I may have fallen in love with her car first—a cream colored 1954 MG TF Convertible Roadster. Of course I didn’t know what kind of car it was at the time. I only knew that when I grew up, I wanted one just like it. And when I grew up, I wanted to be her. I wanted her ivory skin hands, her long sleeve t-shirt and puffy vest. I wanted her red hair that reflected gold in the sunlight. I wanted her awesome vintage sun glasses, her car, and her fluffy sheep dog that sat in the passenger seat smiling with his tongue flapped out. Most of all, I wanted her freedom.
Her image burned into my mind that day. It’s what I strive for in everyday life—perfected, carefree freedom. Four years I have attempted to live carefree, and failed. Eventually, I’ll get it right. And I’ll be just like her when I do.
Just like Ms. Lightheart.
***
Rainy continues to fiddle with her computer. “What? Did you say something?”
“You’re such a dork.” I laugh and throw a wad of crumpled paper at her.
She catches it one handed. “Yeah, but I’m a fast dork.”
Pounding rattles the front door and a man’s voice says, “Hey! Is someone in there?”
I freeze. Rainy mouths the words “Oh-my-God” and puts a finger to her lips.
Duh. Like I would say anything.
“Girls! I know you’re in there,” he shouts. “Open the door.”
Sweat pricks my top lip. I mouth, “Let’s go,” toward Rainy and point to the back exit. She nods in agreement. We gather our things and tip-toe to the sliding glass door.
Just as I reach for the handle, a tall man in black steps to the glass. He bears a knife in his hand and a menacing grimace on his face.
Dear Jesus, help us!
CHAPTER TWO
Pounding. Jacinda’s head pounds like her fists on the door. But the door ain’t opening. The fucking door needs to open to stop the pounding—the pounding on the door and in her head.
Darla’s stupid ugly roadster is parked in the driveway, the car that she hid in storage for years from her supplier. He’s locked away now and so her car is free. She’s got to be home. Why ain’t she opening the door?
Pound, pound, pound, pound, pound, pound, pound, pound, pound, pound, pound.
“Darla! Open the door!” Jacinda yells. “Please, please open the fucking door.”
Maybe if she kicks the door Darla will hear it. Kick, kick, kick.
Nothing.
“Darla! Darla!” Jacinda screams.
A fat guy with half an ounce of hair on his head emerges from the house across the street. His belly hangs out from the too-short-bathrobe that he didn’t bother to tie and his boxers scream Christmas stocking stuffer—bright red with green trees decorating his private parts.
Jacinda’s stomach spasms. She gives effort one last blast. “DARLA! I know you’re in there. Please. I just need one…” then slides down the door to sit on the cold cement and cries in her arms. “Please…”
“Hey!” Fat-man yells.
A line of sugar ants scurry alongside the door. They’ve found a crack in the seal to get into the house. “If only I could be a sugar ant.” Jacinda smashes the ants with her finger. “One ant, two ant, three ant, four ant, five ant—“
“Hey lady! Come here,” Fat-man says.
Oh God. Just leave me alone, you fuckin’ sicko perv.
“Fine. Ignore me. I don’t care. See if I help you.” He waits for a response. “I think I have what you need.” He stands in the middle of the street, scratching the globe hiding under his dingy wife-beater.
“You do?” Jacinda asks.
“Come on over here. I’ll hook you up.”
Hope.
She crawls up the wall to a standing position, then creeps across the damp patch of dandelions and brown lawn. “You’ve got crank?” she asks when close enough for no one else to hear. “Maybe just a quarter. That’s all.”
“Yeah, yeah…I got that.” Dead possum air escapes his mouth. He scratches his backside and turns his head to the left and then to the right. “Come on over.”
“Serious? Oh man. You’re a life saver. How much? I ain’t got no money but I could pay you back.”
He checks her out with his eyes and a juicy slug slithers over his lips. “Nah. We can take care of it right now. Come on…I’ll take care of ya.”
A boulder drives itself into Jacinda’s brain. Her eyes feel like exploding. “Whatever. Yeah, only if you really have it.” Anything. She’ll do it.
A rumble ripples through the dark clouds above, declaring to the world below rain is near.
“Come on.” He waddles back to his house.
Jacinda follows.
CHAPTER THREE
Pick up the pace. Fight through the pain, the burning, the aching. Breathe—quitting right now would be too easy and easy isn’t Evan’s thing.
Gritty mud flings onto Evan’s calves with every pound of his foot on the trail. His skin tingles cold and eyes water from the force of his body propelling forward through the frigid air. Tibialis Anterior burns as fascia pulls away from the bone, making this run that much more fun.
Training for this marathon has proven to be more difficult than he ever imagined. Pictures and articles in ‘Runner’s Magazine’ made it look so simple, but in reality, Evan hurts— his lungs, legs, feet, skin, knees, shins, shoulders, and…well, that’s it. That’s not too much to complain about. He shouldn’t be complaining at all. It’s a challenge, training to run a marathon, and he’ll see it to the end.
The Legacy Trail is one of his favorites. It wraps around Legacy Lake through forest and fields, creating a peaceful environment to indulge in nature. He runs it every Monday, Wednesday and Friday.
Rain pours constantly. It’s nice, though, keeping him cool.
The afternoon comes to an end. Fog slithers onto the lake, waking the evening life that ribbits and croaks and hoots. A blue heron stands idle on the edge of the lake, picturesque, while a large crane glides along the water, his long wings agitating the air in a muffled blow. Calming voices of the wild, along with the music of the rain on the treetops, take second to the determination of Evan’s shoes on the wet trail and his rhythmic breathing.
He passes the ten mile marker, weakening, but doesn’t stop. There’s about an hour left before he needs to leave, a perfect amount of time to finish the six miles with some time left over—slow up and save the energy. If only he had pasta instead of Mom’s green salad for lunch, he wouldn’t be counting the minutes.
His stomach feels nauseous. He tilts his head back, opens mouth, and lets the soggy air moisten his tongue, cold, wet, refreshing. Wash away the pain.
Think of something else. Think of— the pizza restaurant! Caleb showed him a picture of his date, Autumn. She is pretty, but who knows what kind of editing had been done to the picture before Rainy sent it to him. Something about her eyes, the deepness maybe, made him think of her as a caring person, a person who loves life, a person who loves people. If only he can keep his meddling mother away from her, maybe he could actually have a real date for once, and if things go well, maybe a girlfriend.
A sharp twist zings from his ankle up his leg. “Auugh.” He slows to a trot and then a walk, shaking it away. With all his energy spent, he sits down on a tree stump next to the trail.
The rain slows to a drizzle. A pair of teenage kids make out on the beach on the other side of the lake. From here, Evan can’t tell how old they are, but they can’t be any older than him. Watching from afar, the details are blurred, but he can imagine what’s happening, what they’re thinking. What Evan doesn’t know is how they’re feeling.
The boy’s hand is up her shirt, fondling, caressing. Their bodies grind together on the moss and mud. She doesn’t seem to care that her blond hair is caked with earth and that her shirt and pants are equally covered. They move like one, clothed physically, but seemingly naked to the world—exposed for the lust they hold.
Evan’s family doesn’t talk about those types of things.
So, when it happens, if it ever happens, it will all be new to him. New in the sense that he has never done it before—not so much new in his head.
The couple stands, holds hands, and disappears into the forest. The boy walks with a slight limp.
Evan takes a deep breath and washes the desire from his mind.
The rain stops. Silence fills the forest.
He runs.
CHAPTER FOUR
Of all the times in my life I have been scared this is probably close to one of the top three scariest—that I can remember anyway.
One of the first scariest times happened when I was seven. Jacinda had told Grams we were going bowling. Instead she left me alone in a dark alley while she met with a guy with long greasy hair and a lightning bolt tattoo on his left temple.
The night air still hadn’t cooled from the sweltering summer day. I remember the sharp smell of rotting garbage and urine. She said she would only be a minute. She left me behind a dumpster, counting the seconds until the longest minute of my life would be over. A rat scurried past, whipping its tail against my bare legs. I screamed and then cried when no one came to rescue me. Jacinda had told me to not move an inch, else someone might kidnap me. When the rat disappeared into the darkness, I kept on counting until I fell asleep on the pavement.
Another scary time had been when my grandpa lay in a hospital bed, dying from lung cancer. Gramps dying didn’t scare me. What scared me happened after he died. Grams sat at his side, holding his hand, while Jacinda paced the floor and mumbled under her breath, anxious. I sat in the far corner to witness his death from as far away as I could. He had been sedated because of the unbearable pain. His yellow skin clung to his bones, exposing his deepest skeletal features. The body that lay there, sleeping with labored breath, hadn’t been Gramps, but the skeleton from science lab, painted yellow.
His last breath came and went. The entire room grew silent, as if we were waiting for him to breathe again, except he never did. Gramps’ pale blue eyes somehow opened, his mouth fell agape, and his shell stared right at me.
The quickness of it frightened me the most. One second, Gramps had life, and another second he became nothing, a discarded empty box after a long journey. The box had wrinkles and tears and crumpled corners and writing and scribbles all over it, but no evidence of where it had traveled or what it had seen. The box that once meant and held everything now meant absolutely nothing in the span of a single second.
And now, this scary time, probably the scariest of them all, I’m about ready to pee myself.
The man smiles, but it isn’t a friendly smile. Dishonesty lingers on his lips—his eyes reveal a dark heart. He slides the glass door open. The broken floor crackles under his black cowboy boots.
“Mornin’ gals.” His voice is smooth, rich, like the coffee Grams drinks. “What’re ya’ll doing here?” He scans behind us with equally dark eyes, shifting right to left. “What? You don’t speak?”
“Sure we do. We’re just hangin’ out. What do you want?” Rainy says, calmer than I have ever seen her. “You’re that guy I’ve seen with my brother. Are you Ace?”
Figures. Rainy knows everyone. Even the creepy guys.
Ace smiles. “Yeah. Who’s your brother?”
Rainy pops her gum. “James. Dude, and what’s up with that dumb knife? Are you playing Rambo or something?”
I can’t believe she actually just said that.
Ace glances at the knife in his hand. “Oh!” His laugh exposes a mouth full of gleaming white teeth. At least we know he’s not a tweaker. “I forgot I had this.” He snaps the pocket knife closed, shoving it into the front of his black Levi’s. “No wonder you gals look like you just saw a ghost. Shoot, I’d be pretty scared too if some stranger walked in on me with a knife.
“I’ve seen you two sneakin’ ‘round here a few times in the past.” His eye twitches, or maybe it winks. “I’m just making sure you’re okay and ain’t doing stuff you ain’t supposed to.” A large hand glides through the shaggy mop of blond hair on his head, exposing diamond studs in both earlobes.
From the look on Rainy’s face, I can tell that she is admiring and probably daydreaming about his large hands. So typical of her.
“We’re fine,” I say. “Thank you for your concern. And if you don’t mind, we should probably be getting off to school now.” I scrunch my face and raise my eyebrows at Rainy, trying to get her attention. “We don’t want to be late for art class or anything.”
“You go to the high school down the street here? War-shington High?” He points to the far wall. “I can give you a ride if you want.”
I say, “It’s Washington High.”
“Yeah, that’s what I said, War-shington High. The one down the street.”
“That would be cool.” Rainy shrugs and looks at me with inquiring eyes.
“Nah, we can walk. It’s not that far.” I glare at her.
“Really? That’s too bad. See, I just finished pimpin-out my Charger and was gonna take it for a spin.”
Rainy’s eyes pretty much pop out of her head. “A Dodge Charger? Oh my God! That’s a sweet car, isn’t it? My brother used to want one.” She runs to the front door, swings it open, and screeches. “That’s awesome!” And out the door she goes. A flock of small birds on the lawn flutter into the air.
Oh, yay. I roll my eyes and sigh, pick up Rainy’s bag and follow her out the front door. “Rainy, we just can’t go for rides with strange guys we don’t know.”
Ace walks out of the house. Rainy jumps into the passenger seat with more excitement than a little girl who gets to ride a pony. “Get in Autumn. We’re going for a ride.”
I shake my head. “We don’t know him. I’m not going anywhere with a stranger.” No way, no how, and especially with a stranger that walked up to our hideout with a knife in his hand.
“Dude, Ace,” Rainy says. “This is my friend Autumn and I’m Rainy.”
“Oh, hey.” Ace opens the driver’s side door and slides into the seat. “You coming?” He looks back at me.
“Come on, Rainy. You’ve checked out the hotrod. Can we go to class now?” I wave for her to get out of the car. She isn’t having it though—the sparkle in her eyes worries me.
“What’s the huge deal?” she asks. “I swear the stick up your butt gets deeper each day. He’s just gonna drive us two frigging blocks.”
“Yeah, what’s the big deal?” Ace smirks.
I glare at Ace, and then tug Rainy out of the car. “Can I have a word with you?”
Rainy sighs. “Whatever. We’ll be right back, Ace.” She flashes a cheesy-smile and waves to him before we walk into the doorway of the pit.
I step close to Rainy. “You don’t know what he really has planned. Maybe he’ll drive by the school, then what? What if he’s got a gun or he takes that knife of his and shoves it into your neck? Are you going to scream for help? Do you think anyone will care in this part of town?”
“Chill out. We’re just going for a ride. You do what you want, but I’m going.”
A loud horn calls for Rainy. She pulls her computer bag off my shoulder and runs out the door.
I run after her. “Fine! You want to risk your life, you don’t need my permission. I’m not going to stop you.”
“Whatever. I’ll text you after school about the date.” She jumps into the car. “I guess she ain’t coming. You gonna show me how fast this rig can go or what?”
The engine revs before the car lurches backward, out of the driveway. The tires squeal, sending smoke into the air, then the car zooms down the single lane road toward the school.
Great, just what we need: more pollution. I watch them until the car disappears down the road.
***
Jacinda gave me up when I was two, about the time when she got real bad. Well, Grams and Gramps forced her to by threatening to cut her financial support if she didn’t, or so I’ve gathered from the brief conversations with Jacinda since then. We never had very personal chats, just
spats and shouts here and there. She only comes around when she’s coming down.
It’s not a pretty sight, usually violent. Not toward me, of course. I stay in my room. I called the police once when it looked like she was going to hit Gramps. She never did and left before the police got there.
I don’t know what I’d do if she ever got violent with me. Most of the time, I hate her so much that I think I might punch her. Other times, I just miss her. Well, I don’t think it can be considered as missing her since I don’t know her. Maybe I miss the idea of having a mom—a real mom. Maybe someday she’ll get clean and want me to live with her. Not that I would, but maybe.
The overcast sky renders the daylight gray. A faint breeze blows newspaper and food wrappers along the single lane road with small forlorn houses begging for love.
As I approach the school parking lot, a familiar noise blows toward me, similar to only one other car that I’ve heard before.
A cream colored convertible roadster zips down the road, bringing with it a rush of optimism. Hope for a brighter future, for any future at all, for wealth and style, for beauty, and for an untroubled life. Because if Ms. Lightheart can have it, so can I.
A sign that there is more out there in the world than drug-addicted mothers and dead grandfathers and uncaring best friends, and that I won’t be stuck eating breakfast with the same ladies, chain smoking and sipping coffee every single morning.
Most importantly, it’s a sign affirming my decision not to get into that muscle car with that guy. If I did, this glimmer of light wouldn’t have been given to me.
The car passes. Inside sits the same woman that has been in my dreams for the past four years. A little older, hair a bit shorter, different clothing (a beige windbreaker), and no dog, but she’s the same free spirit.
Dream Smashers Page 2