Camouflage by Gloria Miklowitz

his friends, trying to keep the names and faces straight. Mostly he listened, because they talked about people they all knew. About local fishing and out-of-season hunting. About gun swap meets coming up and then about something that had happened in Waco, Texas.
    â€œThe govamint had no right to go in there!” Hiram said hotly. Waco, Texas? What was that about? Then Kyle remembered a TV special he had seen about a man named David Koresh. Koresh was the religious leader of a kind of commune in Texas. The government said he stored illegal firearms there and went after him. A lot of people died when the commune went up in flames during a raid by government agents.
    â€œThe damn feds
killed
them,” Hiram went on, slurring his words. “Blew up innocent people just because they kept weapons to protect themselves!”
    The way Kyle remembered, the fire in the fortress started from
inside
, so how could it have been the government’s fault? But he didn’t speak up. Not with everyone else siding with Hiram.
    By midnight Kyle realized he was enjoying himself. He liked some of the guys who hung around him asking about Los Angeles. Had he ever been to Disneyland? Had he ever met any real actors? Did he surf? Were there gangs in his neighborhood?
    Hiram set up a firing range, with flashlights set to shine on the beer can targets. Everyone seemed to have a gun and even the girls competed. Laughing and hooting, they shot wildly—not just straight on, but bent over and between their legs, and over their shoulders. Kyle laughed at the antics, half-drunk with the excitement, as well as the beer.
    It was very late when someone shouted, “Time! Hit the road!”
    Instantly they all raced for their cars.
    Hiram yanked at Kyle’s arm. “Come on, Klinger, let’s go! Last one out’s a fairy!” They raced back to the truck. Hiram plugged the keys in the ignition, got the truck going, skidded around, and hauled on down the dirt path, over the creek bed to the main road.
    â€œWhooo-eee!” he screamed, switching off his headlights. He pressed his foot hard on the gas pedal and leaped ahead of the car in front, laughing and cursing. Kyle held tight to his seat, applying an imaginary brake. He’d never been so excited or so scared in his life.
    â€œDidn’t I tell you?” Hiram shouted over the horns blowing and radios booming in the quiet night. “Didn’t I tell you it’d be a blast? Bet you don’t have this much fun in L.A.!”

8
    K YLE WOKE the next morning when his father came home. The room was whirling, and his head felt twice its normal size. “Oh, god!” he groaned, rushing to the bathroom to throw up. He swore he’d never touch beer again.
    â€œRough night?” His father came to the doorway, smoking a cigarette.
    Kyle waved him off. The smoke made him even more queasy. “Go away.
Please
!”
    â€œWhat you need is some black coffee,” his father announced. “Come in the kitchen when you’re up to it.”
    All Kyle wanted was to crawl back into bed, curl up in a ball, and die.
    A few minutes later his father was back, carrying a cup of steaming coffee. “Come on, sit up, son. Drink this. It’ll make you feel better.” He sat on the edge of the bed and helped Kyle rise. “Must have been some night!”
    Eyes closed, Kyle nodded, focused on the dizziness. He sipped the hot black liquid slowly, burning his lip. But it did help. With each swallow the room settled down and his queasiness eased.
    â€œWhat time did you get in?”
    Kyle took a deep breath. “Three-ish . . .”
    â€œThree o’clock’s pretty late to be out, don’t you think?” his father asked. “Your mother wouldn’t approve.”
    â€œUmmm,” Kyle groaned. With Hiram driving, did he have a choice?
    â€œEarl tells me his boy’s got a hollow leg. Can drink a grown man under the table.