Meteors in August by Melanie Rae Thon

head below the surface, let him up, dunked again. The third time, Coe came out sputtering. Zack sprinted toward land, arms slicing, legs a furious flutter. He crawled up on the slick grass while Coe slogged through the thick water. Zachary did a jig, taunting Coe, his penis flopping up and down as he whooped and pranced. Gwen giggled, then clamped her hand over her mouth. I should have told her how Zachary killed Myron’s cat, how he snapped its neck and left it for Myron to find. Maybe she would have understood why I didn’t find her brother so amusing.
    Grabbing at the slippery weeds, Coe tried to pull himself out of the pond. Zack called him a wimp and a wussie, kicking at his chin. When Coe finally struggled to his feet, he lunged and laid Zack out flat. But he had no chance. Zachary arched and heaved. They rolled in the mud, arms clutching each other, legs entwined. At last Zack twisted free, straddling his friend. Coe’s scrawny legs jabbed at the air. Zack laughed, shaking his wet curls, splattering Coe’s face.
    â€œGive up,” said Zack.
    â€œI give up,” Coe wailed.
    â€œSay, ‘You’re the master.’”
    â€œYou’re the master.”
    â€œMaster of all masters.”
    Coe squirmed and stayed silent.
    â€œSay it, pussy breath. I can keep you here all night.” Zachary bore down on Coe with his full weight and Coe groaned. “Say it.”
    â€œBastard of all bastards.”
    Zack clutched Coe between his legs and Coe yelped. This time the force of his kick threw Zachary, and they lay there, panting in the grass, dirty boys streaked with mud and torn leaves.
    Zack wiped his nose with the back of his hand and punched Coe’s arm. “Fucker,” Zack said. “You gave me a bloody nose.”
    â€œCome on,” said Gwen, “before they get dressed.”
    Zachary Holler would pummel us both if he caught us spying on him. Or worse, he’d wait for some unexpected chance and pay us back in a way I couldn’t imagine—some heartless way, like the way he paid Myron Evans.
    I took one last look. I never understood why Nina took to boys the way she did. Something bad lurked in Zachary Holler, something threatening in his sunburned neck and hard thighs. As he grew older and his chest thickened I could see meanness blooming up in him, a living thing. And Coe, mild Coe, must have had an empty place inside his ribs, a place that could only be filled by Zachary’s cruelty. Nina would have found Zack handsome: she liked dark-eyed boys with strong arms, and she would have brought out a kindness in him, false and fleeting. I saw Zack’s turned-up nose. I saw his horrible hands, hands that could break the neck of a cat. To me he was half imp, half monster; but to Nina, he would have been just another pretty boy. I knew exactly what she’d think of Coe Carson too, because I knew how she treated his brother, Rafe, after that day Mother caught him with his hand stuck down Nina’s bra. He became one of the boys who squatted behind bushes or climbed high in trees to call her name. She called him by his real name—Raphael—made him speechless so she was free to tease and tempt him.
    Still, Rafe Carson found a way to redeem himself. He achieved a mythic status in 1964, when he managed to get himself locked up for trying to rob a gas station down in Rovato Falls. He was the only boy we knew who’d been sent to the detention school in Miles City, though many fathers had threatened their sons with such a fate. Nina and her girlfriends talked of it in whispers and hushed if they caught me listening. His name was their chant: Raphael, Raphael, my prisoner, my love. I imagined my sister and her two friends, their hands clasped, dancing. Trapped in their circle, I saw Rafe Carson, his wrists tied with the pink and yellow ribbons from their hair. Prisoner , they whispered, love . Years later I heard Rafe Carson got himself in real