He watches her from the tall weeds in the field where the boys are kings. He watches her tight shirt, wet from the spray of the car wash. Her long, tanned legs bookended by simple sneakers and a tight shorts. He knows her schedule; wash on Saturday evening, then off down the road to some adventure he imagines in the quiet of his bed at night.

He knows her from school; all the 14 year old boys do, but only he has seen the scars she hides. She caught him looking once; the rough, tormented skin from the small of her back to her delicate hip as she was reaching into her locker. He mumbled an apology and turned in shame. The only words he has ever said to her. He wanted to say more, but he knows his place.

She is pretty and well to do, her daddy buying her the ride she lathers so gingerly. It was said she only dates college boys. It doesn’t matter. Boys in the field never stand a chance, he knows his place. Turn sixteen and buy acne medicine. Turn seventeen and drop out, buy a ratty car and get a job on a loading dock, income supplemented by what you could boost. In time find a lonely heart and make more lost kids.

Trey crawls up alongside him; his shitty, yellow grin pulled tight against his lips.

“That her?” he whispers.

“Every week.” Maybe if he walked out there and said hi, offered to help wash. Would she know who he was? Would she care?

From under his jacket Trey pulls out a folded Playboy, the pages creased to a college cheerleader, topless at some rich, white campus.

“I bet you her tits look like these,” he says.

“That a new issue?”

“Last month. Just got it.”

“Cool.”

She drives off from the car wash, a half-ass drying left for the wind. The two boys stand.

Their kingdom is barren lots and debris from construction stopped near high tension power lines that crackle in the heat. They look around and Trey pulls a crushed pack of cigarettes. They both light up. It’ll be dark in three hours.

His walk home at dusk takes him through the car wash looking for dropped quarters. Sometimes it is a good day. Mostly not. He counts the video cameras watching him. All day long soccer moms and salesmen dropped fives, tens and twenties into the metal boxes.

Everyone has a box that is locked from the boys in the weeds.