by Lydia Sharp
I’m facing another ditch, and beyond that, trees. Facing it. Which means my car is sitting across the road in both lanes. Afraid I just survived one accident only to die in another, I move the car forward, back, forward, and back a few times until I’m parallel on the shoulder. Then I put it in park and try not to pass out from shock.
The sudden silence makes my labored breathing sound like a roaring lion.
My heart … where is my heart? It leaped right out of my throat and now I can’t find it.
In another second, it returns with a vengeance, beating so hard against my chest I think I might puke. Do not puke on your tux, JJ, it’s rented.
Okay. Lesson learned. I am never speeding again. My parents were right to make that rule—aren’t they always right? And I’m shutting off my phone completely whenever I’m in the car. What a worthless reason to possibly die. I’m lucky, and I shouldn’t be this lucky after doing something I knew I shouldn’t have.
“Hello?” a female voice calls from somewhere. “Hey, are you okay?”
I didn’t imagine it. There really was a dress in the middle of the road. That means … oh God, I almost hit a person.
I can’t get out of the car fast enough—because I don’t want to puke on my tux or my car—fumbling to open the door and then stumbling over my own feet until I reach the ditch. I bend over just in time. Not much comes out, because my stomach is empty, but it still burns my throat. I skipped dinner at home because we’re supposed to eat at prom.
Prom.
Lucy.
I instinctively reach inside my pants pocket but find nothing.
“Where’s my phone?” I mutter. Then I remember it’s still in the car. Why did I think that simply forgetting my keys was my flub of the night? This … disaster within five minutes of leaving my house is much more my style. I swallow back acid. Straighten. Turn—
And I’m face-to-face with dark-brown eyes and dark-brown skin. Bright fuchsia lipstick on full lips. The girl I almost hit? Glancing down confirms it. She’s wearing a formal dress, strapless with a big billowy skirt, in Creamsicle orange. It has the faintest shimmer reflecting the lowering sun’s warm glow. Her thick black spiral curls are swept up in an elegant twist. She looks like she walked off a Hollywood red carpet. If this wasn’t prom night, I would wonder what celebrity awards ceremony could possibly be held in nothing little Beaver Creek, Ohio.
“Are you okay?” she repeats. “That was so close. I’m sorry, I didn’t see you coming.”
“You’re sorry? No, no, no, I’m sorry. I almost hit you! Are you okay? You seem okay, but are you okay? Why are you out here walking … ? Is something wrong?” This is a rural road with no sidewalks. Pedestrians don’t exist unless it’s someone getting their mail.
“I’m fine. But my car? Not so great.” She gestures to the cream-colored Volkswagen Beetle with a black convertible top on the side of the road, its hood propped up, which I didn’t even notice until she jacked her thumb toward it. “When I came down the curve, I think the engine blew. There was smoke everywhere, and now I can’t get her to start again.” She lets out a long sigh. “She’s old and tired, but I don’t want to accept she’s done for good this time. I made too many memories with this old girl.”
“I’m sorry, uh …”
“Melody,” she says. “But you can call me Mel.”
Oh. That wasn’t what I meant, I was just at a loss, but: “I’m James. You can call me JJ. Do you need help with this?”
Her brows shoot upward. “You think you can fix it?”
“Uhm. Heh. No, actually. I live on a farm. I know horses better than cars. I mean, I know the basics, like how often to change the oil, and, you know, it’s beneficial to keep the gas tank full, that kind of stuff … Pathetic, right?” I flash a smile to shut myself up. The longer I go on, the more ridiculous I sound.
“That’s okay.” She returns the smile, except bigger and better. “You’re allowed to be a guy and not know how to fix a car. I’m pretty sure she’s a goner, but thanks for offering.”
“Oh. Well, the least I can do is give you a ride, then. I swear I’m a better driver than what you just saw. That was a fluke, never happened to me before, and I’ve driven this road a million times. It’s the one I always take to get to my best friend’s house.” My best friend who is likely plotting my murder as we speak. “Anyway. Do you want a ride? You look like you might even be going to the same place as I am.”
She eyes me up and down, understanding flitting across her expression like she just now realized I’m wearing a tux. “Yeah, if you mean senior prom? For Whitman Academy.”
Whitman. Wow. Melody goes to a private school. We probably would have never crossed paths if not for this almost accident. “I’m on my way to prom, too,” I say. “For Beaver Creek High.”
Her mouth twists. “Too bad we both have prom the same night.” She holds up her skirt a little and starts walking back toward her car.
I’m right on her heels—which I can now see are the same orange color of her dress, at least four inches high, and she walks in them as effortlessly as if they were Keds. But then I stop at my car and reach inside, across the driver’s seat, to retrieve my phone from the passenger seat. Just the one missed text, but it’s almost ten to eight. Ten minutes until they serve dinner at prom.
“Lucy really is going to murder me,” I mutter under my breath, then open the text and lean against the side of my car. The text is from Jenna, though, not Lucy. Crisis averted. For now. “What do you mean too bad?” I say absently, reading.
“I just thought maybe us meeting like this was fate or something,” Melody says. “But we’re headed to two different places, and— Oh.”
When I look up to see what stopped her, she’s standing by her car.
She plunks down the hood of her Bug. “It was nice meeting you, JJ, even if it was … a little scary at first. But you can go now. I’m going to call a tow.”
“What?” I missed something. She wants me to leave?
“Your girlfriend. Or boyfriend. Or partner.” She points at my phone, tapping the screen of her own with her opposite thumb. “Are they waiting on you to pick them up? You don’t have to make them wait longer because of me.”
“Yes—I mean no. I don’t have a girlfriend. Or boyfriend. Or anyone like that. Just a friend and a …” Whatever Jenna is to me.
Melody isn’t listening anymore. She’s talking to the tow service.
I glance down at the text again.
Jenna: Lucy said you’re running late?
It’s 7:49. This text came in at 7:43. Lucy must be worried if she’s already telling Jenna that I might be irrevocably late in picking them up less than five minutes after I said I was on my way. But given the circumstances, Lucy won’t fault me for making her wait if it helps someone in need.
“How long until the tow truck gets here?” I ask Melody after she disconnects her call.
She checks an imaginary watch on her bare wrist. “Any year now.”
That’s what I was afraid of. “It’ll be dark soon. My parents would disown me if I didn’t offer to stay to make sure you were safe. And if I’m going to stay until the tow gets here, I might as well give you a ride to your prom, too. But it’s up to you.”
She eyes my seven-year-old cranberry Honda Civic. Not exactly a chariot, I know. But Lucy’s never complained about the ride, not once, except to tell me when it’s due for a wash. And if Lucy likes it, it can’t be that bad.
“It isn’t much to look at, but it’s gotta be better than a tow truck, right?”
“That’s very nice of you, JJ,” Melody says. “You seem … genuinely nice. Honest. But what about your friend?”
I hold up my phone. “Taking care of it. Just need to send a few texts …”
Jenna: Lucy said you’re running late? I can get a ride from Autumn Mitchell. She rented a limo.
Me: Yeah sorry was held up. Almost got in an accident but OK. Can you guys pick up Lucy too? I’ll just meet you t
here
Jenna: Okie dokie! Glad you’re OK
I give her Lucy’s address, then go back to my other text conversation.
Me: Jenna’s going to pick you up. I almost got in a—
No. Don’t tell Lucy that. She’ll just worry. I can tell her when I see her later, when she can see with her own eyes that I’m all right. I shouldn’t have told Jenna, either, but I can’t take that back now. Hopefully Jenna won’t say anything about it.
Me: Jenna’s going to pick you up. You get to ride in a limo! fun right?
Lucy: What happened? Where are you?
Distraction technique, failed.
Me: Helping someone with car trouble. Waiting on a tow then driving them to their thing then I’ll meet you there. See you soon
Lucy: OK sounds good.
I don’t even get the phone to my pocket before it chimes again.
Lucy: Do you think you’ll miss dinner completely?
Me: I hope not I’m starving
Lucy: I’ll see if they can save you a dish.
Me: Grazie
Wait. Something doesn’t feel right. She’s too agreeable.
Me: Do you need anything?
Lucy: Don’t worry about me
Don’t worry about her? I don’t know if I can do that. I worry about Lucy because Lucy worries about everything. But she seems all right, so if that’s what she wants, then I’ll try this not-worrying-about-her thing. I pocket the phone and look up at Melody. “We’re all set. No problem.”
“Impressive,” she says, nodding. “You’re very go-with-the-flow. I like that.”
She likes that. My grin spreads even wider. “And you’re very say-exactly-what-you’re-thinking. I like that.”
“It’s unanimous, then. We like each other.” She flashes a thousand-watt smile.
“So …” I take a few slow steps toward Melody, something between a stroll and a strut. “What should we do to pass the time?”
“Time is the most abstract concept in the universe,” Melody says, then takes a sip of water from a bottle I pulled out of my trunk. Lucy insists I keep emergency stuff in there like snacks, water, a first aid kit, a heated blanket, an extra phone charger, flares—the works—just in case, I don’t know, I get stuck on the side of the road or something. Which had never happened once before tonight, so, another thing I owe Lucy for, another reason I’m thankful she’s in my life. I’ll just add it to the countless others that have piled up over the years. Though technically my car isn’t the one broken down. Melody turns in the passenger seat to face me squarely. “There’s no way we can know for sure if time exists anywhere but in our minds.”
This is a conversation I never thought I’d have with a person. Melody goes to a private school that specializes in the arts—and apparently that includes philosophy. I don’t do well with abstract concepts, though. My comfort lies in things that are tangible, provable … factual. Even the time-travel device for our physics project was based on hard science, so it should have worked. We didn’t construct Marty out of wishes and dreams. But there’s something about the way Melody presents her theories that keeps me intrigued and thinking … maybe. Maybe this different idea of hers could be true.
But it takes zero point zero seconds for me to shoot this particular idea down flat.
“That’s impossible,” I tell her. “We age. Animals and plants age. The planet ages—we can see evidence of it. Wrinkles. Decay. Fossils. Tree rings. Those are all physical indicators of the passage of time. It’s a real thing.”
If it wasn’t real, I wouldn’t be losing my best friend this summer—and there’s more proof right there. Summer. The changing seasons. That wouldn’t happen if time didn’t exist.
“Or it’s a fake thing someone made up to explain a real thing they didn’t understand,” she counters, and I shoot her a let’s-not-go-there look. “Okay, okay, just hear me out—have you ever accidentally lost track of time?”
“Occasionally.” If occasionally means regularly.
“Did you actually lose time,” Melody says, “or did you lose what you were supposed to do with that time?”
“I—” Hang on. I sit back and think. “Okay, that still doesn’t explain wrinkles, but you might have a point. A tiny one. Barely microscopic.”
“How generous of you.” She laughs and the sound is like her name, a melody.
This girl. Did she really just get me to almost believe there’s a slight possible chance that time only exists as a relative theory of the mind? She totally did. And maybe that’s partly because there’s a slight possible chance I want it to be true. If time isn’t real, then nothing changes.
Melody says fate brought us together, but I don’t believe in fate. I say it was coincidence, but she doesn’t believe there are any coincidences in life—according to Melody, everything happens for a reason. I don’t care who’s right, though, I’m just glad we met.
“Well, even if it is only in our minds,” I say, “we’ve been sitting here for nearly an hour and a half and no one has shown up.” It’s almost nine thirty p.m. Prom ends at eleven. I’ve not only missed dinner—peanut butter crackers and cheap bottled water don’t count—but also half of the event I’ve been waiting all my high school years to attend, no big deal. And Lucy hasn’t texted me once, not even to ask where I am. Don’t worry about me, she said.
With concerted effort, I push Lucy out of my thoughts. She’s fine. If she wasn’t, I’d know. Someone would tell me. Everyone knows we’re best friends.
Nothing I can do now to change how late I am, anyway, or how she is or isn’t reacting to that. If there’s one thing I know for sure about time, it’s that it doesn’t move backward. “Who did you call for the tow?”
Melody glances at the clock on my dashboard, her eyes widening. “Shoot, I didn’t realize how late it was.” She picks up her phone from her lap and starts swiping and tapping. “They closed at nine—those jerks stranded me? Every other place is closed, too. What am I gonna … I can’t just leave my car here all night.”
“Or maybe you can,” I say, and step out of my car. Look around. It’s pitch-dark, no streetlights out here, and the moonlight is scattered by branchy treetops only just starting to grow new leaves. But there’s a mailbox next to a patch of gravel not far from Melody’s car. That has to be someone’s driveway; I just can’t see the house past all the tree trunks. It’s probably pretty far back. Melody’s car is small, though. As long as the person who lives here doesn’t mind, it’s our best option. This is going to suck, pushing a car in a tux, but good call on the Converse instead of dress shoes.
Melody stays in the car while I take the long, scary trek down a gravel driveway that cuts through a dank, dark forest—made a little less scary by the flashlight I had in my trunk, thank you again, Lucy—and find someone home who is okay with us leaving a car on their property. The guy who answers is older than dirt, though, and in a wheelchair, so I’m pushing this thing on my own. I’ve never been into sports or working out, because I get enough at home. Riding horses works my legs and core. Shoveling manure and tossing hay bales works my arms and shoulders.
You don’t need a gym membership to build muscle, Mama says. Just own a horse or two.
I remove my vest then unbutton the sleeves of my shirt and roll them up while Melody gets in her car and puts it in neutral. “Okay,” she shouts out the driver’s side window. “I’m ready!”
I’m not weak, but this taxes me. Even a small car is still a car. Bigger than me. A giant chunk of metal. My feet slip in the gravel, and I work up a nasty sweat. Inch by inch, I push it halfway down the drive. We decide that’s far enough and park her Bug off to the side, partially in the trees, then call the tow and leave a message so they know where to pick it up tomorrow. I offer to hold Melody’s hand to help her walk back to the road. Heels plus gravel could equal a broken ankle. I don’t want to end this night in a hospital.
She takes my hand, and as soon as our feet hit the road asphalt, she lets go but kee
ps walking. I follow her to my car. My pits are wet. My muscles are sore. My white hands are smudged with black and my black pants are smudged with white, and who knows what those marks are even from. I really don’t understand cars.
The scent of Melody’s floral perfume hits me when I get back into my car. Lucy’s not going to like that. She’s extremely perfume-averse; it gives her a headache. I roll down all the windows an inch or two. Once we’re both in and buckled, I say, “It’s late. Do you still want to go to your prom, or should I take you home?”
She sits quietly for a moment, and her stomach gurgles loudly. Then she looks at me, her smile lighting up the night. Her lipstick has faded, but her hair is still perfect. “Neither,” she says. “Let’s go eat some real food.”
Not a bad idea. But: “I don’t have much cash. Do you?”
“None. I didn’t think I’d need it tonight.”
Okay … “Do you consider Taco Bell real food?”
“I don’t even think Taco Bell considers Taco Bell real food.”
“By the time we get into town, though, it’s the only place that’ll be open. That I can afford,” I add.
“Okay, new plan. Let’s not go eat some real food. Let’s go eat some Taco Bell.”
“Eating at Taco Bell in a sweaty, dusty tux,” I say through a laugh. “This is really not how I imagined my prom night.”
“Me neither. But that’s life, right? You have to expect the unexpected.” She shrugs. “At least we’ll have a good story to tell our friends tomorrow.”
“Yeah.” My smile dies when I wonder what’s been happening at my prom without me. Does everyone think I ditched them? Not just Lucy and Jenna, but Chaz and Marcos and all the people I might not see again after high school. This was our last hurrah before graduation.