The cars passed fast under the overpass, and I wondered how much damage a brick could do to someone's head. Tilly would like that; that's why she always wore the skull sweatband.

Tilly was smiling at the sky. She had a raucous laugh, but it rarely came out.

“Tilly,” I said, “I'm gonna throw that brick into traffic.”

The sun was high in the sky, but out of sight behind low clouds. A warm wind cut across the causeway. Traffic was sparse this far out of town, but cars still passed often enough below that I wondered whether we should be hanging around. Five teens probably shouldn't be slumming on an overpass, but Buena Vista Road was our spot.

Tilly covered her mouth with the sleeve of her black hoodie. The arm read “Deja Entendu.” She bit it like a cat. It stifled her laughter.

This would get her good.

“Pete, help me lift this!”

Pete was in rapturous conversation with Mickey. Probably about that Ugandan warlord the world had suddenly all got a hard-on about. He slouched around to face me in his shirt that read Hybrid Theory in white blocks. His JNCOs flapped dramatically.

“What are you two on about?”

I pointed at the birds overhead.

“I was just telling Tilly you could probably join the flock if you jumped. Where do they sell pants that wide?”

Tilly hid her face in her hands.

Pete sucked his snakebites as the wind whistled through his gauges. “Man, screw you, Brennan. You look like you got kicked from a Christian band for being too straight-edge.”

That had me rolling.

“Nah, I'm sorry, man. JNCOs was a cheap-shot. Really, I was just telling Tilly my plan to lob that brick over the bridge.”

“You two are so weird,” Pete said.