The Lost Boy

supervision. I soon forgot about looking for another job and developed the Walshes’ laid-back attitude.
    A few weeks into my freshman year in high school, John and Linda told me that they were moving. Without thinking, I huffed into the room I shared with their two-year-old boy and crammed everything I owned into a pillowcase. I was livid. It seemed that every time,
every time,
I adjusted to a new environment, something happened. I realized that John and Linda seemed to fight all the time, but I got used to that as well as having to babysit their bratty kids. With my belongings slung over my shoulder, I marched back into the living room. “All right, ” I demanded, “let’s go! Take me to The Hill!”
    John and Linda both looked at each other and laughed. “No, man, ” John said, as he waved his hand in front of his face. “I said we’re moving, and
you’re coming with us;
that is, if you don’t have a problem with that?”
    I became so upset at myself. So I stood in front of them and stewed for several minutes, until I smiled and said, “I don’t know what you two are laughing at, but I’m already packed! What about you?”
    Linda jabbed John in the gut. “Smart kid.”
    The next day I stood in the back of an oversized U-Haul while John drove to the edge of the county. When he finally stopped, I leaped from the trailer. I couldn’t believe what I saw. It was as if the Walshes and I had moved into the
Leave It to Beaver
neighborhood. I stepped around the U-Haul and gawked at the entire block. Every lawn was perfectly manicured. The immaculate houses looked more like miniature mansions than ordinary homes, and every car in its driveway had a blinding shine, as if it had just been waxed. As I strolled down the middle of Duinsmoore Drive, I breathed in the sweet smell of flowers, and I could hear the sound of the wind fluttering through a giant weeping willow.
    I shook my head and smiled inside. “Yes!” I shouted. “I could live here!”
    In no time at all I made friends with Paul Brazell and Dave Howard, two neighborhood teenagers who seemed fascinated by my dark, rusty-red minibike and my Daisy BB gun. Their eyes seemed hungry for adventure. I was more than happy to feed them. I discovered Paul had a minibike, too, and soon the three of us held drag races in the middle of the lifeless street. Paul always won, for three reasons: his minibike had more horsepower than mine, he weighed less than I did, and he had brakes – allowing him to slow down long after I did.
    Out of the hundreds of races, I won only one. That day my throttle became stuck. I wasn’t worried since I had a cutoff switch – which I immediately discovered would not shut off the engine. Since I didn’t have any brakes, I tried to slow down by dragging my feet. As I did, my shoes slipped and the bottom of my shirt became caught in the rear sprocket. For a moment I had one hand on the throttle while the rest of my body flailed, before being dragged down the middle of the street. I was too scared to let go. I finally released my grip, and a split second later my minibike jumped the sidewalk, flying up and over a bush.
    Just in front of me, Dave hit the ground, rolling with laughter. Seconds later Paul pulled up. His eyes were as big as silver dollars. “Man, that was too cool! Can you do that again?” As I struggled to stand up, I could see some of the adults from the neighborhood staring in our direction. They seemed more concerned over the damage to the bush than my medical condition. Trying to forget the unfriendly looks, I blocked out the pain and gave Paul my widest smile. From that moment on I was dubbed “The Stuntmaster of Duinsmoore.”
    That evening the three of us plotted our next adventure. Paul’s parents had a 16mm camera, so Paul decided to make a James Bond-style movie, casting me as the lead actor. The climax of the film was to have Dr Strange, played by Dave, drag Bond up and down the street while Paul filmed from all angles. I told Paul I wasn’t so sure about the stunt, while Dave panted like a dog, claiming he wouldn’t mind watching my knees turn into hamburger. Dave doubled as my stunt coordinator, which entailed keeping the street clear of all traffic under the age of 10 and having a set of Band-Aids at the ready whenever my gag was completed. I was thankful the next day when Paul’s camera ran out of film – before my death-defying climax.
    One day Paul helped me prepare to meet a girl from around