Driving under the influence of emotions equates to vehicular suicide. It has to be worse than driving drunk—at least drunk people try to focus on the road and try to observe the speed limit. I eye the speedometer, the needle hovering at 85 MPH, but I don’t consider slowing down. I don’t consider anything but how fast I can make it to the beach, and how fast I can get away from her and what she told me.
No matter how much I push the speed, the drive stretches slowly under the darkening sky. I focus on yellow dashes and white lines as the highway curves and straightens. Tree clusters grow thick and then thin out. The peripheral pattern repeats until a stretch of charred splinters interrupts the interminable greenness. The lasting evidence of a forest fire cuts across the highway, and I am a child again, sitting restlessly in the back of our silver Mercedes while my parents stress about getting somewhere on time. There was no exit, no alternate route around the insatiable fire, just a parking lot of cars inching toward various destinations. I have no idea where we were going that afternoon: all I can remember is the heated tension spreading inside the car, engulfing three young children.
As I continue along the highway, a housing development marks the end of the arboreal graveyard, and I wonder how realtors spin those listings—“borders a quiet forest” and “convenient to the highway.” My mom’s a realtor, and I have grown up with her gratuitous jargon, meaning I have always taken whatever she said and sliced it in half.
Needing a distraction, I opt for some music, but after the initial boom-duh-duh-boom, I remember who was with me and what we were doing when I last heard the song, so I settle on silence.
Yet silence opens the doors to the voices—the ones that remind, and admonish, and stab at my sanity with a knife. I listen, get angry, then cry.
It’s a vicious cycle, and I am an easy target tonight.
Tears fill the final minutes of the drive, and then I veer off the highway and head toward the Atlantic coast. I cross the bridge, which spans the Intracoastal, and take a quick right onto A1A, heading opposite of Daytona Beach. I follow the steady stream of cars into Ponce Inlet, a quiet beach town landmarked by the tallest lighthouse in Florida. Slivers of a blackened ocean dance behind the houses and looming condo complexes. Soon the condos diminish, and the houses, boasting great views, sit on the coast, huddled close to their neighbors.
I turn up the driveway of a multi-leveled grey house and park my car. Before I get out, I check my face and notice how my brown eyes, red and puffy, reveal the truth. I sigh at my own reflection and then undo my ponytail, letting my dark chestnut hair hide my face.
With nothing but a forced smile and a jam-packed duffle bag, I head toward the front door and peer through the frosted glass. I ring the doorbell and hear the melodic chimes, a familiar waft of some famous symphony.
No answer.
I ring again, growing impatient.
The door opens with an apology: “Sorry, I was just finishing my makeup.” Courtney greets me with a big hug and rocks me back and forth. She has sun-bleached hair and a killer bod, making her the quintessential surfer girl. “I’m so glad you’re here,” she says, then lets go of me, never really seeing me, and starts down the wide tiled entranceway. “Can you believe this is our last week of summer vacation—the last week before our senior year? The summer has gone incredibly fast, huh?”
“Uh-huh.”
I deposit my flip-flops by the front door and follow her, noting the coolness of the tiled floor. “I’m so excited that you’re here! We’re going to have a blast—the best week of our entire summer!”
“Yeah, well,” I grumble. “It can’t get any worse.”
She turns like she finally sees me—and is no longer talking to her imaginary friend who is eternally cheery. “C’mon Cal. Try to be happy.”
“Woo hoo,” I muster, adding some sparkle fingers.
“Now, that’s the spirit!”
“Yeah, yeah, rah, rah,” I return darkly.
“Did you talk to Caitlyn?” Any mention of cheerleading—and it is usually in the negative sense—makes us think of our friend who is now the captain of Riverside High’s varsity squad.
I shake my head.
“What about Chloe?”
“Nah,” I say with a frown, thinking how the summer has changed Chloe more than any of us. “She has her own problems.”
“So—you came to me!”
“Yep, you were the only one left, Court.”
Currently, I have three best friends: Chloe Preston, Caitlyn Rivers, and Courtney Valentine. There used to be seven of us in our middle school clique called the Seven Cs—a friendship formed by the capriciousness of alliteration. Some moved away, but one, Carly Evans, just stays away from us since she treats being normal like the bubonic plague.
“Ah, I feel so special.”
I roll my eyes. Courtney has never been lacking in the self-esteem department, and no matter what happens to her, she emerges with her big smile intact.
She stops in front of an open door, sweeping her arm gracefully to her side. “And your room, Madame. I trust the accommodations will meet your standards.” She says this in jest, but it stings, reminding of the fiscal disparity between our families now.
I enter the room and drop my bag on the end of the bed. Courtney follows, her phone buzzing with a text. “It’s Ian,” she says. “And he really wants to meet you.” She pauses and offers a grin that says, Do whatever I ask, and then she steps closer to me. “You up for it?”
“No.”
“Oh, come on, Cal.”
“No!”
*****