ST4.05 | "Golden Child"

MAY 2026
SCHOOLS OUT (FOREVER)
Pools are opening, prom has been had, and the teenagers, full of rage, hormones, and an uncertain future, are finally being let loose from their prisons . . . err . . . schools. This month, we’re looking for teenage noir. First cars. First jobs. First kisses. Last chances. Here at STONE’S THROW, we know the children are the future. But we also know the kids aren’t alright.

GOLDEN CHILD

by Jesse Binger

Danny Brennan has it all. First seat on the bench next to Coach. Though he barely uses it. Danny plays 31 out of 32 minutes most games. Some games all 32. Coach thinks he’s the best thing since sliced bread. Me, well, I’m a kaiser roll type anyway.

BEC (Bacon, egg & cheese) on a Kaiser roll. Fuck pork rolls. Just not my type. Every morning, Danny, Brett, Toby and I stop at Moretti’s Deli. Old dude behind the counter. Not Moretti, nor his son. They own the joint, so they can sleep late. No, the guy with snot always running down his nose, wiping with his sleeve like they taught us not to do in grade school. That guy.

But.

He makes a great breakfast sandwich. So there’s that.

Back to Danny. The golden child. Not the rugged child. That’s me.

Danny’s got it all. Julie Swivler. Gorgeous. Junior. Golden hair that flows down her shoulders. A caramel tan even in winter (and it ain’t even salon-made). The shortest skirts anyone could get away with at Brookville High. Be an A student with a Daddy who’s an executive at one of the Big Four., and you can get away with a lot.

And then there’s the body. Let’s just say, breathtaking. It’s like looking at the Grand Canyon. Or Machu Picchu. Or even a Picasso. Or something from the dude who cut his ear off. A work of art. Yeah, that’s the expression.

Julie. Danny’s girl since freshman year. She walks down the hall and the ravenous boys bend over backwards to pick up a lost pen, or try to carry her books, even for a minute.

Most guys would get jealous. Not Danny. Because golden child Danny’s got it all.

Until. Well, things change.

***

I get up early one Saturday. 6 a.m. Moms and Pops still snoring away. Jeannie, big sis, is conked out in her room after tying one on, sneaking out for some bullshit teenage party.

I walk to the station. Pay my money into one of those machines then hop on the train.

An hour later, I’m there. The big city.

They say you can find anything in the city. They’re right.

Two months ago, me, Danny, the whole gang followed that snot-nosed guy from Moretti’s recommendation and ended up in a little shop on 37th and Park. They sold hookah machines, rolling papers, incense. Just skirting the edge of legality.

But, their big-ticket item. Upstairs. Middle-eastern dude with the scruffy beard, mumbled something to me that sounded like c’mon follow. I wasn’t so sure so I waited. Until he said it again. This time with fuckface to emphasize things.

We ended up on the top floor. Another storefront. Old clothes. Persian rugs. Three guys working, nobody shopping.

We told the guy what we’re there for and he giggled.

Danny hung behind me with the big poster board in his hands. Then I did the same for him. And the rest of the gang.

We all walked out with Florida licenses.

Anything in the city.

So I’m back at the same place. Another guy at the door. Looks like the first but he’s not. Maybe his brother. Same raspy growl. Five o’clock shadow. He’s wearing an oversized Allen Iverson Georgetown jersey. Haven’t seen one of those in years.

“You a fan?” I ask.

He makes a face like I just said the stupidest thing in the world. Then moves his hands real fast like he’s gonna slap me. But stops. Laughs.

“Funny guy,” he says.

But he takes me up anyway. It’s not IDs I’m looking for this time. But they have what I ask for. I stuff it into my pocket, pay with cash, sneak out with my hood on like I’m one of those dudes from The Wire.

Walk back to the station (no cabs, no Ubers).

And I’m home in an hour. In my bed. Under the covers.

***

7:15. Tuesday night. First game vs. Southside. Rivalry week.

Gym is packed. I look out and see half our grade bouncing on the rafters. They’re passing around a paper bag filled with something noxious I’m sure. Timmy, always the loudest voice, is starting up a chant that ends with a derogatory statement about our cheerleaders.

Mr. Rodriguez, the Vice Principal, starts to chastise them.

A typical Tuesday night.

Until it isn’t.

Rest of the guys coming out of the locker room now.

Frankie, Toby, Terrance, the whole crew.

Just not Danny.

They take their seats at the bench. Seat next to Coach stays empty.

I take a long sip from my water bottle then dump some on my head. Usual pre-game ritual. Cools me off.

Then Coach pulls all of us in a circle.

We all start to put our hands together, another ritual. Ready to shout out TEAM. Or DISCIPLINE. Sometimes just GET ‘EM.

But this time Coach shakes us off.

He’s got that serious look on his face. Like when he told us his wife was sick. In the hospital. And he’d be stepping away for a bit.

“Listen guys. Danny’s not here today.”

The usual. Muttering under everyone’s breath. What the fucks and whoas.

“What happened?” I ask. Only one with balls.

Coach just shakes his head. “I can’t give many details. But Danny’s off the team.”

“For good?” Terrance, the co-captain asks.

“For good,” Coach says.

***

Danny’s bounced off the team. Suspended for two weeks. Rumor has it that criminal charges are being kicked around.

Small school, small town, everyone knows everyone’s business.

“I hear they found weed in his locker,” one kid tells another.

“Weed, no it was coke.”

“They found a gun, assholes. You think Danny Brennan’s getting suspended for some stupid drugs. Half the kids in this school do them.”

“Half?” I laugh.

“Understatement of the year,” says another one.

How they got into his locker is the big question going around. Well, one tip. Maybe don’t use your birthday as your combination, golden child.

***

It starts with an innocent text.

How you holding up, I write.

I’m put on read. An hour passes, two, then I watch as the little bubble appears.

It’s there for so long, I’m ready to pull my hair out.

Starts. Stops. Comes back. Fucking bubble.

And then, it’s there.

I’m just so pissed off, Jason. Danny. Like what the fuck. He had his whole life in front of him. Why. Make it make sense for me. You’re like his best friend right. Why???

From there, we don’t stop. Text conversation goes through the night, into the next day. Between periods at school. After school. You know the deal.

Until finally:

You wanna meet later. And talk? she writes.

I wait two hours, and then:

K.

***

They say high school is often the highlight of one’s life. The time when everything just clicks. Good friends, teen romance, popularity. And for a long time, I thought they were all full of shit.

Unless your name was Danny Brennan.

Today, I whistle a different tune.

I’m hanging in the courtyard, smoking a Newport light. Game-worn basketball jersey showing off the guns. Same one I wore when I dropped 25 last night. Beat Roosevelt 82-67. Barely broke a sweat.

And Julie’s right next to me. Usual short skirt (gray today), a halter top, hair flowing in the cool breeze. We’re soaking in the sun rays of early Spring.

Not a care in the world.

Until I see Mr. Rodriguez walking towards us. My palms get sweaty.

“Jason,” he says. “Great game last night.”

I hear Danny’s in rehab now. Finishing up a thirty-day stint.

Julie leans closer to me and whispers something that makes me smile. She smells like roses and cinnamon and all that’s good in the world.

First seat on the bench.

JESSE BINGER (on Twitter / X @jessebinger or on Bluesky @jessebinger.bsky.social) is a fiction writer from New Jersey. His debut novel The Penitent Hours is currently on submission. His work appears in or is forthcoming at Cowboy Jamboree, Bending Genres, Punk Noir, Close to the Bone, and elsewhere. Find him at jessebinger.com.