We had all we needed, but still found ways to want. We played football and smoked Marlboros and formed the first gang our tiny all-white town had ever seen. We stole warm cases of stale Old Milwaukee from the bowling alley and lit trash on fire in the patch of woods at the edge of a field behind the high school. We camped out behind each others’ houses on hot summer nights so we could sneak away and take joyrides in unlocked minivans. We wasted evenings at the little league ballpark trying to talk the concession stand girls into giving us sweets. We talked a lot about girls but spent our time picking fights with outsiders, or each other. We bailed hay for six dollars an hour and drank bottles of cold Bud Light with farmers. We rode dirtbikes and shot rifles. We thought we had nothing but soon realized we would eventually inherit that small town. We wished we wouldn’t.

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