Dream Guy by A.Z.A; Clarke

accountant. They had a nice house, and they occasionally socialized with the Knightley parents. Smokey’s pointless and somewhat feeble impression of the Hard Man of Azalea Drive was a pose. It had certainly escaped the notice of most of their peers, including Charlie Meek, who had it in for Smokey as much as he did for Joe.
    Still, Joe felt bad about lying to Smokey. He ought to make it up to him somehow. The ideal way would be a night on the town, wearing sharp suits, boozing, clubbing, picking up pretty girls, dancing and generally pretending to take part in a cheesy ad for an alcopop. Joe had no worries about creating such a night out. If he’d managed to dream a posse of Ottoman Empire geezers into his room and out again, he could certainly manage a night on the razzle.
    Back home, Joe got all his homework out of the way.
    Ben and Liesel were safely at dance class until seven p.m. Then he worked on a sketch for his father. Before long, Mrs. Knightley was calling up the stairs for Joe to come for a ride in his extraordinary prize. They were fully insured, the number plates had been delivered and as soon as she had screwed them into position, she was going to take the car for a spin.
    It was glorious. Mum took the car gingerly down the road then onto the dual carriageway, heading for the airport. She went in a loop round a section of the motorway then home via the backstreets. The car growled and purred and crooned as they drove around, and it almost seemed disappointed to be heading back into the garage. The drive left Joe and his mother equally exhilarated.
    “I’m surprised we haven’t seen Silas around here. Haven’t you told anyone at school about this?” Mrs. Knightley pulled the garage door down and double-checked the lock.
    “Nah, not until we know whether we can keep it.”
    “We’re keeping it, sweetheart. If they want to run tests, they can come here and run them. They can’t impound the car. I’ve checked.”
    “You’re brilliant, Mum.”
    She kissed Joe’s cheek as he brushed past her into the house. “Cheeky so and so. You’re only saying that because you’ve got exactly what you want. We’d be on much safer ground if you could find that lottery ticket, kiddo. In the meantime, I can wangle it so that possession is nine-tenths of the law.”
    Liesel and Ben were waiting for their supper. Joe scarcely noticed what he was eating, eager to get back to his current drawing then to bed.
    Once he’d switched the light off, he lay back and thought about what kind of night out Smokey would find memorable.
    A fast car was essential. Flash suits, pretty girls, clubs. Things that teenagers thought about and grown-ups got to do—or at least expensive ads gave the impression that they got to do them. He imagined getting ready with Smokey for a night on the town. Smokey would wear aftershave—lots—and garish colors, a yellow shirt with a purple suit. Joe would look quieter—a black suit with a Nehru collar and a black shirt. Their wallets would be full. They’d have money to burn, maybe three or four hundred quid. They’d arrive at a club in a black limousine. As they got out, they’d be waved in past the queue of punters, then they’d be inside, and it would be sleek and smart, with girls who looked like models but with a bit more flesh on them.
    And there they were. Smokey turned to Joe and clapped him on the shoulder.
    “This is the business, mate.”
    Joe smiled back, then Smokey swaggered up to the bar. “Red Bull and vodka please. Twice,” he shouted over the music.
    Joe shook his head. “It’s okay, I’ll get my own. You go and find someone to chat up.”
    Smokey threw himself into the crowd that was pulsating to the Chemical Brothers. Joe turned back and ordered himself some water. He caught glimpses of Smokey—an arm, a leg, a gyrating shoulder or the back of his head. He watched the other people. The music hurt his head, so he turned the volume down—not for the clubbers, just