The year was 1959, and the air in Riverside smelled like cherry phosphate and scorched rubber.
Leo stood outside the high school gymnasium, adjusting his collar in the reflection of a trophy case. Inside, the walls were sweating. The local DJ, a man who called himself "Wolfman Jack" (though everyone knew he was just Mr. Henderson from the hardware store), was spinning the latest Ritchie Valens.
It was Peggy. She looked like a Technicolor dream in a poodle skirt that crinkled like static electricity. She wasn’t holding a textbook; she was clutching the latest issue of Photoplay , the cover splashed with a brooding James Dean.
They walked out into the cool night, two kids caught in the glow of a neon sign, living in a world that was just beginning to find its volume.
