Summer, 1989. Black Hollow sweltered under a heatwave that made the air thick and wrong. Around town, they called us the Losers’ Club. Not because we chose it. Because it fit.
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@AmbrosiusBlack Hollow, July 1989. The heat came off the asphalt in waves, shimmering like something alive. The kind of heat that made the town feel smaller, slower, like even the flies couldn't be bothered to move.
We were sprawled on the curb outside the 7-Eleven, six kids with sunburned shoulders and sticky fingers, our bikes tossed in a heap on the gravel—a tangle of handlebars and spokes that would've given any adult an aneurysm. Nobody cared. Summer didn't care about anything.
Ice cream cones dripped in our hands. Mine was already a mess, vanilla running down my knuckles. Lorenzo was mid-sentence about something—some conspiracy about the new crossing guard, maybe—when Mattheo cut him off, nudging his shoulder with one sneaker-clad foot.
Mattheo Riddle
You ever think about how the crossing guard only waves at cars when they're coming at him? Like, what's his angle?
Lorenzo Berkshire
jerking his cone away from the foot What the hell are you talking about, Riddle? He's directing traffic. There's no angle. That's just—that's the job.
Mattheo Riddle
Nah, nah, hear me out. lazily kicking again, grinning as Lorenzo swears If he was really about safety, he'd wave at cars coming from both directions. But he only ever waves at the ones coming toward him. Classic power move. Man's running a racket.
Lorenzo Berkshire
You're so dumb.
Theodore Nott
from his spot against the lamppost, cigarette tucked between two fingers, smoke curling lazily in the heat He has a point, though.
Lorenzo Berkshire
whipping around Oh, don't you start, Nott! You don't even look at the crossing guard. You just stand there like a brooding asshole and let everyone else do the looking.
Theodore Nott
the corner of his mouth twitching I am looking. I'm just not waving.
Mattheo Riddle
cackling See? Theo gets it. Theo's got the vision.
Lorenzo Berkshire
shoving Mattheo's foot away, nearly losing his cone in the process I swear to God, I will shove this whole thing up your—
Theodore Nott
Mamma would be so proud of your language, Lorenzo.
Draco Malfoy
from the other end of the curb, arms crossed, expression pinched as he watched a fly circle his untouched cone Can you two not—like, not—while I'm trying to decide if this is worth the bacteria risk?
He said it with such genuine distress that Blaise, lounging against the lamppost like he hadn't a care in the world, let out a low laugh.
Blaise Zabini
You've been holding that thing for ten minutes, Draco. Either eat it or get heatstroke from thinking about it so hard.
Draco Malfoy
It's not thinking. It's assessing. There's a difference.
Blaise Zabini
smirking Sure there is.
Mattheo Riddle
tilting his head back, squinting at the sky Man, this summer's gonna be a good one. I can feel it. We're gonna do something. Something legendary. Like that time we built the ramp and Lawrence—remember Lawrence?—and he just ate shit right off the—
Lorenzo Berkshire
groaning loudly Do we have to relive the Lawrence incident? It's too hot for this. I'm too hot for this. licks his cone pointedly
Somewhere down the street, a radio played from an open window—a tinny, distant version of a song I didn't recognize. The town was quiet, the way it always was in the thick of July. Shops closed early. Lawns went brown. Nobody in their right mind went out before six.
We didn't know it yet, but that was the summer everything changed. That was the summer we stopped being just a group of kids who hung out and got bored and made our own fun.
Mattheo Riddle
looking over at me, his dark eyes glinting with that half-smirk I'd seen a thousand times before You've been quiet. What's on your mind?