Everyone warned you about the boy down the street. He was getting to be too old for all the trouble he was causing. He was loud and rowdy and the leader of a gang. The Jets were just as bad as their most prominent member. The boy’s name was Riff, and he told you that the day you met him. Before everyone told you what he was.

“Name’s Riff,” he’d said. “Not ‘rift,’ like a tear, or ‘rip.’ Riff. Like a guitar.”

Like a guitar. Like working on old bikes with his bare hands, rust under his fingernails. Like scrapes and bruises and scabs because he plays too rough and fights too much. Like a guitar: loud and wailing and shiny. A scar across his cheek.

He’s trouble. He’s mean. He’s angry. Everyone who’d never had a pleasant conversation with him would sit you down and preach this sermon. He’ll never amount to anything. He’s no good. He can pack a bag in less than five minutes and be halfway to the highway before your coffee drips. He can say goodbye and mean it.

But the night you spent with Riff in the junkyard was like every time you went to church and the choir sang. Like angles were among you. One angel: covered in dirt and bad luck. The boy who ruled the world that never loved him.

On a hot summer day, you and the Jets laze around the rec center, the basketball court steaming from the sun and the dry grass poking you through your shirt. Riff leans against a light pole and lights a cigarette. You ask him how come nobody wants you to be friends with him.

Riff smiles at you from behind his silver zippo. “I’m a quitter, baby,” he tells you. “I never learned about balance, or pace, or effort. You’re either good at somethin’, or you’re not.”