The Perks of Summer

Kenny sat on a bench at the edge of Mañana’s central park, under the shade of a sycamore that looked to be in the early stages of death. Several limbs were bare, their leaves long ago having dropped with nothing to replace them other than parasitic mistletoe hanging like wilted piñatas. It was only ten in the morning, yet the summer heat sizzled off the sidewalk, the first triple-digit day of the summer peaking at around three in the afternoon the weather app said. He checked his phone. Eighty-nine degrees. At least it was dry, the Central Valley of California not known for humid Julys—or any month for that matter. 

He held a book in his hand, one that his sophomore-year English teacher recommended. She knew Kenny was a reader, didn’t have much else going on in his life. Books—no, not books, stories—were his world outside of school. He’d retreated into fiction at an early age, not sure why, only knowing that other places, other people’s lives lured him away from his personal existence, took him to other times and spaces. This book was about someone like him, The Perks of Being a Wallflower, except that Kenny wasn’t suicidal, just different. Isolated. Alone. Reflective.  In that sense, he was like the main character in the book, Charlie. That, and Kenny thought he might like to be a writer. And similar to what happened in the book, Kenny’s English teacher took a shine to him, supplied him with things to read. He wondered why she’d given him this novel for the summer. Hopefully, she wasn’t worried about him. There was no need.

He opened to where he’d left off but didn’t focus on the page his thumb held in place as a car drove by and slowed down. It was silver, a Lexus SUV. A man behind the wheel looked at him, studied him—a guy in his forties, Kenny guessed, although like for many teenagers, everyone looked the same after twenty-five, except for grandparents. Kenny returned the gaze. The man offered a slight smile, then sped up and drove away. 

“Weirdo,” Kenny muttered, then returned to his book. 

Fifteen minutes had passed when he heard another approaching vehicle. It was the silver Lexus again, the same man, the same smile, the same look. This time, the passenger window whirred down. 

“You okay?” the man asked.

Kenny’s eyes narrowed. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

The man shrugged. “Just checking. Don’t mean anything.”

Kenny said nothing.

“Well, I’ll let you go then,” the man said. He offered a nod, the window whirred up, and he pulled away—Kenny’s gaze firmly fixed on the back of the vehicle.

At dinner that night, his dad asked him how his day had gone.

“Nothing unusual,” he replied.

“Well, what did you do?” His dad exchanged glances with his mother. 

“Took a walk. Read.”

His mother spooned green beans onto her plate. “You spend a lot of time reading, sweetie. Don’t you ever see friends from school?”

He shrugged. “Sometimes. Today I just felt like sitting outside and reading.” He took a bite of his chicken. “This is good, Mom. I like the sauce.”

“Thank you,” she said. “It’s a honey-mustard sauce.”

And Kenny knew he’d been successful in changing the topic of conversation. 

Later that night in bed, Kenny thought about the man in the silver Lexus. The way he looked at Kenny—a long steady gaze, with a smile. A slow tide of curiosity came over him, and as he drifted into that vague space between consciousness and sleep, floating in a universe of images and words, his mind conjured a story of a serial killer on the hunt for teenage boys. 

*  *  *

The next day, Kenny sat on the same bench in the park with his book, a bottle of Gatorade Lite, and an oatmeal-raisin cookie in his backpack. The sun was half-way to mid-position in the expanse of blue that stretched from the Sierras on the east to the range foothills on the west. He checked the time on his phone. Ten o’clock. Just as he opened his book, the silver Lexus approached. It slowed, and the man from the day before smiled as he took a lingering look at Kenny. Kenny smiled back. The man drove on. 

Kenny hadn’t gotten further than two pages when the Lexus approached again. This time, it pulled over to the curb as the passenger window whirred down. 

“Hello again,” the man said.

“Hi.”

Kenny studied him for a moment—the ever-present smile with even teeth, the dark hair, the ever so slight stubble on his chin. Kenny couldn’t discern his height, of course, but the man had a medium build with defined biceps beneath his short-sleeved polo shirt. 

“How’s it going today?” the man asked.

“Good. Just reading.” Kenny held up his book as confirmation.

“Is it a good book?”

“Yeah. It is.”

There was an awkward pause as they looked at each other, Kenny still sizing the man up. Then he rose from his bench and sauntered over to the passenger side of the car. 

“Do you drive by here every day?” he asked. 

“No. Just sometimes.”

Up close, Kenny could make out the man’s bluish-gray eyes, almost non-human, preternatural even—the pupils black, like the nighttime sky, but starless. He glanced at the man’s crotch and detected a slight bulge. He smiled. 

“Don’t you have a job?”

The man chuckled. “Of course I do. But I work out of my house. I like to get out now and then so that I’m not stuck indoors all day.”

Kenny pursed his lips and nodded. Sure. “I guess I’ll see you if you come by again tomorrow.”

The man swallowed. “If you want me to.”

“It’s a free country,” Kenny said, shoving his hands into his pockets. “No one can tell you where to drive and not drive.” 

“True.”

“Well, I’m going to get back to my book. Catch you later.”

He turned and trudged back to the bench and sat. The man waved. Kenny squinted as he watched the car disappear down the street. He pulled one side of his lip up into a half-smile, and then went back to reading. 

After dinner, his dad asked him if he wanted to go get an ice cream. 

“Thanks, Dad, but no. I’m going to chill in my room.”

His father clucked his tongue. “Chill. That means what? Doing nothing?”

Kenny shrugged. “I might just listen to music.”

But in his room, he didn’t put on headphones and switch on his phone. Instead, he lay on the bed, staring at the ceiling. He wondered about the man in the silver Lexus, what his name was, if he was married, if his family knew he cruised by parks, if they would miss him if he didn’t return home. Kenny didn’t remember seeing a wedding ring, and his thoughts drifted back to his ideas from the night before. The man might be a serial killer. Maybe a rapist, too. He could be into guys Kenny’s age, screwed them and then killed them afterwards—or maybe during. Choked them right before the moment of climax. Yeah, a serial killer. That was the story.

*  *  *

Sitting on the park bench, Kenny sipped on his Gatorade. He knew the fruit punch flavor would turn his tongue red, his lips, too. Maybe the guy in the Lexus liked full, red lips on a boy. He wondered how many kids his age had been picked up by the man. Probably dozens. He opened his book. 

At ten o’clock, the Lexus rolled around the corner as before. The man pulled up to the curb, the window descending—an invitation, a beckoning. Kenny picked up his backpack and slung it over his shoulder. 

“Hey,” he said as he approached. “You sure like your routines.”

“As do you, it seems.” The man grinned. “What’s your name by the way?”

“Kevin.” Did the man honestly think Kenny would give him his real name?

“Nice to meet you, Kevin. I’m Thomas.”

A few seconds ticked off as they eyed each other. 

“Well,” Kenny finally said, “are you going to invite me to come for a ride or not?”

“If that’s what you want.” Thomas pushed a button that unlocked the doors, and Kenny climbed in. “Where do you want to go?”

“Surprise me.”

“All right.” Thomas checked his mirrors and then steered the car into the right lane. They drove for only a few blocks when he pulled into a parking lot behind an abandoned store front. A good third of the older section of Mañana consisted of empty businesses, mom-and-pop places that hadn’t made it over the years, some boarded up with “for lease” signs posted out front. Others had been left alone to become homes for mice, spiders, and other critters that shied away from sunlight. 

Thomas turned to Kenny. “This is a nice private spot.”

Kenny tilted his head and smiled slightly. “Why do we need privacy?” 

Thomas glanced at Kenny’s crotch, then his own. “Just in case. You never know.” 

Kenny unzipped his backpack. “I think I do know.” He retrieved a large kitchen knife and plunged it deep into Thomas’s gut.

“What the—?” But Thomas couldn’t finish as blood and saliva filled his mouth. 

Kenny leaned in and twisted the knife. Thomas’s eyes widened. He sputtered several times before he locked his gaze on Kenny, his look a mix of questions and pleas.

“Fooled you, didn’t I?” the boy said, and he smiled once more. 

Thomas went limp. Kenny pulled out the knife, took out some Clorox wipes and cleaned off the blade before putting it in his backpack. Then he wiped down everything he’d touched, including the door handle as he exited the Lexus. He looked around.

“Yeah, this is pretty private,” he said. He checked himself for blood. There were some splats on his T-shirt. He pulled it over his head and put on a clean one he’d brought in his backpack. Then he headed back to the park to read his book and eat an oatmeal cookie.

At dinner that night, his dad asked him how his day had gone.

“Nothing unusual,” he replied.

“Well, what did you do?” 

“Took a walk. Read. What I always do.”

The Fresno six o’clock news reported a homicide in Mañana. A man was found stabbed to death in his car. Police were looking for anyone who might have information on the crime.

“Just terrible,” his mother said. “Right here in Mañana, too.”

“Probably drug related,” his father said. 

“Gosh, I hope gangs aren’t coming into this town,” she added.

Kenny remained quiet. Later, in bed, he opened his laptop and began writing his story. Kevin sat on a bench at the edge of Mañana’s central park, under the shade of a sycamore that looked to be in the early stages of death . . .