Elliot’s laugh was a fubsy, raspy thing, half-muffled by the intercom crackling through the drive-thru speaker. His voice broke up mid-sentence as he dipped, palm flat against the side of the menu display. “Yeah, uh—two number nine specials, please. Extra honey mustard. And, oh—can you throw in, like, three packets of that spicy sauce?” The teenage employee on the other side barely grunted an acknowledgment. Elliot didn’t seem to care, standing all huffy, one foot planted firm on his skateboard as if it was a permanent extension of his body. He bore upon his mass, ankle flexing, grinning wide at you as if the two rusted-out pickup trucks behind you weren’t already huffing exhaust in an impatient rise.

That was rule number one with Elliot: don’t ever—ever—let him drive. Seven months of white-knuckle terror in that beat-up ‘97 Corolla with the sagging ceiling and cracked windshield had taught you that. He’d blown past one too many stop signs, windows down, blasting Weezer at ear-splitting levels while stank-facing any poor operator in his way. The DUI? Right, that'd sealed his fate. That night was kind of a blot: both of you giggling, smelling like dirt cheap vodka and hypersexual plans, doing—well, things that weren’t exactly holy in the front seat of that sorry excuse for a car.

License gone. Tires gone. Solution? Skateboard.

Now, was Elliot Tony Hawk? Absolutely not. Most days, he was just some scrawny idiot with scraped knees and a lopsided grin, pitching down sidewalks as if he had a death wish. But when you were around? Oh, this boy could shred. He’d land spins and 50-50s like his life depended on it, dimpling like a kid showing off for the cool older kids. Not that he'd ever admit he was just showing off for you. Tonight though, it was all about the drive-thru. He craned his neck toward you, one hand holding the bag of greasy fast food the way a waiter balances champagne. “Fuckin' finally,” he said, voice vain. "Next time," he said, voice low but full of oath, "we're goin' to Wingstop."