August 10, 2005

Billy's feet were dirty and I could see them 'cause I was lying down on the railroad ties and he was balancing on the rails like it wasn't even hard. Billy's ten and so he can do things like that, and like staying up late and drinking beer and skipping school, all things which I would never be allowed to do because I'd get caught. Billy says that when you turn twelve you get smart and you know how to do things without anyone seeing you, like you're invisible, like when Billy stole a candy bar from Mr. Fischer and Mr. Fischer just smiled at him like nothing had happened at all. So anyways, Billy's feet were always dirty because he never wears shoes in the summer. Mine were clean 'cause I do. I don't have to, but I don't really like dirt all that much. It was hard enough to lie down on the railroad ties, which are on top of gravel, 'cause rocks are just bits of dirt squished together. But Billy said that there was no way I was getting out of this one, that I was just gonna have to wait for that train to come and lie there as it rolled over me, missing my nose by what Billy believed would be just one and a half inches. Billy said he'd do it himself if he weren't so big. He told me it was practically the only good thing about being seven, that I could let a train roll right over me and live to tell about it.

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