by Amy Reed
I think, What would Stella do?
I stop at a corner store. I park Mom’s Prius behind a shiny purple low-rider with giant tires. I walk straight to the counter and ask for rolling papers and a lighter. The man behind the bulletproof glass barely even looks at me. His eyes are glued to the fuzzy TV in the corner. He hands me my purchases through the hole in the glass. I hand him money. That is all. Easy-peasy.
I am giddy as I get back into the car with the contraband in my pocket. But as I put my seat belt on, I realize how ridiculous this is. I bought a lighter and rolling papers. Big deal. I don’t even know if that’s illegal. And I don’t think I even know how to work a lighter.
I keep driving, under the BART tracks and freeway, to where civilization stops and is replaced by silent warehouses and giant parking lots full of semitrucks and shipping containers. The giant Port of Oakland cranes tower in the distance and there is no one, not a single soul, anywhere.
I realize this is exactly where I want to be—away from people. Away from anyone who thinks they know me. I park in an almost empty lot next to the entrance to the Bay Bridge trail. I take out my phone and review a YouTube video about how to roll a joint.
If Stella were here, she would laugh her ass off.
After many tries and several soggy, ripped rolling papers, I manage to create something that looks reasonably enough like a joint. I can’t figure out how to get a flame out of the lighter until my thumb is sore and scraped raw from trying. I light the joint and inhale like I remember, but I only get a sour taste of soggy smoke before the thing goes out. It is too drenched with my spit to stay lit. I try a few more times until I’ve accomplished a couple of good, crackling pulls, but I still don’t know if I’ve done it right. More smoke fills the car than seems to have made it into my lungs.
I feel embarrassed even though no one can see me. I don’t feel stoned, I feel stupid.
I can’t stand to sit in the car with myself any longer. I’m annoyed by my own company. So I pull the hood of my raincoat tight around my head and get out of the car. It’s windy, wet, and cold out here by the water, and there are no bikers or walkers anywhere on the trail. But it’s better than being inside with myself. Better than being with other people who want me to be something I’m not.
I inch along the paved trail. The world sounds different out here, empty. There are no voices, just cars traveling fast on the freeway above my head. Just my cane clunking along the pavement. I walk past chain-link fences guarding vacant lots. I walk past old sun-bleached warehouses with peeling paint and broken windows.
I don’t know how far I go before I realize I’m really, really high. Ten minutes, maybe. All of a sudden my feet feel heavy and I need to sit down, but everything around me is wet and dirty and exposed. The freeway is too close and the cars sound too fast. I am too alone. This is the kind of place girls like me get lost and are never found again.
I turn around to return to the car, when I notice a set of stairs that go underground. It’s the only place I can see that might be dry, and I can’t imagine walking any more right now. I feel dizzy. I smoked too much. All I want is a cave. A dark, dry place to catch my breath. A place to hide.
I make my way down the stairs slowly, my bad leg threatening to pull me down. I pass an orange cone and a sign that says TUNNEL CLOSED. I’m out of breath when I reach the bottom; the muscles in my arm burn from holding so much of my weight with the cane. Black stenciled letters on the white painted wall read ADMIN BLDG, TOLL PLAZA, BUS STOP with an arrow pointing the only direction there is to go. I hear my breaths echo as I stare into the concrete tunnel, just wide enough for three people to pass through side by side. Pale light shines in from outside and illuminates enough to tell me I’d need a flashlight to go any farther. Any other time, I’d be terrified. I’m aware of this, aware that the logic of this moment is completely backward, that I am crazy for favoring this place over a short walk to return to the safety of my car.
The sounds of my cane clacking and the padding of my feet bounce off the walls. As I make my way deeper into the tunnel, I can hear the muted traffic of the freeway above me, so many tons of steel overhead. It is strangely comforting, like some urban version of being inside the womb—hard, cold, dirty, and possibly dangerous, but tight and close and full of white noise just the same.
I find the place where the light almost ends, where there is barely enough to see my hand in front of my face, barely enough to see proof that I still exist. I am almost in the darkness. I am almost completely underground. I am somewhere no one can find me.
The tunnel’s so loud with the pulsing of the freeway that I don’t hear the footsteps. I don’t see the flashlight. I don’t see the man coming out of the shadows.
And then it is too late. He is too close. His face is clouded by cigarette smoke. He is getting closer.
Fear sobers me, makes my senses sharp. But I forget I am lame. I forget about my leg and my cane, and I try to run. My good leg moves as it should, but the other is too slow, the stride too short, and I trip. I fall. My palms scrape as I collapse onto the concrete. The cars thunder overhead, the tunnel is so narrow, and the man is running, he’s coming fast. He is here, in the dark, and I am gone.
“Hey!” the man says. His voice is young. I try to crawl. Dirt grinds into the wounds in my hands. I am getting nowhere.
“Hey, wait,” he says. I should scream, but nothing comes out. This is the part of the nightmare where I’m supposed to wake up. Before the real pain comes. But I am still here. I will not wake up from this.
I close my eyes. I pull my legs to my chest. The darkness of the world swirls around me and I wait for it to suck me in.
“Oh my god, I am so sorry,” the voice says. It does not sound like the voice of a killer. But I still can’t open my eyes.
“Shit, you’re really freaking out.” The voice gets closer. He is kneeling down next to me. I flinch and pull away.
“I am such an asshole. I should have said something when I saw you so you’d know I was there. Usually this place is super well-lit, but the lights are all out for some reason.”
Silence. I’m supposed to say something. But I’m still a ball. Still blind. Still shaking.
“Oh, man,” he sighs. “I’m going to hang out here until I know you’re all right. Is that okay? I mean, I can’t really just leave you here like this, right?”
I have no choice but to look up.
I blink and the smoke clears and I see quite possibly the hottest guy I have ever seen in my life.
He smiles. “Hi,” he says.
“Hi?” I croak. My throat is sandpaper.
“Are you okay?”
I can’t say anything. I don’t know the answer.
“This is me,” he says, shining the flashlight to illuminate his face. “See? I’m a nice guy.” It’s hard to tell in the weird lighting, but I don’t think he’s lying. He looks like he’s around my age, with light brown skin and short dreadlocks. His eyes are greenish-gray with eyelashes that go on forever. They are deep eyes, kind eyes. They are eyes you want to have see inside you.
I sit up and take a deep breath. I feel the cold ground solid beneath me. The knife blades of fear in my chest are replaced by something slightly less sharp. His shoulder is inches away from mine. I feel a warmness radiate from where we almost touch. I think I just went from fearing for my life to crushing on a stranger in ten seconds.
He jumps up, stubs out his cigarette, and offers me his hand. “I think you’re going to be okay.”
I take his hand and let him help pull me up. I’m still a little dizzy and have to hold on to the wall for support. “Oh, here,” he says, bending over to retrieve my cane from the ground. He hands it to me like it’s something as normal as a purse or a grocery bag, with none of the pity I see in everybody else’s eyes.
“Thanks,” I say.
“I’m sorry I scared you.”
“I wasn’t scared. You just surprised me, that’s all.”
He
laughs. “Okay, tough guy.”
His laugh immediately puts me at ease. The tunnel lightens. The heaviness of the weed I smoked turns to air, and now I know why it’s called getting high. I am floating. I can’t even remember being scared.
“What are you doing down here?” I say. “Do you carry a flashlight with you all the time?” My voice is strong. Am I flirting?
“As a matter of fact, I do keep a flashlight in my car in case of emergency, along with a first-aid kit and blankets. You never know when you’re going to need a Band-Aid or an emergency nap.” I notice his jacket is some kind of neon green vintage Windbreaker, with a logo for El Dorado Bowling Club on one side and ALFONSE etched in pink cursive on the other. I can’t believe I was ever scared of this guy.
“And I could ask you the same thing,” he continues. “An unlit tunnel under the freeway is not exactly the safest place. What are you doing down here?”
What should I say? What’s the right answer? What’s the witty thing to say? What’s the thing that will make him like me?
No. Stop it. I’m sick of caring what everyone thinks. I’m sick of trying to make everyone happy. What if I just told the truth? What if I just showed him exactly who I am?
What would Stella do?
“I just wanted to get away from people,” I say.
“Yeah, me too. People can really suck sometimes.”
“Yes, they can.”
“Guess we didn’t find what we were looking for.” He grins. I could melt in that grin. We hold eye contact for what seems like forever.
The combination of pot, adrenaline from almost getting murdered, and hanging out in the shadows with a cute boy makes me giddy. I am suddenly fearless. “Can I have a cigarette?” I say. I have never smoked a cigarette in my life.
He raises his eyebrows as he pulls a pack from his back pocket and offers it to me. I pull out a cigarette and place it between my lips. “Who are you?” he says as he lights it for me.
I inhale and cough like the amateur I am. I inhale again and force myself to keep the smoke in. I feel the poison enter my lungs. I welcome the sting. I fight my body’s instinct to cough, to push the poison out. I smile at the ridiculousness of a cancer survivor smoking cigarettes. I am happy to be ridiculous.
I reach out my hand. “Evie Whinsett. Nice to meet you. Is your name really Alfonse?”
“I wish. That’s just my alter-ego. My real name is Marcus Lyon.” We shake for much longer than necessary.
“Well, Miss Evie Whinsett, I was about to head back to the parking lot. Do you want to walk with me, or are you staying here to see if any other creepy guys come out of the shadows?”
“One is probably enough for today.”
We start walking. I am strangely not embarrassed by my cane. He doesn’t even seem to notice it. He doesn’t look at me with the patronizing stare of everyone who thinks I’m fragile. He offers me his arm when we get to the stairs and, without thinking, I take it. I let him help me. But with him, it doesn’t feel like I’m surrendering. His help doesn’t come with any baggage or expectations.
It has stopped raining. The world outside the tunnel is still empty and gray, except now Marcus is in it.
We walk without talking. I like the silence between us. I like not feeling pressured to fill it. I like that he keeps a flashlight in his car for emergencies. I like that he called me tough.
There are only two cars in the parking lot—my mom’s Prius and an old, banged-up gold Mercedes station wagon.
“That’s Bubbles,” Marcus says.
“You named your car Bubbles?”
“My brother named her, actually. I inherited her from him. But she’s the color of champagne and has an excellent disposition, so yeah, Bubbles. Isn’t she beautiful?”
“She’s . . . unique.”
“Which is the best kind of beauty, don’t you think?”
“It’s the only kind, really.”
Silence consumes us. This is the time we part. This is the time we say good-bye and then never see each other again.
“Well, bye,” he says. “Stay out of tunnels with broken lights.”
What would Stella do?
I am bold. I am a girl who is fearless.
“Wait!” I say as he turns to walk away. He turns back around and I say, “Would it be weird if I asked you for your number?”
His lips break into a grin. “Not weird at all.”
I pull out my phone. He tells me his number and I type it in. I text: This is the girl you found in the dark. “Now you have mine, too,” I say.
“All right, then,” he says. Somehow I stay standing as I melt into his eyes. “Until later, Evie Whinsett.”
“So long, Marcus Lyon.”
He walks to his car on the other side of the parking lot as I get into mine. We meet head-on as I turn to exit. Before he passes me, Marcus flashes his high beams, catching me in the light, and rolls down his window. I can hear him yell, “You’re a star!” I’m suspended in his high beams, glowing, all lit up. Then he drives away, taking the light with him.
For a moment, I am blind as my eyes adjust.
“Nice job, Stella,” I whisper to the darkness.
nineteen.
IT’S FRIDAY NIGHT AND I’M SITTING AT A TABLE WITH WILL AT “our” restaurant. For the last two years, whenever I’ve been out of the hospital and well enough to eat, we’ve come here at least once a month. I used to think it was romantic, going to the same place all the time, ordering the lamb kabobs for him and the veggie combo plate for me and switching halfway through. But now it seems boring, like we’re an old married couple who’s been together for fifty years. And if we’re going to have an “our” place, shouldn’t it be somewhere special and intimate, a place no one knows about, somewhere we discovered together? The food here is good and all, but it’s big, loud, crowded, and kind of a Bay Area mini-chain. I’m pretty sure they premake everything at a central location and assemble it at each restaurant when it gets ordered.
The waitress comes to take our order and Will orders the same thing he always gets. I order something new.
“You’ve never gotten that before,” he says when the waitress leaves. He looks concerned, like I’ve just told him I feel sick.
“I feel like trying something different,” I say, but I can tell he’s still worried. It’s such a small thing, but it seems like part of something bigger, proof that Will refuses to accept that I’ve changed, that I’m not the same Evie he fell in love with.
He reaches across the table and takes my hand in his. The firm grip I used to love now seems crushing. “You seem distant tonight,” he says. Maybe it’s the three pills I took before he picked me up. Maybe it’s because I don’t really want to be here. Maybe it’s because I can’t stop thinking about Marcus.
“I’m sorry,” I say, and I truly am. I should be better to him. I should love him more. I should love him as much as I used to.
“It’s okay,” he says, and beams, always so forgiving. “You’re going through a lot. It must be so hard adjusting back to normal life.”
“It is.”
“I want to help you. I want to make it easier for you.”
“I don’t know if it’s something you can fix, Will.”
He shakes his head like he thinks I’m silly. Of course he can fix it. He’s Will Johnson, boyfriend extraordinaire. “I have a surprise for you,” he says. I half expect him to pull out more red roses. “I quit baseball. I can be with you more now. I can take care of you.”
Oh my god.
“No, Will. You can’t do that.”
Our food arrives. The skin on my pomegranate chicken is brown and gelatinous with sauce. I am so not hungry.
“It’s okay, Evie. Baseball was never really my sport, anyway. It was just something to do in the spring when football’s over. I’d rather be with you.”
“But I have physical therapy after school all the time.”
“I thought it was over now.”
“My ap
pointments with the therapist are over, but I still have to do it on my own.” This is only partially a lie.
“I can come to the pool with you. I can help.”
“Will, I don’t think—”
“Let’s stop talking about it, okay?” he says with that same confident grin, the one I used to find so comforting, but now it strikes me as condescending. “Let’s just enjoy our dinner. We can talk about it later.”
I don’t say much through the rest of dinner. Will doesn’t even seem to notice. He fills the silence with updates on movies he’s seen, gossip about people at school, other things I’m having a hard time caring about. When he puts his arm around me as we walk to his car, I am startled by a surge of anger. It starts in the pit of my stomach and burns all the way up into my eyes. I have to remind myself that this is Will. This is my boyfriend. This is the guy I’m supposed to be in love with.
“Want some ice cream?” he says as we approach the block-long line of young couples waiting for the overrated Berkeley artisan ice-cream shop that’s not nearly as good as my favorite, Tara’s, just down the street in Oakland. I am usually proud to be part of one of these pretty, wholesome couples. But not tonight. Tonight I feel like an imposter.
“Let’s just go to your place,” I say. “Your folks still do that thing Friday nights?”
“Sure.” He smiles sweetly. “Okay, honey.”
Before I got sick, and during my periodic windows of recovery, Friday night was our special night. Will’s parents have some weekly Christian mingle thing they do at church, so Will and I would have the house to ourselves for three hours while they drank decaf coffee and ate stale cookies. I couldn’t wait to run up to his room and spend the night in his arms.
But when we get there, he leads me to the living room and asks what kind of movie I want to watch.