by Shawn Bartek
He chortled uncomfortably, and then attempted to backtrack, "You know, folks, once in a while, we like to push buttons for entertainment’s sakes and of course we respect our law enforcement officers around here. They are our heroes and I may have been out of line.”
* * *
Almost two hours had passed from the time they exited the Big Sky High’s parking lot. The conversation in the car devolved mostly into a chorus of aggravation from Shane:
“What the fuck does that guy think he’s doing?”
“Oh. My. God. How much longer are we gonna be stuck here?”
“Ami, you need to fix your A/C. Sweating my ass off back here.”
“Holy shit, that guy just clipped that other guy’s wheel.”
“Go a little faster, Ami. Move the car just a little right. I lost track of Jodi and Leslie.”
“Can’t we just go straight to your house, Scott? Your sister will be fine, Ami.”
They were all becoming sticky from the late-afternoon heat. The slight wind coming in from the east was too weak to cool everyone down, but it was plenty capable of carrying chemical fumes through Hellgate Canyon and trapping the gaseous clouds in the Missoula Valley.
Marc was impressed with himself. He thought for sure that a situation like this would give him a freak-out. But his hands were steady. Steady as stone.
No, it’s just things like asking out a girl out that really gives me the freaks, he thought, Screw you, fight-or-flight. You got your wires mixed up.
The more reflective he got, the more he realized the anxiety meter was rating at nearly zero. His heart raced when they had made the unplanned left, but it still didn’t fit the anxiety mold. Although he tried to deny it to himself, there was actually something— fun about this.
The traffic improved from a parking lot to stop-and-go. At one point, the speedometer hit thirty. Marc saw that Ami was loosening up; her shoulders now rested against her seat.
They were about a half mile from Mullan Road, which had now become the new point of total commitment. It was Dana or Scott’s house. The explicit conditions of Ami and Scott’s agreement was that Ami needed one hundred percent confirmation that Dana was okay and at this point, confirmation was at zero percent.
“So you’re running out of time to get 9-1-1 on the phone,” Ami said, “Better pray for a miracle in the next half mile.”
“Gimmie that shit,” Shane took Scott’s cell phone and took over dialing duty.
Ami leaned over and whispered to Marc, “Wouldn’t this have been a better ride if it were just the two of us?”
Marc’s anxiety meter in his chest suddenly went to fifteen percent and he again marveled at the irrationality of his body’s physiology.
“It can’t last forever, right?” Marc said.
Shane got pissed when he heard the busy signal for the fifth time and flung the phone at Marc. It bounced off the back of his head and fell behind his back.
“Hey, dicknose,” Ami turned around and said to him, “I am seriously going to let you the fuck out if you don’t stop being the biggest, whiny douche in the world.”
Instead of a snarky retort, Shane’s face filled with genuine panic and he pointed behind her.
Ami turned around to see the leading car's tail lights flaming bright red in front of her. She pounded the brakes. The tires skidded along the hot cement. Inertia sent Shane and Scott forward, neither of them belted. The opposing force of the front seats met them, plowing their faces into the head rests. Marc’s seat was pushed forward and he was clotheslined by the seatbelt.
Once the squealing was over, everyone took inventory. Just some headache material and elevated heartbeats. The Festiva was an inch from the Chevy Cavalier in front of them.
Ami watched the Cavalier pull away, and said, “Shit, sorry guys—”
An engine roar came from behind.
The Dodge truck that had been so coolly following them collided again with the back of Ami's car. Fragments of safety glass from the rear window filled the air. The truck had struck them off-center; the Festiva swerved right, popped over the curb and onto the sidewalk. The guardrail came at them fast and their car came to an abrupt stop. Marc’s seatbelt restrained him from catapulting through the windshield, but it wasn't enough to protect his head from smacking on the glass. Scott and Shane were now plowed by the backseat; their necks whipped backward.
After the steering wheel came at her, the lights went out on Ami.
Chapter VII
She was in the detention center again, staring at the black phone in front of her.
Her hands trembled as she picked it up and dialed her home phone. The phone rang four times and her father picked up.
“Hello?” he said, barely back to the lucid stage. It was two in the morning.
“Dad,” Ami said, her throat constricted, “I’m in trouble.”
“What happened?” his voice snapped alive.
“I know you’re going to be mad,” she said.
“What happened, Ami?” he said.
Ami played with her coat zipper, “I screwed up. I had a couple of drinks and I’m in jail.”
Silence on the other end for a painful amount of time, then her dad said, “What else did you do? How did a couple of drinks put you into jail?”
“Um, Amber was driving because she was sober and we were at a party and just left and I took a couple of Twisted Teas along when we left and then Amber got pulled over. The light was totally still yellow, by the way.”
Her dad’s voice was so low, “Why you were….why did you have…? Why were you two even out driving? The roads are terrible tonight, you could have been…God damn it.”
“I’m sorry, Dad,” Ami said, “I wasn’t even drinking at first, I had no plans to drink tonight. But then…Scott broke up with me at this party and I just lost control.”
Her dad’s voice was still so low. He exhaled through teeth that sounded gritted, “I empathize with you on that and maybe at some point we can have a heart-to-heart, but that is not an excuse to me right now.”
Ami could barely hold in her tears, “Can you come get me?”
“Yes,” her dad said and hung up.
Chapter VIII
“Don’t fucking go...” Ami whispered in an exhale as her eyes fluttered open. The Festiva’s steering wheel stared at her.
“Oh thank you," Marc said, taking her hand into his, “Oh man, I’m glad you’re awake. This is…suckass.” His hands were shaking.
They sat in the Festiva, now shoved to the side of Reserve Street and hugging the rusted barrier. Cars continued to stream by them as if nothing was happening.
“I’m sorry. I guess I stopped too fast,” she looked confusedly out the front of the windshield and watched the cars sailing around them, “That truck should have had enough time to stop.”
Shane answered from the back, “No, that motherfucking Dodge rammed us.” He dusted off the safety glass encrusting his pants, “Rammed us. No tire squeals, no way he hit the brakes.”
“Where’s my phone?” Scott said, pushing safety glass back onto Shane’s pants.
“Maybe you shouldn’t have been pissing him off,” Marc said.
“So this is my fault now?” Shane said, “Is that what you’re saying, faggot?”
Scott was nursing his neck, “It’s more your fault than any of ours. Where the hell is my phone?”
“Fuck you, dude,” Shane said, but was clearly backing off now that Scott was unhappy with him. He stuck his tongue into his bottom lip and realized something was missing. The tobacco had flown out in the collision. He looked up and saw it in the back of Ami's hair. He swatted it out.
She cranked her head around to the best of her ability, “What the hell?”
“Just a bug,” Shane said and filled his lip with another chaw.
In the mirror, Ami caught a glimpse of her reflection and noticed a dark spot around her forehead. She reached up to where the dark spot would be and pulled back red on her finger. She
sat up to the mirror and looked closer; her eyebrow was seeping.
Marc grabbed a sweatshirt that was on the floor of her car and handed it to her, “Hold that on it for a while.”
“There’s Kleenex in the glove box,” she said.
Marc found the tissues, pulled a handful out of the mini-box, and tried to press it to her forehead. Ami lurched back, took the tissues from him, and balled them up against her brow.
The clock read 6:07, but this information barely registered her. What did register is that the ashtray popped open and a single cigarette stared back at her. She was not a smoker, but liked sneaking one every now and then. This one was a leftover from Scott’s Halloween party; she’d bummed a few from two dudes dressed as a butt-rock band.
The cigarette lighter popped open after one minute and Ami lit the American Spirit. She’d accidently smeared a thumbprint of forehead blood onto the cigarette. The embers seared through the crimson spot as she took deep inhales. Her arm would lose strength holding up the tissue and it would get close to the cigarette.
“You’re going to set yourself on fire,” Marc said to her soberly and pulled the cigarette out of Ami’s mouth. He took a drag, and then leaned against the head rest. He closed his tired eyes and exhaled the smoke from his nose.
“So where were we going?” she said, taking back the cigarette, inhaling one deep drag and flicking it out of the window.
“Hey, I wanted that,” Marc said.
“Why were we in the car, again?” she said.
“Are you sure you’re okay?” Marc asked.
“Yeah, I’m fine,” Ami said, realizing her wisecrack bank was temporarily closed for business, “I just…fuck. What are we going to do?”
“I just want out of this car,” Marc said.
“Man, my head feels like it’s been kicked in the nuts,” Shane said, rubbing his buzz-cut, “I want pills or something, like strong shit, not Tylenol.”
Against all of her better instincts, Ami said, "I’ll pass around some Xanax.”
“Wha—? How did you get Xanax?” Shane asked.
“I was supposed to drop it by my aunts on the way home from school today.”
“Give it here, then,” Shane said.
“I wasn’t really offering it, dipshit,” Ami said, “I don’t even know if it works for pain.”
“Why’d you bring it up, then?” Shane pouted.
Good question, Ami thought, Just trying to be cool, I guess.
“I’m a tease,” she said.
“Prick tease,” Shane snapped back.
Even after a car wreck, he was still a jackass and Ami lamented opening her mouth. For the third time in thirty minutes, she flipped him off. But this time the effort was minimal.
Shane would have to live without anesthetic. Ami knew what would be in store for her if the entire contents of the bottle didn’t arrive to its destination. Plenty of accusations and threats of calling counselors.
* * *
It was refreshing to stretch their legs. They stood next to the heap and cringed every time a car sped around them. Despite the distant sounds of sirens floating through the air, they had yet to see an actual ambulance.
“Should we call a tow truck or something?” Marc asked, “Aren’t there things you’re supposed do after an accident?”
“Sure, there’s this emergency service you can call,” Ami said, “9-1-1 is the number, I think. Works real well.”
Ami unlocked her phone and saw the notifications bar was blank. No missed calls. No email notifications, no Twitter notifications, not even notifications that an app was updated. She used to get so many notifications that she was ignoring them; now there was a deep ache in her stomach to see nothing.
There weren’t any signal bars, either. She dialed 9-1-1. Nothing. She dialed Dana again. Nothing. Nada. All alone in the universe.
A dead zone. Yay, technology!
“Let me try it,” Shane said.
“Sure, it just needs your magic touch,” Ami handed him the phone.
“Maybe,” Shane said. He fumbled with it for a minute, shuffling his feet around like he was desperate to find a bathroom, “Shit. Probably have to restart it.”
Shane turned around and walked away from her so she wouldn’t see him struggling with it anymore.
Marc and Scott examined the damage to the car. The damage could have been worse. The back window was caved in and the front bumper was wedged into the guard rail, but otherwise the car looked structurally sound. It was the one advantage for owning an old car that was still primarily made of steel.
“Looks like it would still drive,” Scott said, “Do you think we can lift it enough to jostle the bumper loose?”
“Maybe you can,” Marc said, holding up his stringy arms.
“It’s not that heavy,” Scott said, “It’s almost as small as Leslie’s Smart Car. I can practically lift that car by myself. Plus, many hands make light work.”
“We don’t have enough ‘many hands’,” Marc said.
“Maybe we can just pop it into reverse and floor it,” Scott said.
“It doesn’t have a lot of power,” Marc said.
“With three of us pushing on it, we can help it out,” Scott said.
Shane had been screwing around with the phone for five minutes when he finally gave up and handed it back to Ami.
“Thing’s fucked,” he said, “Got a signal for a sec or two. Got it to dial numbers once, but it dropped a call. I think texts are working though.”
Ami stared at the signal bar again and willed it to get a signal with her mind. Then two bars appeared, the teensiest and the next teensiest. Her eyes popped open wide.
“Holy shit!” she said and quickly dialed Dana.
Dana picked up this time. Ami nearly fainted.
“Ami?” Dana said.
“Holy crap, Dana! Are you home? Of course you’re home. Listen, you—”
“Ami?”
“Dana! Dana!”
“Hello? I can’t hear.”
“Oh Jesus, hey! Dana, hey!”
The call disconnected.
“Fuck!” Ami yelled, “Fuck! Fuck! Fucking Fuck Fuck!”
Ami quickly tapped the call button to redial. No signal again.
She stomped on the ground and then kicked the guardrail. The rest of them gazed at the explosion.
Shane spoke, “Something wrong?”
“Fucking Fuck Fucking A-T and fucking T!” Ami yelled. She swung her hand in the air, about to pitch the bad-news machine into the trees lining the road. But mid-throw, the phone stayed glued to her hand.
Marc spoke, “Tell us how you really feel.”
That broke her; she spasmed a quick laugh and then let out a few loud exhales.
“I had her. I had her on the phone.” Ami gazed through him.
Marc took her hand, “At least we know she’s there.”
“That’s not a good thing. It means no one’s picked her up yet. We’re fucked.”
“So we still have to go get her?” Shane asked.
“You don’t have to do shit,” Ami said, “Bye!”
Rather than dish anything back, Shane pouted instead.
* * *
Ami wedged herself between Marc and Scott along the front of the Festiva and she spread her fingers against the hood. Shane won the argument with Ami about who was going to be in the driver’s seat by telling Ami that she wouldn’t know how to pump the pedal in the right rhythm with their pushing. He didn’t win this argument because it was some rarified skill that Ami couldn’t do, he won because Ami couldn’t stand to look at his dumb fucking face anymore without wanting to punch it. And punching it would have set off another chain of events that she wanted to avoid altogether.
“You have this in reverse, right?” Ami yelled to Shane.
“That’s the one that says ‘R’, right?” Shane yelled back from behind the wheel of the Festiva.
“Okay, go ahead,” Scott yelled.
The motor of the Fe
stiva screeched and the car lurched as Shane pushed the pedal to the floor.
“Keep pushing,” Shane yelled louder over the pitiful motor.
“Easy with that,” Scott yelled louder, too, “You’re gonna blow the engine.”
“Push harder!” Shane yelled even louder.
Their faces were burning red as they pushed against the hood. The metal was already hot from the sun and it stung their hands. The smell of scorched engine oil filled the air.
“Shit, stop!” Ami yelled when the scent hit her nostrils, “It’s burning something!”
Shane kept going. He revved it more. The car rocked repeatedly with his pumping of the pedals.
And then the car popped loose. The Festiva flew backwards and out into the traffic, which had now thinned out. A Honda Civic narrowly dodged the crumpled car and blasted its horn at them.
After collectively gasping and then exhaling at the near-hit, the three heavy lifters cheered and slapped their hands together.
“We’re back in business, baby,” Scott announced.
And then Shane peeled away down the road.
* * *
Ami was the first to run after him. She stumbled and picked up an empty beer bottle from the sidewalk. She lobbed it in the air at the Festiva, but her car was already outside of throwing distance.
“You piece of shit!” she yelled.
Ami saw the car shrink as Shane picked up speed. Her running petered out and she bent over. Dry heaves were coming; if she’d have eaten lunch today, it would have been on the sidewalk.
Scott caught up to her and put his hand on her shoulder, “He’s a worthless douche-bag. I’m sorry.”
Ami stared at her phone and saw a text that left her phone about twenty minutes ago; right about the time Shane was trying to “fix” it.
The text said:
Yo its shane. got n wrek. car looks OK. gonna try to get away from them. no fucking way I’m going to pik her sis up. go to Keith’s. it should be far enough away.