Danny and Me

I knew he was going sideways of the law the minute I laid eyes on him. He caught my attention right away -- although he flew way under the radar at the high school we both went to, rarely showing up. When he did, he'd show up late, duck into the smoking area and hang with the vo-techs and the stoners, saying little. Leave early too, tires squalling and shrieking from the Brookfield H igh School parking lot.

Don't ask me why, but I always watched him. He probably would have thought I was crazy, envying him the way I did.

After all, I was trusted by teachers to come and go as I pleased: leaving for advanced classes at a nearby community college, or taking off early for community theater events. Considered a popular and not a fringe kid, I was looking at a future with college, while he wasn't going to graduate with our class. I'd heard rumors that his family life was bad, too: drunk Dad, dead Mom. But somehow, Danny seemed more free than the rest of us. And a lot cooler, somehow, too. Don't ask me to explain why. Once, I saw Mr. Chitwood -- an administrator and known hardass -- try to stop Danny from leaving school grounds. Danny just ignored the guy and kept on walking. Mr. Chitwood called his name a few times, waited, and instead of chasing and hassling and spying on him - his usual M.O., he didn't do anything. That never happened at my school, especially with Chitwood.

We'd rarely crossed paths throughout school. Another reason for my abject fascination by senior year, I suppose. So hearing Danny gun his shoddy, souped up car as I walked outside that day, I looked over. From what I could tell, it was supposed to be a '77 Barracuda, but at the time, it was mostly ratty gray primer with a single door painted taxi cab yellow.

The roar grew closer.

Then it stopped. Right where I was standing.

"Putting Craigers on her," came a voice, surprising me. After all, as he told me later that night -- in that strange affectless voice of his -- he'd always figured me for one of the square kids, right?

Craiger rims. He was a gearhead. And that day, as I looked up from the car and into eyes that matched the sky, I forgot about waiting for my boyfriend, who was playing football behind the school. I forgot about my best friend, who was calling my name and telling me to wait, wait - wait for her.

There were a million things I'd always wanted to ask Danny. And now, here he was in front of me. Like I'd conjured him up right out of my imagination. So I pretty much knew it was my one and only chance with him. I'm sure he probably figured the same about me.

I thought carefully before I asked him a single question.

"What about Hooker headers?" I countered. Our eyes met with a strange, sparked shock.

The single yellow door swung open and he gunned the engine again.

"Get in."

I never revealed the details of my night with Danny.

No. Of course I wasn't kidnapped, I told the local police, when they questioned me eighteen hours later.

"You're saying you went with the individual in question under your own volition, ma'am?"

"What?" I struggled to remain calm, polite, as always. To keep the anger and incredulity out of my voice.

"Your own volition? You weren't coerced or forced by him in any way?" a second, younger officer echoed, pulling out a small, spiral-topped notepad and looking at me expectantly.

"Yes. I mean, no, I wasn't forced and yes, I went by my own choice." My voice sounded calm, but I was growing more furious as I realized what they were really asking: Did that poor, dirty creep touch you?

"We just --"

I was interrupted by a flurry of activity, however, as the dispatcher's voice came to life in their respective police cars. I watched as the officers, visibly disappointed, scrambled to call off a Tri-State BOLO for a 1977 Barracuda, with Connecticut registration to one Sadler, Daniel, V., juvenile with record for petit theft, arson, and three felony speeding warrants.

In the days and weeks that followed, I remember trying to explain again and again - to police, my parents, to my jealous, disbelieving boyfriend, and to my best friend: No...Nothing happened between me and Danny. No, I haven't heard from him...I don't know where he is...We just drove around that one night....

Nothing happened, really. Here's the truth. We drove around our own small town. Then a few others, picking up speed and exuberance.Talked some of the time. Sat in long, comfortable silences other times, just breathing in the night as it roared past, mixed with the heady smell of oil and exhaust from his car's engine. We'd catch each other's eyes and laugh, for no reason at all. Like I said-nothing happened.

But then again, looking back, everything changed after my night with Danny...