on that particular sunday at the drag races

there was a group of teenaged boys from the juvenile detention center down the road sitting on the bleachers, so we sat cross-legged in the grass and watched the cars zip down the speedway to reach -- what? just the other end, and then circle around and come back and do it over again. the repetitive nature was soothing, though the noises of the cars were deafening; i liked the contrast. sometimes we would get up in between the races and run across to the other side of the track, giggling nervously. we thought we were rebels. the older men rolled their eyes, smoked cigarettes, their bare arms reddening in the midafternoon sun. we ran back to the other side. the next race prepared to start, the announcer's voice muffled in the loudspeaker. "gentlmen startyerenjuns." up in the bleachers the boys were staring at us. "no, no," their instructor said, making an x with his forefingers. "no, no."