I hope you have as much fun reading this chapter as I did writing it.
Fuck.
The word explodes into my brain the moment I open my eyes.
Glory, it all happened so fast. I must've caught some kind of psycho disease, the way I went and fell for that son-of-a-bitch. What next?
I'm momentarily saved from my dilemma by my old man's voice outside my door: "I'm gonna be out for a while. Stay outta trouble."
Since when has he started getting up at eight in the goddamn morning? Even the fucking birds are probably still asleep. Rolling over and burying my head under my pillow, I hum to drown out the slam of the door I know will follow. But I can still feel it.
I can't breathe. The air is crushed from my lungs, and I'm plastered to my seat. "Dallas, you're gonna kill us!" I scream over the roar of the engine and the wind when I find my breath.
He just flashes me his crooked grin. He's got his wrists draped over the steering wheel, completely nonchalant, as if he drives gleaming red souped-up T-birds eighty-five miles an hour every day of his life. We're miles out of Tulsa by now, and as far as the eye can see are acres of green, pastural land. Well, now it looks more like one continuous blur, ever since Dallas floored it. My eyes water and my hair whips in my face until my cheeks sting.
And then some switch turns on deep inside my belly, and I get goosebumps all down my arms and it's not from the cold vinyl seats or even from fear, and suddenly I crave the wind, not only on my skin but deep inside. I want to become it. I close my eyes, open my mouth, and let my tongue hang out like a dog. I swear the wind tastes sweet, like molasses. Empty asphalt stretches out in front of us like a forever unraveling carpet. We're free.
Too soon, Dallas lays off the gas a little. He shoots me a rueful smile. "Sorry, dollface. We'll run outta gas if we keep that up."
I don't need to glance at the rearview mirror to know my updo looks dreadful, so I don't even bother to try to fix it. Instead I just unpin my victory roll and let my hair dangle around my face in flyaway wisps. I look back at the road we've covered, half expecting to see smoldering skid marks or something. "We could've died," I manage, trying to catch my breath.
"But we didn't," Dallas points out stupidly.
"Well, yeah, but my point was that we could've."
"And my point was that we didn't."
"You didn't know that when you hit the gas," I retort.
"Look, I thought you was havin' a ball."
My feathers rise. "Yeah, I was, but we still could've died."
"That's just dandy with me, as long's we didn't," he shrugs.
"You're hopeless," I moan.
"Right back at ya."
My jaw tightens.
"At least I have a car," he adds smugly. "You can't even say that."
"This thing ain't yours, it's Buck's."
"Fine, at least my friends let me use their cars, then. You can't say that either." But a fly lands on his nose as he says it, so I award myself the point.
The road we're on is now taking us through a cattle pasture. The grass is green, greener than anything back in the city; I can't tear my eyes off it. The cows are grazing quietly in clusters under the trees, which are also dazzlingly green. When we reach the crest of a small hill, Dallas cusses under his breath and slams on the brakes. A big brown cow is standing smack in the middle of the road, eyeing us lazily.
"Move it," Dallas orders, laying on the horn.
"Why can't you just go 'round?"
"Buck'd kill me if the tires get muddy."
The creature sniffs the windshield with a wet, hairy nose. She cocks her head, fixing us with a curious milky-eyed gaze, and flicks her tail at flies. She doesn't seem to have any intention of moving.
Neither do we. It's a stalemate.
"Move it, you ugly thing," Dallas snaps, earning nothing but a slow blink. "Shove on over, fatass. Excuse me. Alright then, if you won't move yourself, I'm gonna have to do it for you." He gets out, closing the door with a slam that jingles the keys in the ignition, and stalks around the front of the car.
"Watch out," I call, afraid the creature might charge at him.
He approaches the animal, and when she still doesn't budge, he places both hands on her flank and gives a nudge. In one swift movement, she turns her head, picks up her hooves, and lumbers into the grass.
The car plunges a little as he gets back in, and we continue rolling down the road. Silence falls. But it's not bad silence, it's just... silence. "Dallas," I say at length, "what was it like in the cooler?"
He shifts in his seat, lashing out suddenly. "What's it to you?"
It's not a question, but I answer it anyway. "Nothin', I was just wonderin'."
"What, you plannin' on takin' a stay there yourself?"
"Geez, I was only wonderin'. Ya ain't gotta get all bent outta shape about it."
"What are you, the manners police?" He says nothing more for a long time. Just as I'm beginning to think he forgot about it, he mutters, "The food was the worst part. Looked like a plate full of shit." His mouth opens and closes several times, as if he can't decide on the right words to say. "Back in New York, one of the guys I shared a cell with—his name was Bobby—one morning..." He leaves the sentence dangling in midair.
"He what?" I prompt, studying his face.
His tone returns to a bark. "Quit bein' so nosy. You ever get hauled in, I'll tell you. And don't get hauled in in the first place." And with that, he readjusts his grip on the steering wheel and stares out at the road.
Knowing better than to say anything, I bite back a nasty retort. The rumble of the wheels is lulling, and I'm tired from last night. I nestle my head on Dallas' shoulder, taking in the scent of him, the cool leather and the cigarette smoke, and let my eyes close.
Last night... last night! Shit, I forgot all about that chick flick movie at eight.
Dallas slings an arm over my shoulders. "You're lucky you're pretty," he grumbles.
"Mm?" I'm not even awake enough to remind him to keep two hands on the wheel.
But he makes no reply.
Flashback
"Sylvia? Sylvia Richards?" Miss Barnes, my English teacher, was calling. While everyone was chatting and setting up for class, I trudged over to her desk, and she peered at me over round, wire-rimmed spectacles. "Mr. Oldham would like to see you."
"Now?"
"He didn't specify a time in his note, so I suggest you go now and see what he would like."
I was grateful for an excuse to skip English class, even if it was to visit the principal. English in middle school was a lot worse than it had been in elementary school, and I had held a deep-seated hatred for Shakespeare since the moment I had caught sight of the opening lines of Hamlet. I had come to know the hallways to Mr. Oldham's office like the lines on my palm; it felt as if I ended up there at least once a week. I strolled in there as if I were entering my own bedroom.
"Oh, hello again, Sylvia," said the stooping white-haired secretary lady whose name I'd never bothered to remember. "You may take a seat. Mr. Oldham will be with you shortly."
I knew what to do. What did she think I was, retarded? I sank down onto one of the chairs, picking at the peeling paint on the armrest. There was a stack of books on the side table, all of them with titles such as Apathy: Causes, Symptoms, and Treatments or How to Raise a Healthy Teenager.
I heard the familiar whining creak of Mr. Oldham's office door "Good morning, Miss Richards," he said without meaning it. "Please come in." He waved me inside. The walls were plain and white like sheets of ice, and there was a small square window, but the shades were drawn. I sat, and the principal drew up a chair opposite me, his bald head shining with the light of his desk lamp.
"So, Miss Richards," he began, interlacing his fingers and twiddling his thumbs. "Last week we discussed your encounter with a couple of students at recess, and if I recall correctly you promised to change your habits, but your teachers have reported no visible improvement within the past week. It has come to my attention that you were involved in a fight with a group of girls in the hallway yesterday."
They'd made some wisecrack about the holes in my skirt looking like Swiss cheese, and I had clobbered one of them over the head with my history textbook. It hadn't been a mighty blow—the girl had gotten up right away—but it had been enough to send her Soc-y, sweater-clad friends into hysterics. I cocked my head. "And?"
"Don't get mouthy, Miss Richards."
My fingers itched to wrap themselves around the man's neck and strangle the snooty frown right off his pink face—or at least for a weed. Biting back a sneer, I returned his stare as if silently challenging him.
"I have been thinking," he droned on in his usual impassive manner, "that maybe your increase in violent behavior could be related to the passing of your mother." He looked at me expectantly, and when I offered no reply, continued, "When someone loses a loved one, they often become closed off from the world around them. I, and all of our staff and students, are terribly sorry for your loss. Please know that we're here for you, no matter what. But I would like to make it clear to you that our school will not tolerate aggressive behavior of any kind and that your education is still your utmost responsibility."
I had heard all of those words countless times before. But what he said next was new to my ears.
"I've decided to schedule you with a social worker. We can start with two meetings a week, and adjust the frequency and duration as necessary. How does that sound?"
It was then that I blew. It was then that all the sleepless nights, all the hours spent shaking in the attic while my old man tore up the kitchen, all the stinging slaps, all the curse words echoing in my ears, all of it came crashing down on top of me like a collapsing building, and there was nothing I could do, because I knew all that remained of my sanity had just shriveled up and died. "YOU STUPID IDIOT," I screamed, scrambling to my feet so fast my chair toppled over. "YOU DON'T KNOW WHAT IT'S LIKE! YOU DON'T! YOU THINK YOU DO, YOU THINK YOU CAN HELP, BUT YOU JUST CAN'T!" I grabbed hold of the first thing my eyes locked onto—a framed portrait of his smiling family—and hurled it blindly as hard as I could. "AND YOU NEVER WILL!" The thing left an angry black streak down the wall and lay shattered on the floor. "DON'T EVEN TRY, YOU IDIOT, DON'T EVEN TRY!" My lungs hurt. My voice broke. I kicked the door and it fell open, swinging from one hinge. I either ignored Mr. Oldham's shouts to come back, or I didn't hear them at all. All I knew was that I was running, no, sprinting, my legs pumping, blood rushing loud in my ears, my heart thundering so fast I thought for sure it would explode. I ran like I'd never run before. I didn't even know a body could run like this. I was going faster than the boys on the track team, faster than the cars on the street. The wind whipped in my face as if daring me to go faster, harder. I ran right past my house without so much as a glance. Tears and dust stung my eyes. I ran until my feet hurt and my lungs ached and my mouth was dry as a bone and sweat was dripping down my back. I ran until I couldn't.
And then I stopped, panting like a dog, my hands on my knees. Dimly I knew I shouldn't be walking around by myself in this part of town, but I was too dazed to care. All I wanted was to go to sleep and not wake up until things were better, until I could breathe again. But I didn't know how long that'd be, or if that morning would ever dawn at all. I slumped against the side of a building and, my legs shaking with fatigue, sank down to the asphalt and curled up in a tight little ball just like Momma had done the day before she died. Then came the tears. The ground blurred, and dreadful guttural sobs wracked my entire body. I bawled just like a baby.
I didn't know how much time had passed before I felt the hand. It could've been anywhere from a minute to an hour; my sense of time was long gone. But I felt it, a slight pressure on my back, a small reminder of another human presence. Recoiling defensively, I stared into the wide eyes of a brown-haired boy, maybe fourteen or fifteen years old, who was crouched by my side. Goddamn, he had the looks going for him. Why did he have to be the one to find me in such a state?
Sodapop Curtis. It was Soda.
We both started jabbering at the same time. "I'm sorry, I—" "I just couldn't—"
"You first," he said gently.
Out of fear that my voice would crack, I whispered. "Sorry, I didn't know you was here." Furiously, I wiped my eyes—but the floodgates had opened, and it was no use. In one final attempt to preserve my dignity, I buried my face in my hands. At least he couldn't see me. But... what use was my dignity now? "I-I'm never g-goin' to school again," I choked out. Little did I know, I was telling the truth.
Soda didn't seem to know what to say. "School's hard," he managed finally, eyes fixed on the ground.
"I'm s-sorry," I blubbered. "I didn't know anyone could see me." I didn't care anymore, but the fact that I was crying meant that I still did, and I hated myself for that.
"I work here."
Oh Lord, I hadn't even realized I was right behind the DX. Now, as I peered through the cracks between my fingers, I recognized the place: the gravel lot, the gas pumps, the tiny convenience store.
"I just couldn't stand seein' ya like this. I wanted to make sure you was alright. I can leave if ya want, I just... yeah." He stood up awkwardly, wiping his palms on his jeans.
"Hey, c-can you... ya know... k-keep quiet about this?" I stammered, not daring to look at him.
"Yeah, sure."
And he did.
I watched him lope away, his boots leaving a trail of dusty prints in the gravel. Suddenly, as if just remembering something, he turned around. "Hey, if ya need a walk home, just gimme a holler or somethin'. I'll be at the register inside." His tone was completely casual, as if he'd just met me at a movie or something. Then he disappeared around the corner of the building.
I stared after him for a long time. I didn't take him up on his offer, but he had asked, and that was enough.
Chapter 4 is on its way. Please leave a review :)