"I don't want to grow up too fast," Tish said. lying on his stomach and cupping his hands around the coffee cup. It was so dark I could hardly see his face, outlined by sculptured ebony hair. "I figure I gotta lot to see before I settle down. Maybe I'll join the Marines when I get old enough."

The night was warm and perfect, and the scent of the orange blossoms so strong that I might have reached out and touched it. I moved to lie at angles with him, resting my head on his back. He was shirtless, and his warm skin rocked my head with his breathing. He turned over and I pressed my cheek against his stomach. He made a little noise of satisfaction.

"Do you think what we do is wrong?" he asked.

"I don't know. It's not wrong for me."

"Me neither."

Much later we drifted off to sleep, mumbling to each other and smelling the air and listening to the night.

That spring passed, and summer came, supporting wet green fields and distant mountains that shimmered with heat. One afternoon we walked through knee-high brush, carrying our .22's and watching for rabbits.

"If they start running, just whistle." Tish said. "Sometimes they stop to see what's up. They're curious."

A cottontail sprang from beneath a tumbleweed and ran ahead of us. Tish whistled, then yelled. After the rabbit disappeared into another weed he fired an angry shot.

"Damn stupid rat!"

I laughed.

"They're wise to us," he said, reloading. "Hell with 'em. Let's go to the river and swim, nekkid as a jay."

And we did. That summer we swam, and got our ears full of river water. We played touch football on the lawn, and burned with the itch of grass. We camped and Scouted and fished. We went to the movies and watched John Wayne. We sat at the counter of Wellman's Drug and drank cokes so fast that our eyes smarted. We stole oranges at night, our hearts beating so loudly that we couldn't hear each other's frantic whispers. We stood in the dark outside Julie Vickson's bedroom window, hoping to catch a peek at her fabled figurenaked, maybe. We were smooth-cheeked men of the world, who cussed and scratched and spat on the ground, just like that. We were fourteen and would never grow up and would never die.

When fall came we carried shotguns through fields of maize, waiting to be startled by the flurry of doves' wings. We killed the birds that flew from among the golden heads of grain, thrilled and shamed by our deeds. We tied their feet together and slung them over our shoulders, prickly-cheeked against the brisk air. We walked the two miles back home, smelling the gun powder and looking at fields and clouds and unchanging mountains.

We cracked walnuts one night and my mother made fudge that didn't turn out right. Amid quiet disappointment Tish said, "Pour me a cuppa that fudge,' and everyone laughed and I ached at the sight of his face. I wanted to kiss his smiling lips. I wanted to hold the smooth mocha perfection of his face against my breast, forever. I hit him on the arm instead.

When fall gave way to winter it was not too cold. Geese flew over the river and fields turned brown and school let out for Christmas. One chill night we swiped my brother's Model A and went out for a ride. I drove and Tish jumped with excitement beside me, watching for cops. Every approaching car was the cops, and we made hurried plans for when they stopped me and asked for the

13