My head is a dizzy, twisted mess. Innately, I know I probably don’t have the coordination to swim right now. Shallow end, though, I can walk in the shallow end.
Grabbing the rail, I take the first step. Lukewarm water rises up my ankles, my shins. It’s a kiss, swallowing me up as I sink deeper. To my knees, to my hips. Though I’m unsteady, the waves push me upright again. Or maybe it’s the opposite of that. I don’t know. I just don’t know, and I start to cry.
I cling to the edge, my hands scrabbling until they catch hold. Finally steady, I close my eyes and hold on. The current pulls my shirt one direction but darts beneath it in another. It’s so good, a cool caress to wash all the sick away. My belly hitches. Salt down my throat, chemicals in my mouth, I choke through a sob and will it all to stop. Just stop.
Leaning my head back, I don’t care that my pillow is concrete. That my clothes are soaked. That I don’t have a towel. I don’t care because my head is clearing.
Sinking beneath the surface, I listen to the low, distant sounds of an empty pool after dark. My hair wavers around my face. It tickles, streaking in the light.
This would be a good way to die, maybe. A better way to go, one that I chose. I could hold on to something heavy and just let the flood come. Fill me up, drag me down, it doesn’t take that long. I think only a couple of minutes, as long as the water isn’t subzero.
Except miracle, bitches, I’m better. Maybe drowning woulda been a good way to go before now, but my lizard brain is not okay with it now. Not even a little. I surface. I breathe. The sound of my gasp echoes on, buffeted by the waves, repeated against the tile and glass. I’m better, I’m fucking better. That’s the thought that finally pushes the dream and the anxiety down to rest.
Slowly, I drag myself out of the pool. I’m dripping everywhere and couldn’t care less. Leaden feet and heavy shoulders, I scrape the key card off the table. Then I stand there, drawing in, draining out. The blue lights shimmy around me. Artificial galaxies, stirred up by my existence.
I grab one of the abrasive white towels by the door and drape it over my head. Our room isn’t so far down the hall as it was before. Now I notice the real world. The pizza box outside room 135; the laughter behind door 115. Then, the soft sigh Arden makes when I slip into 104 again. Though I close the door quietly, she turns toward the sound.
Leaning against the door, I catch my breath again and plan. I’ll dry off and eat half a banana. No pills. I won’t take any pills, but I’ll drink some water and climb back into bed. With Arden’s arm pulled over my waist again, I’m going to sleep so good.
Better than I have in days, because I realized something back there in the pool: I’m not gonna die. Yeah, I got better, but that’s not why. I’m not gonna die because I just decided I don’t want to anymore.
(OTW BRT)
While Arden packs the car, I claim the keys. It’s been a couple days since I drove, and I’m tired of just riding. Plus, secretly, I can admit this to you—I want to make sure we get back on 70 after Indianapolis. Because of the trucker, we got shunted down to 71 to Cincinnati. It was a detour, and a pretty good one, since I got to see the Eiffel Tower.
But we gotta get this quest back on track. Back the way it should be. 70’s just a good route. Straight through the middle of the country. Not too north, not too south. There’s stuff to see on the way: the Mississippi River, the St. Louis Arch, canyons and mountains and a whole bunch of states I’ve never been to. Tunnels. Snow in the springtime—I think there is, in Vail. You get to Utah and you turn left, it’s that easy.
It’s something to be sure of; something I can hold on to. This is the road that takes me all the way to the Salton Sea. This one. No other. Relaxing in the driver’s seat, I flash a big smile at Arden when she comes to the door.
“Kick back,” I tell her. “You were talking in your sleep last night.”
She hems a little, shifting uncomfortably. It’s kind of obvious she wants to be behind the wheel, but today, I want to drive. And like before, Arden doesn’t want to push it. She rubs her hands against the sill of the window, her eyes darting from me, to the distance. “I really don’t mind driving.”
“Me either,” I say.
“I know, but . . .” She trails off. I see her struggling.
I cover her hands with mine and peer up at her. This morning, there’s a new shade of green in her eyes. I didn’t notice it before; it’s almost golden, feathery streaks of it between the darker strands. She has the prettiest eyelashes. They’re long and curled and I’m staring way too much at her face. I was in the middle of a thought, so I get back to it. “C’mon, Arden. Please?”
She hates herself. I see it flash across her face as she pushes off the door. She’s giving in, against her better judgment, and I feel almost bad for her. I’d feel worse, except I really do want to drive. When she slides into the passenger seat, I tip to one side.
Resting my head briefly on her shoulder, I say, “Thank you.”
“Just be careful.”
“I will. You look out for cool stuff,” I reply, and we’re off.
Too bad for me, it’s a pretty dull piece of highway. Trees billow up again, blotting out any towns that might be on the side of the road. There’s a weigh station and I consider pulling into it. It’s for trucks only, but what are they going to do, arrest me? Illegal weighing? What if I told them I was having a seizure and I had to pull over?
“Do you smell chlorine?” Arden asks.
Soaking up the rumble of the engine, I shrug. “Like I said. You were talking in your sleep, so I went to the pool. It was dark down there, it was pretty cool.”
“You should have woken me up.”
I feel bad, because she says it like she missed something completely amazing. Pressing a hand to my chest, I swear to her, “The darkness was cool, but the water was warm. Too many chemicals. I basically walked in and walked right back out.”
“Walk in, walk out, huh? Just like that time we thought we were going to clear Blackwing Lair, just the two of us?” Her grin spreads easily, her eyes crinkling at the corners.
Blackwing Lair is a dungeon in Warcraft, one of the old-world ones. Which means nothing to you (unless you play, in which case, stop by and say hey sometime. We play in the Uldum realm, usually like, nine to midnight, eastern time zone. Go Horde or go home.), but it means a lot to us. Anyway, like I said before, if you’re not in a guild on the game—a raiding club, more or less—you never get to see the really cool stuff on the regular.
So what we do is wait until we outlevel it. Blackwing Lair was hardcore raiding when the game only went to sixty levels. It took forty people to finish it. Now that we’re both level 100, Arden and I can waltz through the place, the two of us alone. The first time we went, though, we were 70 and—like the pool—we walked in and walked right back out.
Arden barks a laugh, reaching over to shake me. “You remember when my keyboard went crazy and—”
“You were typing like, in Klingon,” I finish with my own laugh. “That was the same night that Death Knight froze that pool we were jumping in.”
With a groan, Arden shakes her head. “That was only funny for you. I’m the one who died.”
We spill our own history, and it makes magic, here and now. In a Honda Civic, on a stretch of highway that leads to the Salton Sea. It may be imaginary history we share, but it’s real enough. It’s threaded with real memories, even if the world was programmed and put online.
One night, we went to take the scam ride to the top of the Twin Colossals. The forest around us was lush and green. The zone was quiet because nobody went to Ferelas unless they had to. It was out of the way, and the only dungeon there was overpowered. And by then, all the loot in it was obsolete. It was good for a walkthrough if you wanted to see it. That was about it.
Mostly, I remember it, because that was the night Arden told me about losing her virginity.
“It was slightly damp,” she’d said. “Smelled like Deep Woods Off. Lasted
about as long as a black banana.”
Now that I know more about her, I think I know exactly where it happened. At that camp. The thought distracts me. Am I right? All of a sudden, I need to know, like I need water and sun and air. Beneath my hands, the wheel buzzes. This car is even weirder to drive than it is to ride in. The dashboard abruptly ping-pops, and here comes the AC.
With a frigid breeze on my face, I glance at Arden. “Was your first time at summer camp?”
“Huh? What the what?” Arden asks. “Where did that come from?” She’s not mad; she’s confused. I don’t blame her, the question came out of nowhere.
“I was just thinking about it—”
“Well, that’s unnerving.”
“I know,” I say, nudging her. “Was it?”
Busying herself with the bag at her feet, Arden shrugs. “Yeah, why?”
“You said you hated camp,” I point out.
“It had its moments,” she replies. She pulls a headband from the bag and slides it on over her eyes like a visor, then up. It smooths her hair from her face, a wild cascade of curls puffing up behind it. And you know what? It shows off how pretty she is. How clear and unmarked her skin is. The soft, expressive pinkness of her lips.
I’m staring at her, and I only realize it when she bugs her eyes at me. “What?”
“You did the nasty in a bunk bed.”
Now she laughs and nudges me back. “Shut up.”
“Was it a guy?” I ask suddenly. And then I want to take the words and stuff them back into my mouth. Because I don’t want to know, and I do.
A blue sign welcomes us to Indiana; we’re coming up on Batesville, the casket capital of the world. We’re just fifteen miles away!
I don’t believe we’ll be visiting, thanks.
“It was a girl,” Arden says, and I guess she knows that makes me wonder about stuff she doesn’t want to think about, because she challenges me: “Where did you lose yours?”
“In a water bed,” I reply. This is technically true. It was a hydrotherapy bed in the hospital. The heat was turned up way too high, but those rooms were dark. They piped in music, and we could lock the doors. André was sicker than I was, and he believed in bucket lists.
Now it’s her turn to be nosy. “And it was a guy, right?”
I nod. A guy, who’s dead, and suddenly . . . I miss him. We weren’t even together, really. We were just hospital friends and it was a last chance. I feel his ghost slip between my fingers, whisper against my lips.
“Water beds are creepy,” Arden says, moving along. “Like vans.”
“Are you judging me? You did it in a bunk bed!” Needling her, I laugh. “On the top or the bottom? Tell me. Tell me right now, bunk baby!”
But before she can, a siren cuts through the air. This time, I’m the one who hits the brakes; I can’t help it. The siren’s so loud because it’s close. Right on our ass. And when I look in the rearview mirror, I realize the lights are going and the cop is pointing at the side of the road. Pointing at me.
Of course. This is my fault too. I tempted the universe when I promised everything would be fine.
(WARNING)
“Shit, shit, shit,” I say, pulling off.
I cut the engine and roll the window down. Splaying my empty hands on the windowsill, I wait for the cop to walk up and bust us. The problem with buying cars with drugs (besides the fact that you bought a car with drugs) is that you don’t know for a fact that the car’s legit. It could be stolen. The plates could be stolen. I have insurance and I know there are no bodies in the trunk, but otherwise, this is a disaster.
Beside me, Arden quietly hyperventilates. Her lips barely move as she murmurs to me, “My dad is going to kill me. With his bare hands. He will. When I was little, that’s how he kept me in line. He’d say, ‘If you make me come after you, you will regret it.’”
“No offense, but your dad is a dick,” I mumble back, watching the rearview mirror. Fumbling with my bag, I pull out my license. I got my license right after I lost all my hair for the second time, and I don’t know why, but at this particular moment, I think that’s funny as hell. I flash the picture at Arden, like check it out, I look like an egg.
She smiles weakly and retrieves what little paperwork there is in the glove box. She’s not shaking; she’s just tense and pale as she hands it over.
The cop finally climbs out of her cruiser. I watch her in the mirror—she waits for a semi to pass to start this way. It seems like it takes her forever to walk up to our car. Her gun belt sets her off balance. Her hips sway, but she’s not unsnapping the holster, so that’s good. That is a motherfucking relief, right there. Chances are, we’re not getting shot today. Woo hoo.
“Morning,” the officer says, leaning down to peer at me. “Got your license and registration?”
I’m gonna puke in my lap. What if that Bobby reported this car stolen? What if that son of a bitch took my drugs and then decided he wanted takesie-backsies. Guys like that, you never know. You just never fucking know. Gathering my thoughts, I hand everything over and say, “I’m really sorry; I don’t know what I did.”
Brows knitting, the cop looks over my license. She flips it on the back side, then on the front again. Clipping it to her ticket board, she holds it close to her body, protective. She doesn’t need to, I swear to god, the last thing I’m trying to do right now is snatch my license and flee the scene.
Stepping away, she touches the mic on her shoulder and reads something off my paperwork. Then she waits, occasionally cutting a look in my direction. Finally, a crackly voice responds. I can’t tell dick from what it’s saying. It could be Arrest this brat on sight; his mother wants to know where the hell her car is and the DEA wants to have a little sit-down.
Whatever it was, the cop’s nostrils flare and she leans into the window. It takes me a second to realize she’s sniffing the air in the car. Looking at my eyes.
“Speed limit through here is seventy,” she says. “Any particular reason why you were going fifty?”
Shock floods me. Not too fast. Not broken taillight. Not stolen plates—holy shit, she thinks I’ve been toking! Which kinda pisses me off, actually. Mom and Lynne used to buy this bunk shit from some guy Lynne knew. He gave it to her cheap because it was supposed to be for Little Dylan Needs Help God Bless, but hell no. They smoked that shit. I just smelled it through the vent.
I sit there like an idiot for a minute, then realize the cop wants me to say something now. I spit out the first thing that comes to mind; it’s not even true. “I get scared on the highway.”
With a step back, the cop leans down more completely. Her head and her hat fill the entire window. Her eyes narrow; she stares right into me. It’s like she’s trying to snake charm me. All it does is stir up the panic inside. I feel like I can’t get a breath, not a good one. And I’m afraid to try, because what if breathing deep makes me look guilty?
“Then why are you driving on it?”
“For practice,” I say. Tears suddenly spill down my cheeks, and it’s so fucking embarrassing. It’s not on purpose; it’s like everything else. Was I stronger when I was little? Is this something that happened to me? Or would I have been like this no matter what?
I try hard to suck it up. I don’t want the cop to get pissed, but I’ve read stories too. People like us getting pulled over and they’re never seen again. Seems like my whole life, the only time the cops come around, they make shit worse. So, just like with the Bobby, I edit and try to talk fast to get us out of here. “There wasn’t a lot of traffic, and it’s an easy drive, Arden said he would take over if I got too scared. I’m really sorry.”
The officer looks to Arden. “Let me see your license.”
All of a sudden, Arden’s frown deepens. We exchange a look, but she pulls out her license and hands it over. I can’t help but steal a look at the picture. Her hair’s in a jock cut, and she’s wearing a blue polo shirt. There’s just this air around her, like she just got done robbing Ralph La
uren for blow money and she’s dead inside.
We both watch as the cop wanders back to the back of our car. Now she’s making another call in her shoulder mic and time stretches out forever. Her face is a flat, neutral mask. She could be thinking anything.
If she strides back to her cruiser, we’re screwed. Going back there means she needs to get something important. A ticket printer, or handcuffs, or who the fuck even knows what. Nothing good, so she needs to just stay where she is. Everything will be okay if she does. I believe this. It’s a mantra now, stay here, just stay here. Arden vibrates beside me. She’s a tuning fork, singing in the key of we’re fucked.
The oracle of the cop’s shoulder mic bursts to life again. For a long time she stands there, talking back and forth. Then, her mask slips a little. She rolls her eyes a little; shakes her head. Then she walks back to my window. Reaching past me, she returns Arden’s license. Then she unclips mine, but holds on to it firmly.
“Everybody’s gotta learn sometime. But if you can’t keep up with the flow of traffic, let your boyfriend drive.”
With a flick of her fingers, she thrusts my license and the registration at me. So grateful, I clutch it. Then I all but tumble out of the car to switch places with Arden. Wary, the cop backs up. When she realizes that I’m just doing what she told me to, she continues to back toward her car, but slowly. Watchfully.
Arden slides over, and she’s already adjusting the mirrors when I get back in. Before I say a word, she turns to me. “We have to get rid of this thing.”
“Yeah, we do.”
There’s this intense edge to the silence. When Arden hits the gas, we rocket back onto the highway, right in front of the cop. Grabbing the Jesus strap above the window, I hold on tight. I don’t know if she’s trying to drive opposite of the way I was, or what. But she’s scaring the shit out of me.
Then, like clockwork—just like her, she rides the brakes. For a second, I’m afraid we’re gonna flip into the culvert. Maybe roll over a couple of times, die down in a ditch on the wrong highway, because we’re on the wrong highway. I don’t know why that fact buzzes in my ears, but it does. This is I-74; if I have to check out now, I don’t want it to be on I-74.
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