The woman sighs, running a hand down her face. She needed a break.
Depositing her palette on a surface, she fled inside the house where there was A/C and food. It was frustrating, graduating college with a degree and being unable to get employment from it. By 25, she thought she'd have her own apartment, her own car, and, most importantly, a place to belong.
She didn't have those things, though. Just a useless piece of paper and the same room she slept in since she was a toddler. She never thought chasing her dreams would mean living at home and being in debt for several years.
But to Margaret Witwicky, it was all worth it to be able to express herself, to share her art with the world. Splashing water on her face did little to wash away the ultramarine stain on her cheek. She was only taking a short break from critiquing her current piece, washing up and finishing her trip to the restroom.
She was a painter, an aspiring one at least. Hopping from job to job wasn't what she wanted for the rest of her life. She was currently unemployed, but she told everyone she was in between jobs as though she had something lined up, but she didn't. She'd just interview at wherever was hiring when she ran out of her slim savings. Her parents put her up in her old room after college, and nothing had changed. It was exactly how she left it, though that wasn't really her style anymore.
Next on the agenda was raiding the fridge. She picked out a blueberry yogurt from the back, grabbing a spoon from the drawer to eat it with. The round fruits were squished under her teeth, flavor bursting out. Savoring the last bite, she tossed away the disposable container. Nothing could ruin the feeling of relaxing after a long period of standing at the easel.
Harsh footsteps thudded down the stairs. She was wrong. Nothing except her little brother could ruin it.
"What's the rush?" She said, uncapping a bottle of water and leaning her hip on the counter. She sipped it slowly.
"Dad bought me that car we'd been talking about." Sam smiled, all teeth, and rubbed his hands together before patting them on his jeans. "I'm taking it to a party."
Her brows shot up, a look of confusion dropping over her features. "Whoa, okay. You get a jalopy and now all of a sudden you're Mr. Cool Guy?"
He shot her a dirty look, hurrying out the front door and taking a short cut through the lawn. "It's not a jalopy. You'll eat those words, Midge" he said, letting the front door swing shut behind him. She watched as their dad shook his head, spiking his trowel into the soil. She'd better get out there before they start arguing again. Sam walked from your mother over to a faded yellow Camaro that was new to the driveway. Black racing stripes adorn its length, a large spot of rust spoiling the paint job by the wheel well.
"Never thought I'd see you driving a car like this, little brother," she said, poking him in the ribs lightly while he opens the door.
"Uh, what do you mean?" Sam squinted at his sister, the Sun behind her threatening to blind him. He looked up at her from his place in the driver's seat of his little yellow vehicle, fingers fiddling with the steering wheel. "L-like what?"
"You know. Sexy." She raised an eyebrow and shimmied her shoulders, making him scoff. "Well. Have fun."
Their mother yells out, "I want you home at 11 o'clock!" Margaret turned, leaving him behind with her parents, but she couldn't disappear fast enough. Ron caught her in his line of sight, zeroing in on her relaxed figure. He loved giving work to those who appeared not to be busy.
He rolled his eyes, but acquiesced. "Yeah, all right!"
"Sweetie, go with your brother," her father declares, waving the trowel over his should at her. "Make sure he's home by 11."
"What? Dad!" She pouted, her arms going limp at her sides, only just preventing herself from stomping her foot. She had plans to finish her painting tonight. "Why do I have to go?" Sam didn't look any more enthused than she was. Her dad's non-answer and the way he avoided her gaze told her he wasn't going to be questioned on this.
Her night off was taken out behind the shed and shot, so to speak, so she supposed she could try to have fun.
Maybe she'd be pleasantly surprised. A girl could dream.
Looking down at herself, she figured the faded denim shorts and old, oversized, cropped T-shirt were good enough for a high school hangout. The green converse on her feet had seen her through thick and thin, and her Razar flip phone was secured in her back pocket. She was ready, so she strolled back over to the passenger's side and crept inside. It was roomier than it looked, but maybe that was just her small frame coming into play.
"And, please, for the love of God, drive safely!" She heard Judy's shrill voice through the window and waved at her when the car rumbled to a start, puffing black smoke out of its muffler. It peeled off, and she prayed they'd make it to their destination in one piece.
His hand waves at her short, a splotch or two of wet paint close to leaving marks on the leather. "Hey, watch the paint! Jeez."
She caught his eyes when he looked over to the passenger seat. "I'm sorry, okay? I'll clean it later. Promise." The yellow muscle car was piloted to Miles' house by her little brother, though he gave her the stink eye all along the way.
Miles was his best friend. Even though the boy has had an uncomfortable crush on her for over a decade, she couldn't hate him. He meant well, and he was going through hormone hell, also known as puberty. She can't blame him for reacting to it.
"Hey, Midge." He used her nickname when she got out and folded the front seat forward, climbing into the back. She didn't give him much of a response, flashing him a peace sign in greeting. The ride was winding and slow, but felt too fast with the way Sam took the curves. Gripping tightly to the fabric belt over her chest, she almost felt like it was getting tighter. Hopefully her brother would relax his foot on the pedal next time.
Her brother's best friend can't stop looking at her in the mirror. Eventually he opens his mouth, unable to take the quietude any longer. "Dude, are you sure we're invited to this party?"
They finally broke through the tree line and against the horizon she spotted dozens of young couples and groups of teens spread out on the lake and shore. Sam hit the breaks a little late into the turn and the tires squealed. "Of course, Miles. It's a lake. Public property."
Midge rolled her eyes, suppressing a scoff. "I don't think that's how it works, doofus."
He didn't seem to be listening, but rather panicking over some floozy from his school. "Oh my God. Oh my God, dude. Mikaela's here."
She tuned the conversation out, caring little about her brother's love life. It was always Mikaela this and Mikaela that. Teenage boys were gross.
They both got out, leaving her alone in the car. She preferred it that way. Not that she hated her brother, but they didn't have all that much in common when it came to hobbies and pastimes. They did both like classic cars, which was something they bonded over throughout the years. Midge simply tended to like her own company better. It was easier to focus without people around.
Her sketchbook helped her pass the time. For a few minutes she doodled an old Camaro with racing stripes, but it wasn't very detailed. She couldn't remember all of the specifics, so she winged it. She's startled out of her intense focus on the pad in her hands by the melodic pipes of Thurston Harris serenading her.
"Little bitty pretty one, come on and talk-a to me."
At first, she's only concerned with what the hell kind of car her dad bought Sam. Putting the sketchbook back in her pocket and the pencil in her hair, she leaned forward over the center console and peered closely at the radio.
It turned itself off after just one line, and she almost thought it meant something, but that's ridiculous. It was strange, but nothing big. The engine runs, the brakes stop the car, and it doesn't have any gigantic holes in it. That makes it a working machine in her opinion.
"Probably nothing," she said to herself, sinking back into her seat. She's disturbed by someone hurtling through the open window. That someone was Miles. He pulled himself the rest of the way into the seat and she tried to ignore the way he kept looking back at her to gauge her reaction. They sat in silence, waiting for Sam to join them.
The radio buzzed again, though neither had touched it, an old rock ballad bursting out of the speakers.
"Who's gonna drive you home, tonight?" the audio sung, filling the car with soft tunes.
"Hey, man, what's wrong with your radio?" Midge seconded Miles' inquiry, but they didn't receive any answers.
Instead, Sam longingly gazed at Mikaela in her strip of a skirt walking down the road ahead. "I'm gonna drive her home," he mumbled, leaning on the hood.
"What?" Miles cried, shocked. "She's an evil jock concubine, man. Let her hitchhike."
"She lives ten miles from here, okay? It's my only chance," Sam practically begs.
Of all her favorite ways to pass the time, witnessing stupidity wasn't one of them. She had had it with these adolescents.
Midge just wanted them to both shut up so she could think, but she was stuck here, listening to them bicker about who sits where and what's a party foul. The girl was tired, so when they finally drive off, she felt relieved. She was supposed to be the responsible one, but only for her brother. Miles wasn't her responsibility. and he really could walk; his house was close.
They picked up Mikaela, Sam developing a case of foot-in-mouth syndrome when in the presence of a beautiful girl, which I'll admit. She was a real knockout and way out of his league. She zones out, trying not to listen to the gag-worthy flirting.
"Wow." Midge broke her silence, but only after Mikaela had vanished into her house. Her warm, brown eyes trail from the raised patio back down to her brother. "That was so awkward."
"Yep. I noticed." Sam sighed, running his hands through his hair. "That was a stupid line."
She raised a brow at him, a playful smile gracing her lips. "'There's more than meets the eye with you?' Yeah, it was." She crawls up to the front seat, making sure not to step on anything important, as Sam puts the car in reverse. "Let's go home, stud, before you make a bigger fool of yourself."
He sighed, but said nothing else as he put the car in reverse and backed out of the driveway. He drove us home and when we stepped inside it was pitch black outside. It must've been almost 11pm. Midge clomped up the stairs, yawning into her hand.
The next morning, she woke up later than is normal, on account of her late night. She was usually up before anyone, making coffee and doing yoga in the dewy morning air, but today she was stumbling down the steps in her pajamas shortly after 7:00, rubbing the sleep out of her eyes. Sam still seemed to be in his room, but she spotted her mother's figure out in the garden, and her father's hunched back at the kitchen island.
"Hey, Margaret." He slowly sipped his coffee, eyes scanning the same line of the newspaper over and over again. He threw it down, inhaling a long, drawn-out breath.
She poured herself a cup, wondering aloud, "You look tired. Something happen?" Stuffing two frozen waffles in the toaster, she waited for them to heat.
"I had to pick up your brother from jail this morning."
She gasped, looking worriedly at Ron. "No. Samuel Witwicky? Arrested?" The dark liquid sloshed as she stashed the carafe back on its base and turned around quickly. "Gosh. Really?"
He nodded somberly, his hands castled in front of him on the surface. "I just don't get it. We never had any problems with you. Where did we go wrong with him?"
"I don't know, Dad. That's your job to figure that out, not mine." She grabbed the waffles as they popped up and left with them. "Thanks for making coffee."
"You're welcome!" he called after her as she rushed back upstairs to get dressed for the day. By which she really meant toss on a faded bikini and some old daisy dukes with a few gaping holes in them. She planned on washing her little brother's car today before she got covered in paint today.
She shook off the residual sleepiness, setting out toward the garage. She opened the rolling door, grabbing a bucket and sponge from the shelf, along with a bottle of soap from inside. Water from the hose filled it quickly on full blast, the suds forming a white foam on top. She dropped in the sponge and carried the whole thing out with her, a drying rag tucked in her back pocket.
The car seemed to glint in the early sunlight, a living sort of sheen that moved organically. She trotted herself out to the driveway, setting the pail down and dragging out the hose.
First, she swept over it with a pass of the hose. She didn't worry about getting herself a little wet on the moderately heated morning. The car was parked in the shade, close to the grass of Dad's prized lawn, and the concrete was cool on her bare feet. So then why was the car hot to the touch when she leaned over to pop up the wipers.
There's a slight warmth left on the top of her chest and her stomach. "Whoa, the hood is hot. Did somebody drive you today?" She wrung out the sponge, not sure why she was talking to a car of all things. She chalked it up to temporary insanity and tried to forget about it.