling or loud whistling, too, then a big burst of laughter, followed by a sudden, shrinking silence like whatever was so funny wasn't that funny after all.  I knew the night was over for the big kids when I'd hear engines gunning and tires screeching like they were in a big hurry to go somewhere else.

            "Damn it, John, it's cold out there.  Shut the window," Randy ordered again.  I didn't ask for another minute this time.  I just did like he told me to, because it was either that or get socked and still have to shut the window.  I was almost twelve and a half, but Randy was almost eighteen and still a little bigger than me.  But I was catching up fast.  I shared a room with him and my little brother, David, who was only eight. 

            "How come you're goin' to sleep?  How come you don't sneak down to the Crossover anymore?" 

            "Because I work, you dope.  Shut-up and go to sleep.  I gotta be at the store at six."

            "Well, I'd go down there anyway.  I'd wanna know what's goin' on."

            "I've seen it.  Nothin' that great.  Now, shut-up, will ya'?"  Randy rolled over in his bed.  "Boy, you're a right pain in my ass."  He tucked his head under his pillow.

            David was sound asleep next to me in our bed.  His legs were curled up into his chest.  He slept like a rock.  He never knew of those times when Randy would sneak out, but I did.  I'd beg Randy to take me with him, but that was a big waste of time.  I got the guts up once to sneak down there by myself, but I only got halfway down the hill when fog rolled in, covering the bridge and all the cars parked down at the bottom.  I stood there and listened for anything familiar but heard only strange whispers of voices talking under the fog.  I looked around and everything seemed so much darker than before.  Everything looked distorted.  I guess I got spooked because I ran back home at the speed of light and didn't try that again.  Instead, I'd wait up for Randy to crawl back in the window, and I'd ask the same questions over and over, trying my best to squeeze the details out of him:  Who all was there?  Were ya'll drinkin' and smokin' or what?  Was Amanda Frye (the captain of the cheerleading squad—Randy dated her for a while) down there?  Did you see her boobs?  I desperately wanted to know what all went on down there, but he never told me anything.  Some times he'd laugh and tell me I'd find out soon enough on my own.  Other times he'd be real serious and tell me that it wasn't the right time for me to know these things.  A small part of me thought he didn't want to me to know anything because he was afraid I'd rat him out completely at some point if I got mad at him.  Maybe he figured I couldn't tell what I didn't know.  But that didn't feel true.  What I really believed was that by keeping what went on at the Crossover a secret he'd always know more than me and I'd never be able to catch up with him no matter how big I got.

            I listened to David sleep.  His breathing was so soft and easy, like it didn't take any effort at all to fill up his little body with air.  I looked over at him and only the top of his head stuck out from underneath the covers.  His hair was so blond it was almost white.   Mom said my hair was getting darker like Randy's and I liked it that she noticed.  I giggled, thinking about that patch of white fluff sticking out.  It reminded me of the fluff on a baby duck.  Ol' David the Duckling.  I'd have to remember that so I could tease him about it in the morning.  He was a pretty good kid when he was asleep, but that was about the only time I could stand him.  When he was awake, he was a right pain in my ass.

*          *          *

            It was early Saturday morning.  I was headed to Jiffy's, where Randy worked, which was about two miles inside Fullerton county.  I zipped up my Carhart jacket and climbed onto my bike.  It was actually Randy's old coaster Schwinn, but I inherited it after he'd earned enough money at the grocery store to buy a motorcycle.  The bike was all mine for the time being because David couldn't quite reach the pedals yet.  Sure, he claimed part of the bike was his, but he knew as well as I did he couldn't get anywhere on it without me. 

            I counted my money again.  I had just enough pocket change to buy one cherry soda and a pack of Skittles, including tax.  I understood tax.  I was a sixth grader now. 

            David came busting out the front door with a dollar in his hand.  "Wait!  I'm goin', too!"

            "Hey, where'd you get money?"  I asked, a little peeved, knowing Mom gave it to him.  I had to earn mine by cleaning out the shed, but I was sure David didn't do anything but whine for his.  He was the baby of the family, although you'd never know it by his privileges.  Whatever privileges I had, he pretty much had, too, because he'd beg until he got his way.

            "Aw, Mom!  Why's David got to go?"

            "I said he could go, so go already."  Mom stood in the front door of the house, wiping her hands with a dishtowel.  She threw the towel over her shoulder and leaned against the door frame, crossing her arms in front of her.  I was pretty steamed at her for letting David tag along.  I couldn't even think about walking to Jiffy's, with or without Randy, until I was at least nine.  I didn't say anything more to her, though.  There was no changing her mind once she had it made up.

            David tried to climb onto the handlebar, but I wouldn't let him on. 

            "Come on, let me ride."

            "Nope."  I peddled down our gravel driveway to the road, David chasing along close behind. 

            "Don't ride down that hill!  Do you hear me?"  Mom yelled.  She was still in the doorway, watching us silently but carefully.  Her arms weren't crossed anymore.  She held onto the screen door with one hand while she rubbed her other hand back and forth across her forehead.  I gave her a quick wave.

            David ran up next to the bike.  "Come on, let me ride!  It's my bike, too!"

            "Then you pedal and I'll ride."  I peddled on slowly but kept a few feet ahead just to remind him who was boss. 

            "You know I can't."

            "Yep."  I kept on peddling.

            About a hundred yards before we reached the top of Suicide Hill, David hollered for me to stop.  He was bent over, fishing something out of the grass at the side of the road.  He plucked it out and held it up in the air like a trophy.

            "Hey, looky here!"

            It was a spur.   

            David ran up and stuck it in my face.  It was only a kiddie spur, like one of those that came with the cowboy outfit that had the plastic guns and the vinyl holster that always looked cooler in the package than it did when you put it on.

            "Betcha wish you'd found it, huh?" 

            I shrugged my shoulders like I thought it was stupid, but I was sort of jealous I hadn't been the one to find it.  I waited as he buckled it over his sneaker.  He stomped his foot once on the road and the little tin spur made a chink! sound.

            "Cool!"  David hooked his thumbs in his belt loops and sauntered around in a wide circle with his legs bent and bowed until he made his way back to me.  "Howdy there, Pardner."

            I walked the bike to the top of the hill, listening to David's cowboy talk and the chink-step-chink-step-chink as his feet alternated in stride.  I climbed back on as we topped Suicide Hill and looked down the long, steep slope ahead of me.

            "Well, see ya' at the bottom."  

            "Come on!  Let me ride!  Pleeeease!"

            "Forget it," I said and started to push off.

            "Wait!  Wait!  I'll let you have the spur when we get home!"

            "I don't want that stupid thing."

            "How 'bout you wear it on the way home?  Please!  I wanna ride down the hill!"

            "Boy, just shut-up and get on already!"  I probably could've made him give me the spur right then, but I didn't do it.  I kind of got a kick out of watching him wear it.  I was too big to pretend like that anymore, but it was still fun to watch him act goofy.

            "Yee-haw!  Let's saddle up n' ride, Pardner!" David backed up to the handlebar and readied himself to jump on.

            "Get on the back, you dip!  I won't be able to see around your fat head! You wanna get us killed or somethin'?"  I acted mad, but I wasn't that annoyed.  I was getting scared because I hadn't really thought things through.  I had gone down the hill by myself before and made it down (back-peddling most of the way), but I didn't know if I could handle the bike with both of our weights on it.  I was even more worried about being able to stop before we got to the Crossover.  It was made with railroad ties and the lag bolts were loose and jutted up out of the wood.  I knew if we hit the bridge going too fast, I'd probably lose control and wreck the bike.  And if we came back with a wrecked bike, our goose would be cooked for sure, because Mom would know that we were doing something we shouldn't have been.  And, boy, did she turn into a raving lunatic over stuff like that.  She caught me and David on the roof last summer trying to climb into the chimney (I was proving to David that there was no way Santa could fit) and she almost killed the both of us over that little adventure.  She was screaming so loud and crazy that neither of us understood half of what she said.  All we knew was that she was wild scared and that scared us more than the beating we knew we were going to get. 

            But it was too late to back out.  If I told David to get off, he'd run home and tell Mom I was going to ride down the hill which meant big trouble for me and if I told him I didn't think it was a good idea for us to go down together because we might wreck, I'd look like a chicken in front of my little brother.  So I really only had one option:  I prayed to God we wouldn't wreck the bike and let David climb on.

            "Get along, little dogies!  Let's move 'em out!" 

            I gave him an elbow right on top of the head so he'd settle down, but he could have cared less.  He was thrilled.  I pushed off and stood up on the peddles.  We started off at a crawl, but with each spin of the wheels we began picking up speed.

            "Peddle, John!  Let's go, Cowboy!"

            "I don't need to peddle!"  I kept my eyes glued to the road, looking for any big chug holes or loose gravel because I knew there was a lot of that out there. 

            "Hyah, horsey!"  We kept building momentum.  The sides of the road dissolved into blurs as we sped by, until I could only see two things clearly:  David's foot flailing up and down to my right digging that kiddie spur into the flank of his imaginary horse and the bridge at the bottom waiting for us.

            "Giddy-up!"  Although he couldn't see much from the back of the bike, David was laughing and shouting because he could feel the speed.  He was really liking it, too.  I was still a little scared because I could see how fast the bridge was approaching from the front of the bike.  Sometimes it's just best not to know what's ahead.

            Faster and faster we flew.  The bike screamed down the hill, shaking underneath our bodies.  I tightened my grip on the handlebar and felt a sense of control even though my arms and shoulders rattled vigorously.  My eyeballs bounced around in their sockets, too, breaking my focus on the bridge ahead just long enough for me to forget it was there and have some fun on the ride down. 

            I howled "Yee-haw!" as we zoomed down the last couple of hundred feet before the bridge.  As I steadied my feet to put on the brakes, I saw that size-five sneaker with the kiddie spur come up beside me and heard David yell out one last "Hyahhhhh!".  I knew right then it was all she wrote.

            He drove that spur right into the back wheel.

            I heard a couple of quick pings, then a pop, and we began fishtailing.  First to the right, then to the left, then to the right again.  I twisted the handlebar back and forth trying to keep us upright, but it was a done deal.  We flew—literally—straight through the air.  I flipped over the front of the bike and landed flat on my back, knocking the wind right out of me.  Everything was suspended for that moment that I couldn't breathe and I watched David, in what seemed like slow motion, do a gainer and a half, that stupid spur jangling from the back of his sneaker as he soared over.  He landed face first in the ditch.  I didn't see where the bike went.

            I got up even before I totally caught my breath and ran over to him.  I thought he'd be knocked clean out after biting it like he did, but he turned over and groaned.  A knot was already popping up on his forehead.  He was winded pretty bad, too, and there was this big clump of dirt and grass stuck to the top of his head.  He looked like a fresh-picked turnip.  David shook off and looked up at me like he was trying to figure something out.          

            "What?" 

            David pointed at me, then grabbed his stomach and laughed so hard he couldn't breathe.  I looked down at my hands.  My knuckles were deathly white and my fingers were clenched into tight fists. 

            I was still holding the handlebar.

*          *          *

            After our hysterics, we surveyed our injuries:  One bruised back (mine), two scraped palms (his), one bloody lip (mine), one still-growing goose egg (his), one broken handlebar (ours)—

            "Hey, where's the rest of the bike?" I whipped my head back and forth in search of it.

            It was gone.  David ran to the other side of the road and looked in the ditch.  It wasn't there, either.

            "Oh, no!"  I yelled. "It's gotta be in the creek!"  

            David and I ran to the edge of the bridge and looked over its railing.  Sure enough, there was the bike, a good ten or fifteen feet below us in the dead center of the creek.  We stood there motionless, all our humor gone, both of us thinking the same thing:  We're gonna get it good when we get home.       

            "Let's go get it." 

            "Uh-uh."  David shook his head and crossed his arms.  "There's snakes and stuff down there."  I looked over the edge again and saw a couple of tube-like plastic or rubber things. 

            "Those aren't snakes.  They're balloons, stupid."  That was where the big kids partied.  It made sense to me at the time.

            "They're snakes!"

            "Fine! Stay there, ya' big baby.  I'll get it my own self."  I would've teased him more about being a weenie, but I was pretty scared, too, and was even more afraid it would show if I said too much.  I didn't know what was down there.  I'd looked over the edge of the bridge plenty of times, but never actually went under.

            I couldn't work my way down under from the east side of the creek.  There was so much undergrowth and scrub brush that I couldn't see where to plant my foot.  I didn't have anything to grab onto, either, so I decided to try the other side.  As I crossed the bridge, David started to follow.

            "No, stay over there.  I might need you to help me look for stuff to hold onto."  I stared over the side.  Tree roots stuck out of the creek's west wall.  The big kids that partied down here probably used them like ropes and ladders to climb down under the bridge.  They looked kind of creepy, like big, thick claws of some monster that was digging its way out of the mud or trying to pull something in.

            "I don't think you should go down there."  David clung to the railing on the east side and watched nervously.  I took a deep breath and tried not to get the heebies in front of him.

            "Well, somebody's got to."  I started slow and shimmied my way down, clinging onto the old, dead tree roots.  Almost all the dirt underneath the trees had been eroded away by the water and washed down the creek.  I thought about where all that dirt eventually ended up in an effort to keep from thinking about the huge claws I was hanging onto.  I struggled pointlessly for a few minutes, trying to keep my feet sturdy underneath me.  David kept trying to tell me where a foothold might be, but I was just too short to reach it.  I finally just let go of the tree roots and fell hard.  When I hit the bottom, I jumped up and looked all around for snakes.  To my relief, I didn't see any.  There was a musty smell down there, though, kind of rotten and sweet at the same time.  A few wisps of fog were still hanging around.  It reminded me of how scared I'd been the night I sneaked halfway down Suicide Hill to the Crossover.  But now that I was actually down there, it wasn't so scary. 

            "Is it messed up real bad?"  David leaned out over the rail as I tried to get close to the bike.
            "The front wheel's potato-chipped."  The bike was lying in the center of the creek, in a pool of muddy water about a foot or two deep, only the front wheel sticking out above the water's surface.  I tried to stretch out and grab it, but my arm wouldn't reach.

            "Shit!"

            "Ummm, I'm gonna tell—"

            "Just shut-up and help me look for a rope or somethin' so I can loop it around the bike and drag it over to me."  David looked around and so did I.  There was plenty of trash and junk strewn around but I couldn't find anything useful.  Just as I had begun to accept the fact that I was in for a thrashing by Mom or Randy or maybe both Mom and Randy, David started hollering from above.

            "Hey!  Look, John!  There's some old jeans or somethin' over there!"

            "Yeah, I think it see it!"  I looked down the creek twenty yards or so and could see what looked like an old pair of jeans sticking out from underneath a huge, decaying oak tree.  I grasped onto the tree roots again and edged along the creek, trying my best to keep from falling off into the water.

            The jeans were just up ahead, but as I got closer to them, I started getting a strange feeling that something wasn't right.  Who'd leave their jeans out here?  Maybe somebody lost them.  But how do you lose your pants without knowin' it?  Wouldn't they come back for 'em?  Maybe somebody was swimmin' and left 'em on accident.  No, nobody's gonna swim down here.  The water's too muddy, too cold...

            I should've followed my instincts right then and run out of the creek and back home. 

            But I didn't. 

            And that's when I saw shoes sticking out of the pants.  I jumped back, involuntarily it seemed, but I couldn't take my eyes off those shoes.  They were just like the sneakers I had on but bigger. 

            "Mister?"  I whispered.  The feet didn't move, so I cautiously stepped out into the water—not out deep, just to the point where my feet got good and wet—creating a wide berth around this stranger.  I could see the rest of him now.  The creek had washed out a big cavity underneath the dead oak tree where he sat.  The backs of his hands rested on top of his thighs.  In one hand, he clutched an open pocketknife.  In the other, an empty bottle of Black Velvet.  His pale face was tilted up; his eyes were open and stared out at me.

            "John?  What's goin' on?  What's down there?"  I could hear David at the bridge, but I didn't answer him.

            "Mister?"  I called again, even though by now I could see that he was no 'mister'.  He was maybe a couple of years older than me, but I didn't recognize him.  He must have been from Fullerton County, but I thought I knew most of the boys around my age over there, too.  Maybe he was older than I thought.  He might have been even older than Randy, but I swear that the longer I stood there, the younger he seemed.

            I crouched down to see him better.  At first, I thought he might have been digging because his hands were reddish-brown and crusty like they were covered in a thin layer of dried mud, but then I saw how clean his jacket was except for the cuffs.  They were the same color as his hands, only darker.  I looked at my jacket and jeans.  I got dirtier than he did just from climbing into the creek.  I'd be covered from head-to-toe in mud if I had been digging.

            I leaned forward and watched his mouth.  It hung open just the tiniest bit; I was sure he was about to ask me something.  Something that started with a "Wuh" sound.  What?  When?  Why?  But his lips did not move.  I looked at those eyes—his eyes—to see if they might blink, but they didn't move either.  His eyes were dull and gray, like one of those wisps of fog that lingered around the bottom of the creek had settled on his pupils.  They stared out straight and although I stood in the boy's line of sight, I could tell that he wasn't looking at me.  He was looking through me.   

            That's when I knew the boy was gone.

            His gaze made me turn around.  I followed his stare, or what was once his stare, and looked at the other side of the creek.  There was nothing over there except for some candy wrappers and a little stuffed lion that was covered in mud.  I was disgusted at the sight of it, at the thought of little kids wandering around down here.  They had no business being down in the creek.  I turned back to the boy as he kept watch.  Then I saw his shirt move.  I thought maybe I was wrong.  Maybe he was alive. 

            As I reached out to touch his hand, a snake slithered out of his collar and around his neck.

            "Holy shit!"  I screamed and tumbled backward into the creek.

            "John!"  David yelled in panic.

            "Stay there!  Don't you come down here!"  I struggled frantically to stand up.  I took off back to the bridge, running straight through the middle of the creek, splashing and tripping and falling down the whole way.  I scrambled up the embankment and threw myself onto the road.  David stood frozen on the other side of the bridge.

            "You got bit!  I told you there's big snakes down there, right?"  David was terrified.  He looked at me like he didn't know if should run to me or away from me.

            "Yes!  I mean, no!  I didn't get bit!  Just shut-up for a second!"  I was coughing and spitting as I hurried back across to him.  I wiped my mouth and tried to brush the mud off my clothes.  "We gotta go back home, David.  There's a boy down there needs help." 

            "A boy?  Aw, you're just messin' around!"  David started to walk toward the center of the bridge to take a look.  I grabbed his arm.

            "I'm not messin' around, David!  There's a boy down there and I think he's dead!  Now, let's go!"

            "Naw, you're just tryin' to scare me!  I'm goin' down there!" 

            He started to skirt around me again but I pushed him back.  He stumbled, came around for another go, and this time I socked him in the arm. 

            "Ow!  You frogged me!"  He rubbed the stain on his jacket where I had punched him.  "You're not my boss!  I wanna see!" 

            "I said we're goin' home!"  I shoved him harder this time and reared my hand back, ready to smack him again if I had to.

            "What about the bike?"

            "Forget the damn bike!  Now, go home!"  My heart pounded and my body shook so hard that I thought I was going to puke.  I was so angry all of a sudden, but I didn't know why.  David hadn't done anything but be curious, but there was no way I was going to let him see that body—that boy—even if he raised all kinds of hell.  If he had tried to make his way around me again, I would've beaten him until he was red-assed right there in the middle of that road. Sure, he would've been mad as a hornet and spent the rest of the day trying to get even with me, but he'd get over the beating eventually, probably in a day or two.  The bruises would disappear in a week and soon after that he wouldn't even remember the licking he took—but he'd damn sure remember not to let me catch him down at the Crossover anytime soon.  I knew these things.  What I didn't know was if he'd ever be able to cross that bridge again without shutting his eyes if he saw that boy down there.  Truth about it was I wasn't so sure I would be able to.

            David stood there staring at me.  I yelled at him some more, but I don't remember what all I said.  Whatever it was scared him.  His lip trembled.  He was about to cry.  I knew that look.  It was the same look we gave Mom when she whipped our asses good for that chimney business. 

            David spun around and ran like hell.  I wanted to run, too, but the sinking feeling in my stomach and the weight of all the mud and water on my clothes wouldn't let me.  I looked back at that rickety old bridge and wished I'd never come down the hill that day.  I wished I hadn't gone under the Crossover to try to fish my bike out.  I wished I hadn't seen those beer bottles, that dead boy, that stuffed lion covered in mud.

            But it was too late for wishing.  Every wet, squishy step I took left a trail straight back to the bridge, reminding me that I'd been there and that I'd have to go back there again sometime, whether it was to get the bike or to help get that boy out of the creek or to cross over into Fullerton county to get a soda and a pack of Skittles from Jiffy's.

            I watched David scale back up the road.  He ran like he was weightless.  His hair flipped up and down, catching the early morning sunlight in its fluff as he neared the crest of the hill.  Ol' David the Duckling.  I couldn't hear his feet anymore as they hit the ground, but I could still hear that spur clinking on the pavement behind him.  I shook my head at how that stupid, ridiculous, rinky-dink, dime-store kiddie toy had almost killed the both of us. 

            But it didn't, did it?

            And even though a big kid like me knew it wasn't the right time, I couldn't help myself. 

            I laughed.