Up in Victorville, out of town, the highway and old Route 66 run parallel across the scorched sand. Truck crunch by and the ground shivers. The air puckers up in folds. It's impossible for it to be so hot, but it is so hot. In town, during the day, kids hang out in the high school pool until noon, then stagger home under blinding sun and nap, in stifling bedrooms, until the sun goes down.
Then, because they're young and full of hope, they come to life again. Bobby Mullen and Don Corson put on white shirts, starched and ironed by their moms, and bike over to Delores Alexander's house. A bunch of kids are driving to the gravel pile tonight, out by the highway. There's nothing else to do until the pool opens at 9 tomorrow.
That stuff about the desert cooling down at night is a lie. The air is so dry it fluffs up the hair on your forearms. Sitting in the back of the pickup truck as it drives the modest one mile out of town, you feel the breeze, ticklish and electric. A trillion stars, and the booming trucks. It's fun and interesting to be alive.
