Because the boys couldn’t all fit in the car, they created a new way of getting around. It was Peter’s idea, actually, since he couldn’t use his trombone anymore, not after the incident with his braces and Brody’s foreskin and the loose spool of yellow thread. It was Peter who stuck his old inline skates onto the trombone and tied his sister’s kite to his wrists and took off after the rest of the boys on a particularly blustery day, trailing behind the vehicle like a flag blowing in the wind.
The trend took off, as trends do amongst the acned and hormonal, and all of a sudden, everyone wanted a trombone kite. Mr. Geller, who owned the shop of fine instruments next to Fonso’s Dildos in the town square, was confused but thrilled that all the young people were suddenly into music again. Real music, not that godforsaken hippity hoppity rap-whats-it or that screeching rock shit. Until he realized they were using his finely crafted instruments as skates. They were skating on them. His finest creations being trodden on by dirty soles, rubbed raw against asphalt. When he found this out, he was most displeased. His moustache quivered with indignation.
Some of the kids wanted to start their own side trend using other instruments. They would be better than the trombone kites, they thought, and actually make it around the High Road bend and down to Tilly’s Ice Cream Shoppe. Mike Callister tried making an electric piano kite but he only made a God-awful clatter down the street before hurling himself headfirst into a gardenia bush, the piano keys scattered behind him like broken teeth.
Ty George ended up with his flute buried halfway up his ass. He was no stranger to sticking things in those dark and murky depths so who’s to say it was from this exercise in mobility and not a romantic dalliance gone awry? His screams were more from embarrassment than pain as he was wheeled into the ER, the flute sticking up from his butt cheeks in the air like a ship’s mast.
Molly Tettler made it a good ways down the street on her drum kite, even though the boys were adamant that girls couldn’t participate. But she wanted to run with them instead of [unsuccessfully] holding in her farts around Mary Sue, El and Lydia. She wooped and hollered as she surfed the drum, holding fast to her big, red kite until, in a fit of ecstasy, she rammed her foot through the drum skin, rolled head over heels and was dragged into the lake where she was set upon by a family of particularly aggressive geese. Everyone decided to stick with the trombone after that.
But then, J.D. turned 16 and he passed his driving test in one go, so now there were two cars. Then Mark Tettler got a car too on account of his sister trashing his expensive drum, so now there were three.
Now all the boys could fit into the cars.
One by one, the trombone kites were abandoned, inside garages and overstuffed basements, collecting dust and rust and getting musty, the way of all things once loved fiercely by the young. The kites folded over the now dull and dreary instruments like protective mother birds. The breath of the wind that once flowed freely through their pipes now stuck inside the curved brass, their voices quivering in indignation.