Rollerblading Distance

suburban delinquents and model homes

June 1997. Katy, Texas got its name when the Missouri-Kansas-Texas, or MKT, railroad dropped its Missouri waypoint, and the junction there became the KT stop. Then, in the latter half of the twentieth century, as Houston roared westward, the city gobbled up the rice fields and stands of invasive tall cane—likely planted by eighteenth-century, French and Spanish trappers—replacing the vegetation with another invasive species: thousands of acres of uniform, smoothly paved streets, lined with mass-produced, characterless houses. Neighborhoods sprawled as far as the eye could see, overtaking nature like a cancer.

suburbs at night

Jake and Amity lived in one such neighborhood, called Sherwood Forest, built through the seventies and eighties, but several newer, fancier neighborhoods lay just within rollerblading distance. Siete Lakes was one: a gated community with massive McMansions on vast, manicured lots that backed up to the titular seven lakes—all manmade, of course.

One sweltering, early summer night, the Monroe kids snuck out of their house and put on their rollerblades, giggling and conspiring. They sat at the edge of the front walk and slipped their feet into the clunky, plastic boots, ratcheting the closures to the appropriate level of tightness. As usual, Jake was ready first, and he waited patiently for his sister. She always took longer, needing the perfect snug fit on her tiny, narrow feet, or she’d have to stop midway and readjust. Jake stood facing the house and waited, keeping watch on their mom and stepdad’s dark window, ready to enact the plan of return in the event of any sudden illumination. When Amity was ready, she looked up at her brother and nodded. They pushed off and glided into the night.

Siete Lakes was a fifteen-minute skate from Jake and Amity’s house if they hustled, and they passed right by Erik Andersson’s house on the way. As they sailed over the warm concrete, Amity peered at one upstairs window of the red-brick structure, glowing gold in the indigo midnight. Jake noticed and said to his sister, “So, are you and Erik like, going out?” Amity shrugged and picked up her pace, pulling ahead, avoiding his eyes. She wasn’t sure if Erik was her boyfriend or not. They had never flat-out said that they liked each other, but they talked on the phone every night.

Erik never officially asked Amity to be his girlfriend. A week or so after Jake asked her if Erik was her boyfriend, Amity and Erik made out during a Friday night showing of George of the Jungle, and this is how she marked the beginning of the relationship. Avery dropped Amity and Erik off at the shabby little strip-mall cinema, and as soon as they settled into their seats in the dark theater, Erik slipped his arm around her shoulders. She turned to see his face, eyes closed, lips slightly parted, moving towards her own. Her heart raced as she leaned in, bringing her lips to his. They didn’t watch a single frame of the movie.

But all of that—and all that followed—had yet to happen, and when Amity skirted Jake’s question of her and Erik as an item, Jake dropped it.

The Monroe kids zoomed up to the approach of Siete Lakes and squeezed through the bars of the fifteen-foot, wrought-iron gates beneath ornate, tacky arches, flanked on either side by a tall brick wall, which encircled the community. Amity asked, “Who do you think these are trying to keep out?” Jake answered, “Us.” They giggled. In a way, he was right. The real function of the gates was more symbolic, though, a show of mid-level wealth and prestige. There was no need for them, as Jake and Amity probably were the most threatening things prowling the suburban streets that night.

Near the front of the subdivision, a model home drew the eye, sparkling in the summer night, a sample platter of amenities, where aspiring residents could get a little taste of how life in this sterile, sprinkler-fed, gated paradise might feel. Jake and Amity skated up the driveway and snuck around to the back yard. They beheld the pool, a cool, azure oasis, so unlike the neon turquoise ellipse of their father’s more classic version up in Montgomery. This pool was much more fashionable, with a rock waterfall at one end, and a large jacuzzi, which could accommodate at least eight.

The Monroe kids took off their skates and jumped in, fully clothed. They splashed around for a few luxurious moments, cleansed of the oppressive hold of the sticky, southern June air.

Jake swam to a little seat at one end of the pool and perched there, then asked, “Wanna go inside?”

“Yesssss,” Amity hissed in reply. They had done this before by way of the garage. The door was usually unlocked, and the one leading from there into the house was open sometimes, too. They had invented a fictional property manager, whose laziness granted them entry into this pristine, forbidden space, and they loved to make a meal of this character, saying stupid stuff in the doltish voice Jake had chosen for him. They had decided it was definitely a dude. But this time, when Jake turned the knob and pushed, Amity on his heels, a high-pitched siren squawked rhythmically, and a flashing flood light mounted at the corner of the building tattled on the teenage trespassers. “Shit!” Amity shouted.  

She and Jake hauled ass to their skates, still dripping wet, and in fits of giggles and curses, they threw on the rollerblades and ran through the grass to the front lawn, taking awkward leaps to avoid falling on their faces. They zoomed up to the entrance right as a cop car pulled up to the gate on the other side of the median there. Diving into some bushes, Jake and Amity held their breath as they watched the car pull into the driveway of the model home, where they could just barely make out two trails of water leading right to their hiding place.

A paunchy cop got out and waddled toward the front door, flashlight drawn. Finding nothing amiss there, he made his way around to the back yard, mouth open, breathing heavily. Amity made a series of fart noises in time to his steps. Jake snickered. As soon as the cop disappeared behind the house, Jake said, “Let’s go!” They scrambled out from the bushes, raced to the gate, and squeezed through. Speeding down the empty street, they hooted and howled in triumph, then ducked into the first entrance to Sherwood Forest, where they dissolved into fits of adrenaline-fueled laughter. They had gotten away with it. Again.