Libling has a keen memory for the insights and obsessions of boys growing up oddballs in an era of widespread conformity. He writes of their triumphs, terrors and heartbreaks with an enviable breeziness. But like a cherry-red hot rod idling in the street at midnight, that slick surface hides a throbbing pulsebeat of dread you feel deep in your chest. You‘re in for a thrilling ride, but there‘s no guarantee you‘ll come back in one piece. Or at all.