Rewind to You

by Laura Johnston

  “C’mon, Grandpa,” Leo says. “You wear your hat like you out golfing with the seniors. Where’s your pride? And your shirt’s inside out. You blind?”

  “Why does it matter? You said we were going somewhere chill.”

  “We are.”

  “Come on, Leo. Tell me we aren’t—”

  “Just hitting up a party,” Reggie cuts in.

  “You’re such liars.”

  “Say what?”

  They tricked me. Again. So much for a water break. “Hey, I’ve got a better idea.”

  “Uh-huh.” Leo makes a doubtful sound. “What’s yo’ betta idea? Some hillbilly movie only Austin Dobbs can dig and still get chicks, ’cause he’s some preppy football star?”

  I stare at the back of their heads as they laugh. “Actually, I was thinking a chick flick,” I say like I’m serious.

  “Chick flick!” Leo spits out between bursts of laughter.

  Why do I hang out with these monkeys? Good question. I guess it’s easier to dodge sympathy when you’re surrounded by idiots whose lives are a whole lot more screwed up than your own. Reg and Leo aren’t the types who have everything in life. They aren’t the types who pity anyone who doesn’t.

  “C’mon,” Leo pleads. “Lindsay’s gonna be there, lookin’ hot!” He lists every enticing detail. Music and babes and on and on. His face animates his enthusiasm, as though he hopes his party fever will rub off on me. I nod, pretending to listen. Find myself catching the sugary scent of pralines in the air, the smell derailing my train of thought. One thing I’ve learned in the year I’ve lived in Georgia: Savannah makes pralines like Girl Scouts make cookies.

  “You sure you guys don’t want pralines?”

  Leo’s face turns sour. “Pralines? Have you been listening to a word I just said?”

  “Not really.”

  He lets out a breath of impatience. “What’s yo’ beef with parties, ace? You know, sometimes you act like a grandpa, too.”

  “Come on. Every party is the same,” I say. “A bunch of wannabes pretending they’re having a good time.”

  “What you talking about?” Leo says. He pulls a plastic bag from his pocket and dangles it over his shoulder. “We are gonna have a good time!”

  I look away, silenced. No comeback this time. Nothing.

  I glance at the brick buildings outside and listen to the jolt of a tour bus gaining speed as it pulls away from the curb. A man runs after it, trying to flag it down with his umbrella. Poor sucker’s never going to catch it. I look at everything but the dime bag of weed in Leo’s hand. The reason my mom sent me to Savannah in the first place rushes back with regret.

  “Pull over.”

  Despite Reggie’s rap music, an itchy silence stifles the air.

  “What?” Leo asks.

  “Pull over.”

  Reggie gestures to the lanes of cars stacked like ants. “Pull ova’? In this?”

  I tap the window. “Yep, right there.”

  “You takin’ a leak or somethin’?” Leo jokes.

  “Nah,” Reggie mutters. “He’s bailing on us.”

  “Bailin’?”

  “Absolutely,” I reply.

  “Hey, you not down with this stuff, we cool with that. But we got a party to hit,” Leo says.

  “And I hate parties.”

  “Why you be such a hater, man?”

  “I’m not hating,” I say. “Look, I just don’t want to go.”

  “Lindsay’s gonna be there!”

  “Lindsay and I broke up.”

  “She’ll be shakin’ her hips. Dancin’.”

  A Leo-induced headache flares up. “Dude, I don’t dance.”

  “Nah, I’ve seen you get down. You ain’t that bad.”

  “Just. Pull. Over.”

  Reg slams on the brakes as the light turns from yellow to red. “Where you going?”

  I reach for the door. “I don’t know, maybe I’ll . . . watch fireworks,” I say, recalling what tonight is.

  “Fireworks?”

  “Yeah. I’ll get some pralines and cream on River Street. Find a bench. Sit there with my grandpa cap and watch fireworks with some old lady.”

  They both chuckle and then burst into laughter. “You want pralines?” Leo asks and dangles the drugs in front of me again. “I got somethin’ a whole lot betta than pralines, homey.”

  I shove his hand down. Throw a quick glance around. “Keep that down. Better yet, get rid of it.”

  Leo makes a face. “You realize how much flow we put down for this, Gramps?”

  “Too much. You obviously don’t have much brain left to fry, anyway, so ditch it.”

  Reg turns around. “A’ight, hear me out, Austin. You chill out and come to the party. You don’t have to try none of this, and we’ll keep it on the down low. We cool?”

  I shift my gaze to the sunset, something weak inside luring me to cave. Go to the party. Whatever. Sit next to Lindsay. Put my arm around her and forget the past. Maybe even go along with Reg and Leo, drown out every mistake and the hard truth of what a screwed-up mess my family is. Doesn’t sound so bad after all.

  “Austin?” Reggie asks again.

  My fingers slide across the door handle. I never hesitate. Never. I read the defense, spot gaps between zone coverage, and shift direction to make the catch, all within seconds of exploding off the line of scrimmage. It’s the only thing I’m good at.

  Yet here I sit, hesitating. No matter what I say, Leo and Reg are going to trudge through the mud on this one. They’re good guys. Deceptively rough on the outside and as stupid as my dog, sometimes, but they’re genuinely good, like most people.

  “Austin?” Reg asks again. “We cool?”

  My hand rests on the handle, frozen. Then the traffic light turns from red to green, and time is up. Fate is something I’ve never let myself consider. However, when I finally make up my mind, I have a strange feeling this decision will change the course of my life forever.

  CHAPTER 3

  Sienna

  I shouldn’t be here, not on my own. I check my cell. Still no reply from Brian. Glancing at the setting sun, I start down River Street anyway. Alone. Mom would kill me.

  Fading sunlight seeps through the sweeping oak branches as I find a contact on my phone and press send. The handsome voice brings a smile to my face until I realize it’s his voice mail.

  Yo, this is Kyle. Peace out.

  I still remember the grin on Kyle’s face from across our pre-algebra classroom as he texted me for the first time. Hey. U r hot. Wanna go out?

  Did I imagine we would still be together when we graduated high school three years later?

  I leave a short message, drop my cell in my purse, and ignore the shadows around me as I walk through Emmet Park.

  If Mom had her way, I’d date Kyle all through college and marry him. Seriously. She adores his parents: charming, respectable, wealthy—perfect potential in-laws, in her eyes. Falling in love with Kyle came easy. Breaking up with him our junior year was like swimming in a hurricane. However, like the pull between two magnets, my dad’s death yanked us back together.

  I sigh in relief when I reach the edge of the park and join the crowd of tourists walking from shop to shop. My purse vibrates and I whip out my phone. “Hello?”

  “Sienna?” Brian calls out over loud music on the other end.

  Brian’s been my beach buddy ever since I can remember. He could have been my older brother, we’re so close. Our moms grew up in Georgia together, so naturally Brian is my mom’s second pick. My life is like a GPS with a programmed destination (and my mom plays the voice that says “recalculating route” whenever I veer). Lame, but true.

  “Hey, Brian!”

  “Where are you?” our voices ring out at the same time.

  I smile. “You’re on River Street, right?”

  “Actually, no. Sorry. We’re up at this awesome party at—” Static cuts Brian off. “Do you want to come?” I hear him at last. “You’d rip up the
dance floor here.”

  “Where?” My voice repeats like an echo, cutting in and out. “Brian?” I hold my phone up to see if it helps reception, doing the cell phone samba around a park bench and no doubt attracting odd glares.

  “You’ve, like, gotta come—” Brian says before another round of static. I shake my phone, feeling like an idiot desperate for company.

  On second thought, college starts this fall, and I won’t have peaceful moments like this. I’ll be living with my best friend, Haylee, in an apartment a block away from Kyle at the University of Richmond.

  “H-hey. You there?” Brian asks. “Where are you now?”

  “River Street,” I reply.

  A silent pause. “Alone?”

  “Come on, Brian. Anyone tries to bother me I’ll rock ’em sock ’em,” I say. And I am now officially a nerd. Rock ’Em Sock ’Em Robots are weaving their way into my vocabulary, proof that I drove across three states next to an action-figure-obsessed eight-year-old.

  “Do you want me to come get you?” Brian asks.

  “What? No.” I almost laugh. I imagine his concerned face, like an older brother protecting his little sister. “That’s sweet, Brian, but I’m fine. Have fun at that party.”

  “You’re not coming?”

  “Sorry.”

  Brian sighs. “Okay.”

  Guilt pricks me as I detect his disappointment. “I’ll see you tomorrow, though.”

  “Yeah?” Brian says with a hopeful lilt in his voice. “You wanna hit the beach together? Grab one of those hot dogs at the pier?”

  “Those greasy ones my mom would kill me over if she knew I’d eaten?”

  “Yep.”

  I laugh. “You bet.”

  Background music from the party jumbles his words, and the conversation comes to an abrupt end. I toss my cell in my purse and take a deep breath, inhaling the sugary scent of vanilla and pecans. It’s the smell of River Street.

  Let’s make a pact.

  The words I heard my dad speak when I passed out drift back to my mind. But what was our pact? A crippling ache seeps into my heart as a thought settles in: I’m already starting to forget him.

  I walk back toward my car, brushing these thoughts aside as I try to enjoy the simple things: birds chirping, an artist painting the Savannah River, a pair of shoes I’m tempted to buy. But I step in a wad of fresh gum and a bird craps in my hair like I was target practice, and I quickly admit this trip to River Street was a total waste. Darkness closes in, and streetlamps cast shadows around me as I walk back through the park, one heel sticking to the pavement with every step.

  I distract myself with my phone in time to see a text from my mom.

  Can u pick up some Lucky Charms on your way home? I forgot. Get a bunch.

  Oh, man. The Legos thrown across our living room will be nothing compared to what will happen in the morning if we don’t have Lucky Charms. Not that I blame Spencer. If he didn’t put his foot down every once in a while, Mom would have both of us eating a bowl of hot wheat cereal and a green (aka grass) smoothie at every breakfast.

  Knots unwind in my stomach when I spot the stone staircase that leads to my car. Ha! Mom had no need to worry, I think, pleased with myself.

  The catcall whistling from the shadows doesn’t register until they step under the dim streetlamp, two of them. Despite myself, I gasp.

  “Hello, sweetheart,” one of them drawls with a wink. “Wanna take a walk?”

  Oh please. One whiff and I can smell alcohol on his breath.

  I step back, surprising myself by how quickly I form a profile. Five feet ten inches, maybe. Baggy shirt and way too much cologne. The other guy is easily in his thirties as well, yet his spotty mustache makes him look fourteen.

  “Excuse me,” I say, and move to get around them, but they shift to block my way.

  Cologne jabs Mustache in the arm playfully. “Hey, the lady doesn’t want to be bothered.”

  I welcome the slightest bit of reassurance. There still are gentlemen in this world, I tell myself just before they burst into laughter. I march a path around them.

  “Aww, come on, baby. We’re just playing. You want to have some fun tonight?”

  I step over a puddle of mud. “Absolutely not.”

  By the time I look back up, they’ve materialized in front of me, blocking my way again. I glance around, searching for backup. Anyone. Like a slingshot snapping against my chest, anxiety seizes my nerves.

  I clutch my phone, prepared to break into a run and dial for help if I have to. But who would I call? Mom? No way. Brian would rush to my aid, but he’d have a royal laugh after I so confidently assured him I’d be fine. And Kyle is three states away. 911 is always an option but a bit of a dramatic one at this point.

  A group of people walk through the park within earshot. But they are laughing hysterically (probably every bit as drunk as these two), oblivious to the ridiculous fix I’m in, and besides, really, I can handle this. I hoist my purse strap on my shoulder and dig one hand into my hip, gathering gumption.

  “Listen,” I say, hoping I don’t look as flustered as I feel. But Mustache drapes his arm over my shoulders, and a chill quivers up the back of my neck.

  I slap his arm away. “Back off, Mustache.” The nickname slips off my tongue.

  He gives an amused laugh. “Ooh, she’s a feisty one.”

  Rock ’em sock ’em? That’s a joke. I clench one fist, wondering how much damage I could do. I tighten my grasp on my purse, wishing I had some pepper spray or an umbrella or even a high heel I could wield as a weapon. Still, one scream and someone will surely hear.

  “C’mon, sweetheart. We’re just having some fun,” Cologne slurs.

  “And I don’t want any part of it, so get out of my way.”

  Mustache sighs. “Aww, you’re going to miss the fireworks.”

  Fireworks. My eyes lock on the space behind them, caught in an abrupt trance. I’m speechless. Immobilized. Oddly numb to everything going on around me as the suppressed memory of fireworks crashes back to the forefront of my mind.

  Please, no. Not fireworks. Despite the muggy air, goose bumps ripple up my arms as the chilling memory creeps to the surface. I jolt as a sharp crack rattles my ears. A burst of light illuminates everything, casting a red glow on the faces of the two men. I shudder, daring a glance at the falling specks of fire.

  Today is June fifth, a Friday. I forgot. The first Friday of every month, fireworks shower the sky over River Street. Fireworks rupture above me, an explosion of colors. Thundering. Crackling. Fizzling. Just like they did that night.

  My heart slams against my chest. Suddenly I feel as though I’m sinking in water with no way of swimming out, fighting to breathe. Another explosion splits the dark sky, and like a cannon, sends a crack pulsating through the air.

  It happened almost one year ago on the Fourth of July. We should have been here in Georgia, but we weren’t. Because of me.

  I picture my dad and me in the Jeep that night, the smiles on our faces. Images flash through my mind, dulling my vision. The fireworks were so intense I could almost feel them vibrating my Jeep as my dad and I zipped over the bridge. Fireworks so stunning, I didn’t see the motorcycle veer into our lane.

  I jerked the steering wheel instinctively. I overcorrected, glimpsing the two motorcyclists the second before our Jeep tipped, rolled, hit the barricade, and then—

  They say we hit the barricade mid-roll and flipped right over it, vanishing from the sight of any witness on the highway. As for myself, I can’t remember anything between that and the moment I woke up with water spilling into my mouth, as the river swallowed our Jeep. The windshield caved in, and water flooded in so fast I never got that last breath.

  The tart smell of fireworks saturates the muggy Savannah air, so thick I can almost taste it. Cold sweat creeps to the surface of my skin, like it did earlier tonight when I looked at the picture of my dad and me. Right before I fainted.

  Spots begin swimming acro
ss my field of vision. Numbing tingles course up and down my arms.

  Not again.

  This silly trip to River Street isn’t only a waste, it’s a disaster. I feel a hand wrap around my arm, but their words and laughter are as muddled as my vision. They pull me along. I draw in a shaky breath. “Leave me alone!”

  I fight against them, but the blood rushes out of my head, my arms, my legs, leaving every muscle useless. I’m like some stupid damsel who can’t do a thing to save herself.

  “Let go!” I hear the shrill pitch of my voice and realize just how terrified I am. But the seconds stretch on, and I know I’m alone.

  In the corner of my blurry field of vision, I glimpse another figure advancing, someone who must have heard me yell. Mustache backs off after my scream, but this timely hero yanks him away regardless and shoves him to the ground.

  “Hey!” Mustache yells, climbing to his feet. Cologne comes to the aid of his pal, seizing a fistful of this guy’s shirt and yelling something up into his face. Mustache and Cologne look like dwarfs compared to this guy. I try to steady myself so I can get a look at this saint of a man who is helping me, but all I can make out from his blurred silhouette is that he’s tall and seriously built and he wears a baseball cap.

  I grab my head and try to pull myself together, my lungs short of breath. I’m angry at how weak I feel, how useless. Voices argue, short and to the point. The last thing I see before my legs melt into numbness is how fast Mustache hits the pavement after my baseball cap hero punches him.

  My dad. Although reason fights against it, it has to be him. This feeling of calm. Safety. His arms barely catch me before I hit the ground. He leans over me, cradling me in his arms.

  “Are you okay?” His voice comes as an echo, something barely there and fading quickly.

  Then a bright light replaces everything.

  “Are you okay?”

  My heart squeezes at his voice, and my head jerks up. The blinding light surrenders to the scene before me and I see him clearly.

  My dad.

  The sight of his deep, caring eyes renders me speechless.

  Dad gestures to my leg. “Are you okay?”

  I glance down, feeling the pain at last. Fresh blood seeps from a cut on my shin.