Wednesday Morning, 3 AM (a short story)

I don’t know how I ended up here. I can recount the events just fine, unfortunately. But I don’t know why I am the way I am; why I didn’t do things differently so that it didn’t have to be this way. But it does, it really does; I wish I could explain why. We never explained much between us and maybe that was my fault—most everything is—but now I’ll never have the chance.

***

I knew she always wanted out of here. I did too, but she wanted it like it was a thing that could actually happen. I think I was born already having given up, but when I met her under the barbeque tent at the revival, the hope I sensed in her was like running through a cool sprinkler on a hot day for me. We were only little girls then, but I could see it in her clear blue eyes. We giggled in the back row, and when she laughed at my jokes about the preacher’s red ruddy face, I knew she at least didn’t hate me. Her dress was crisp-clean and mine had dirt on it from the day before, but she didn’t seem to mind. My dad popped the back of my head and made me apologize for bothering her, but she said I wasn’t any bother. I smiled all the way home.

No one—least of all me—knew why she hung around with me all the time. Pretty blonde who could sing and play the piano with the chunky, mousey-haired girl who never knew when to quit.

For a while I thought maybe she was just bored—everyone’s bored here—and that was alright with me. I showed her the best place to catch tadpoles, and the spot where a mourning dove came to nest year after year, and how to hatch the turtle eggs we sometimes found by the creek. No one else had cared much for that sort of thing but she seemed to love it as much as I did.

“What are you doing?” She once asked as we sat by the pond—I think we were nine or ten.

“See these tiny frogs?” I showed her the one I held in my muddy palm, closing my fingers up again quickly before it could escape. “You find a few and throw ‘em as far out into the water as you can; whichever one makes it back alive wins.”

“Alive? What do they win?” She didn’t seem to understand.

“The race!” I exclaimed. “If they’re not fast enough, the catfish get ‘em!”

“That’s so mean!” Her eyes widened. “Poor froggies!”

For some reason, when she said it, it hit me just how true it was. How cruel. I saw the shock in her innocent eyes and suddenly I thought of all the adorable, tiny frogs I’d sentenced to death for my own amusement, gleefully watching them swim the gauntlet of catfish. Something twisted in my heart and I haven’t quite forgiven myself to this day.

Maybe it was the way I nursed the baby bunnies back to health that redeemed me in her mind. Her dog brought them home one day while we were looking for garter snakes, right after the pastures had been hayed; he had the whole nest of them in his big mutt mouth. Two of them died in the next few days, probably crushed inside by those pit-bull jaws. But the other three lived, drinking kitten formula from a tiny medicine dropper and wrapped in all the rags we could find. When they were big enough that we could let them go by the edge of the woods, we went together and she held my hand.

“Think they’ll find enough food?” She asked me.

“There’s plenty of plants for three rabbits.” I said and squeezed her hand. She squeezed back. I didn’t mention all the boys and their BB guns, or the farmer’s dogs. Her hope was always like a cool sprinkler on a hot day for me.

***

It seems like it’s always hot here. The winters are just as long, and as cold as the summers are long and hot, but it’s like the Midwest is always suffocated by the memory of heat.

But you can see so many fireflies on summer nights and that seemed to redeem it all sometimes, for a moment; them and the reflection of the stars in the ponds. Little lights above, around, below. Felt suspended in space. We caught the fireflies in jars and they’d last a night or two, but we didn’t know what to feed them so we’d dump them out in the yard, dead and dried out. Like everything else in August.

“How was the brush burn? Was it fun?” She asked me one evening, when we were a little older. Fourteen, fifteen maybe. She was always eager to hear my stories, though she seemed to know what kinds of questions not to ask.

“Fine.” I said, dropping my bike and joining her on her porch. “My arms are sore from carrying all the water buckets.” It was dusk, and the coyotes were beginning their nightly ceremonies.


“They made you carry the water?” She laughed.
“They think I’d set fire to all the fields if I had the matches.” I rolled my eyes, still stinging with smoke. “I would, too. Just a couple matches, it’d all go up. Then no one would have any reason to stay here anymore and we could all just leave.” I pulled two beers out of my backpack and opened them by pressing the caps into the soft skin under my forearm and twisting, like my older brother had taught me.

“You can leave without burning everything up.” She said. She did not share my flair for the dramatic. “Just graduate, get a job, save up, and go.”

“Easier said than done.” I sighed, though a thousand reasons for that pressed against the dam of my closed lips; answers to the kinds of questions she knew not to ask. We were silent for a while, sipping our beer. We both jumped when her dog tore around from the back of the house, barking and growling. He skidded to a stop in front of the cornfield, hackles raised.

“I wonder what’s out there.” It was more of a statement than a question, as the dog snarled and slobbered at the stalks.

“He clearly knows, and that’s good enough for me.” Dogs know what happens in the insidious black. I wiped my mouth with my sleeve. “I have some tequila if you have room in your bottle now.” I held up a flask.

“Not too much…Okay, stop. Stop!” Emily laughed and pulled her bottle away. I took a swig from the flask before zipping it into the front pocket of my backpack. “You shouldn’t have that much either.” She said in a mothering tone that was only half-joking.

“I can handle myself.”

“I didn’t say you couldn’t.”

“What do you think’s out there?” I changed the subject.

“Ghosts.” She said it calmly, lightly. Like a breeze; like a matter of fact that she was perfectly fine with. The porch light reflected liquid on her eyes as she stared out into the field, so that there was no more blue in them, just black and gold. The humidity was high and my eyes were bleary. The porchlight-golden haze haloed everything and it must have been the good tequila I took from my dad’s stash because I was already feeling dizzy.

“Ghosts.” I whispered, and a shudder ran through me. I didn’t mean for her to notice, but she must have, because she lay her head on my shoulder. I twisted a golden lock of her long, smooth hair around my finger, like a ring.

When we were little girls, we’d made a pact not to cut our hair until we were thirty years old. It had been my idea. She forgave me when I chopped all mine off on impulse at fourteen, but she kept hers long. I was glad she did. Meant someone could stick to something; meant someone could keep something long-term. I hadn’t seen a lot of that close-up. Everything she showed me close-up was beautiful to me.

***

She was always mothering me; I thought it was probably because she got mothered so hard herself. And I suppose she could see I wasn’t mothered enough.

She tried to talk me out of my first tattoo, the one I got from Rogelio in the kitchen of the pizza shop after hours. He was twenty years old and the assistant manager there, padding his savings with cash he brought in using the tattoo machine he bought on the internet. Said he practiced on his grandparents’ pigs when he visited them in Mexico.

“Pig’s just like people skin.” He’d insist as he wiped down the counters with Clorox. “And I clean all my tools.”
We’d watched him a few times before, while eating cold pizza destined for the dumpster. It wasn’t the best ink I’d ever seen by far, but his customers would walk out with passable Sailor Jerry’s.

One night I brought him a picture of a sparrow I’d drawn.

“Are you sure you want that right on your chest?” Emily asked from behind me as we entered the pizza shop through the back door. “What about when you interview for a job or something?”

“I’ll borrow some of your makeup.” I said, thinking more about any final touches I might want added to my design.

“I can do something like that!” Rogelio said when I gave him my sketchbook. “Yes! Good! Sit down!” He yanked on the back of a rolling chair until it reclined a bit, and I sat.

“What if you get an infection? What if you’re allergic to the ink?” Emily chittered.

I nodded to the rubber gloves Rogelio was snapping on his wrists, and the bottle of rubbing alcohol. “I’ll be fine. Have you ever met anyone who was allergic to tattoo ink?”

“No, but—“

“I’ll be fine.”

“On the rocks, on the house!” Rogelio said cheerfully as he walked up, skillfully bearing three plastic cups. I took a grateful sip of my tequila; I was nervous.

“Hold my hand?” I asked Emily. She sighed, but obliged.

After about an hour I stood in front of the grimy bathroom mirror, pulling at the collar of my shirt. Right below my collarbone, still prickling with blood, was a wobbly little bird. It was different from my drawing; it wasn’t any particular sort of bird. The lines were hesitant, almost flickering on my skin. But the color was bold and unapologetic, and I decided it was perfect.

“I love it!” I said after re-entering the kitchen. I handed Rogelio forty-five dollars, in tens and fives.

“Bueno!” His brown eyes lit up. “Keep it clean and dry!”

“He’s cute, isn’t he?” I giggled as Emily and I exited the shop.

“Shut up, he’ll hear you!” She clapped her hand over my mouth. I licked her palm. “Gross! Ugh. You’re tipsy.” She wasn’t wrong; I’d finished her tequila. “Anyway, he’s way too old for you.” She wiped her hand on her jeans.

“Four years isn’t that much.” I argued, still giggling. “You just want him for yourself, don’t you?” I tugged her ponytail.

“No! No, I—Just go home.” For the first time in our friendship, she sounded genuinely upset with me. I stopped, puzzled.

“Emily, I just—“

“Can you get home safe?”

“Yeah, but—“

“Then go.”

Not much seemed to rattle Emily to anger. I often wondered where she put her weaknesses—with most people I could see. Most people appeared to be hiding them under their chairs, hands clasped and ankles crossed, sweating and praying no one would notice. I, of course, seemed to wear mine on my sleeve. But Emily always reminded me of a placid lake’s surface on a sunny day: bright, easy and smooth. Even when she was afraid—rippled or wind-blown—she was not turbulent.

Shocked at her behavior, I left without another word.
The next day we both apologized, but neither of us said what for. Maybe we didn’t really know.

***

I had a divers’ license but no car, just the four-wheeler my brother left behind. He took the car; I made do. I taught her to drive it but she preferred to ride behind me, arms locked around my waist and face buried in my neck while we shrieked with laughter. Seventeen, eighteen maybe; the neighbors didn’t mind us barreling through their woods—we left paths for the cattle. Maybe I cut the barbed wire in a few places, but no one could ever prove it and that way we had all kinds of shortcuts. We bumped and careened through the brush and over rough ground; we didn’t have helmets but my neck protected her face and I wore a pair of goggles I’d stolen from chemistry class.

I think we felt invincible; I think we felt legendary. I think we felt like woman-kings when we’d pull up, wind-blown and brush-busted, to the Sonic from the southern field to eat chili cheese fries; me on the seat of the four-wheeler, Emily perched on the edge of a picnic table. Any boys present would flirt with her, but she’d just laugh, then jump on behind me and we’d ride back into the woods together. I’d take off fast, to blow dust in the once-arrogant faces behind us.

One afternoon, riding a little too fast for the terrain, we flipped our royal chariot. We were both thrown clear, though, and sat up laugh-crying.

“Are you ok?” We cried simultaneously, scrambling towards one another. Then, “You’re bleeding!” Once we reached one another we collapsed to the ground again, laughing.

“Your face!” She said. “Here, I’ll make it better.” Her lips brushed the scrape on my cheek.

“You too!” I giggled, and gave her a peck on the forehead after wiping the dirt away. The giggles died down as we sat there in the loam, inches apart, but my heart still pounded in my ears. Her eyes were bright, absurdly bright blue, like the pictures I’d seen in travel magazines of ocean water off the coasts of tropical islands. Nothing here, just on the Kansas side of the Missouri state line, had ever been that blue. I didn’t realize I’d been leaning towards the blue, but I must have been—our noses touched. I froze, because she froze, and then I’m not sure who leaned in—I’d like to think it was both of us—but her lips were just as soft as they looked, and close together we smelled like fresh-turned soil and hot rubber. It only lasted a second—but one-thousand-one is still a piece of time you can grasp and hold in your memory, cushioned forever there like a bright and precious jewel.

She pulled back and laughed again, a laugh like big yellow butterfly wings, then planted another kiss on the top of my head and leapt to her feet.

“Help me!” She called, climbing down into the dry creek bed where the four-wheeler lay on its side.
I took a deep breath before rising to my feet. Then, as I was brushing dirt from my jeans, I heard her scream.

“What’s wrong?” I asked as I scrambled down into the creek bed.

“There!” She pointed to a spot on the opposite bank. “It’s a skeleton! I think it’s human!”

“For real?” I climbed up the bank, Emily following at a distance. I approached the cluster of bones in the long grass, my excitement increasing when I saw the curve of vertebrae that looked very human indeed. “Help me move this branch!” I called over my shoulder.

“What? No!” Emily exclaimed, hugging herself. I sighed and grappled with it myself, tossing it down into the creek bed.
“Aw, Em, it’s just a dead calf.” I said, relieved and slightly disappointed. “Come see.”

She approached hesitantly, looking over my shoulder.
“The backbone looked so…”

“I know.”

“How do you think it died?” She asked softly.

“I can’t tell.” It didn’t look broken. It seemed almost in repose there, curled on cushions of brush. Wildflowers bloomed from its eye sockets; blades of grass poked out between its teeth. It must have been dead a long time; the only creature around was a butterfly resting on a rib.

“It looks like it just…gave up.”

“It was probably sick.” I said. “Come on now, let’s get the four-wheeler.” I started walking back, but Emily stood there, staring at the skeleton.

“What if it had been human?” Seemed she was speaking more to the calf than to me.

“Come on, Em.” I took her hand and pulled her gently toward me. “You haven’t seen a lot of dead stuff, have you?”

“I guess not.” She said, and followed.

***

Gas was cheaper then, and Rogelio would let us borrow his car if we brought it back with a full tank. I’d been drawing tattoo designs for him for a percentage of his profits and the privilege of using his tattoo machine to practice on orange peels and bananas; the odd cow hide. Nothing at all like human skin, I confirmed on the night I was brave enough to try it out on my thigh in the kitchen of the pizza shop.

“That’s a lot of letters; maybe do it in two sessions, yeah?” Rogelio suggested through a cloud of marijuana smoke.

“Maybe.” I mumbled, gripping and re-gripping the machine, my foot nervously tapping the pedal.

“That’s not real Latin, you know.” Emily said. “It’ll be like you read too many books and not enough at the same time.”

“Shut up, Em.” Something about the idea of doing it myself was much more nerve-wracking than just lying still under Rogelio’s confident hands.

“You know I love you.” She teased. She’d given up on talking me out of tattoos by now. On talking me out of much at all. Seemed she knew that I was going to be who I was going to be and not even I could stop it, and that she’d decided to stick around anyway. Her unconditional acceptance revived me in that way she always did, like cool water in midsummer.
I smiled and rolled my eyes, then took a deep breath.

It was different than being tattooed by someone else. Rogelio really must have practiced on plenty of pigs and people both before he gave me that first sparrow, because even back then his hands didn’t shake like mine did. Didn’t crash the needles back and forth between too deep and too shallow and back again, with a twitch to this side or that making a small cut.

“Whoa, slow down, chica!” He tried to give me guidance, but I could barely hear him over the clench of my concentration and the flinch of my pain. “You should take a break now, yeah? Finish in a couple weeks.” He suggested.

“No,” I grunted. “I got it.”

“Are you ok?” Emily sounded concerned.

“I’m fine. Look, almost done.”

And a bit later, it was. It bled more than any of the tattoos Rogelio had ever given me, and the font was imprecise (though I’d tried for a somewhat forgiving cursive). It reminded me of my signature from the library card I had when I was eight years old, but it was legible:

ILLEGITIME NON CARBORUNDUM

Don’t let the bastards grind you down.

It stood out there in contrast against the pale skin of my thigh. I’d hoped it would look like a cheer, a rallying cry. Instead it struck me more as a desperate, hopeless plea.
I knew I was born already having given up.

“It looks good!” Emily said encouragingly. “And you’ll get better!” She hopped down from the counter. “Practice makes perfect!” Her favorite quote from her piano teacher.

“Practice makes permanent.” I grumbled, like I did every time she said that. What you’ve always been, you’ll always be. We follow trajectories. Forward motion, in one direction, for better or for worse.
But I don’t think she realized I meant all that.

***

“Sometimes I wonder what you’re thinking.” She said to me once as we lay next to each other on top of Rogelio’s car, two layers of blankets tucked up to our chins. We did this often on clear nights to stargaze, but this was the peak of the Perseids meteor shower. I wouldn’t have known about it, but a few years before she’d found out and every year since we tried to watch. We’d go out where there were only farmhouses—few and far between—to get away from the light pollution of our little town. Sometimes it was too cloudy, but this year visibility was good.

“Like, about what?” I asked, glancing away from the stars for a moment.

“Just in general.” She sighed. “I don’t know. Oh look!”

“I see it!” A bright sparkle skimmed across the navy sky, like it was being pulled by an invisible string. Then it was gone.

“I had this dream the other night.” She said to the void above us. “I dreamed that when we die, we all become one disembodied entity. All consciousness mixing and intermingling together, our beings all melting together. Feeling, celebrating, mourning, all as one. Knowing together, wondering together. In my dream, lonely people wanted to die so they could join this grand communion of souls.”

“That’s…one of the most beautiful things I’ve ever heard.” I murmured.

“When I woke up, when I realized it was a dream…I felt so lonely. That we couldn’t know each other like that, you know? It was like I had the opportunity, and then lost it, and I’ll never get it back. Like isolation is inevitable.”

“Like, we all die alone?”

“Something like that.” She sounded so forlorn. “It just…hadn’t hit me like that before.”

Crickets and frogs filled the silence; two small meteors passed through the atmosphere unremarked upon.
“We don’t have to live that way.” I said finally, and my hand found hers under the blankets. She wove her fingers between mine and moved closer, giving me a warm smile before looking back up at the eyes of the cosmos. In the mostly-dark her eyes were navy pools, their surfaces glimmering with the slightest movement. They seemed deeper than the sky was high when she looked at me like that. I gazed at her face a little longer once she turned away, starlight making the lines of her profile glow silver.

“Not as long as we’re together.” She sighed and squeezed my hand. I squeezed back, hard, bursting with things I didn’t know how to say.

We never explained much between us, and that was probably my fault—most everything was.

***

There was an altar call at her mom’s funeral, with an open casket. I’d never seen it done that way, but I guess her dad thought that’s what her mom would have wanted. I’m sure it wasn’t the same red-faced preacher from the revival all those years ago, but it might as well have been. He was just as loud, spewed just as much fire and brimstone. I could almost smell barbecue. We didn’t laugh this time though; couldn’t even sit in the same row. I wanted to; I wanted to hold her hand while she cried. But family sits up front, so I just picked a seat where I could watch her the whole time. As if my watching could protect her from the most jagged edges of grief.
I never knew her mom that well—honestly her mom never cared for me and I can’t blame her. But Emily had lost something irreplaceable, so I mourned too.

Her eulogy was beautiful. It was no wonder she took it for granted that she’d one day get scholarships to some out of state university and get away from this town. She was more than smart enough. She’d be a pianist, or a music teacher in a wealthy neighborhood. Somewhere warm; she’d talked about Florida. I guessed I’d chill with Rogelio; keep drawing tattoo designs for him. We split the profits more evenly now. Smoked them too; made out on his couch a few times while we were high. His eyes always lit up when he saw me, and I didn’t mind spending time with him like we did when Emily was practicing, or studying. He was teaching me Spanish. Once I complained about how hard it was to learn, and he stared at me for several minutes until I got the point: he’d had to learn English fast when he moved here, with no congratulations—often with mockery for his accent—and here I was complaining about a few words of his native tongue that he was teaching me with patience. He was kind. Handsome. Loved his family. Artistic. I’d definitely grown to care for him, in some type of way. He’d gotten promoted at the pizza shop; I cashiered at the general store. Maybe between the two of us we could make something decent here. Some girls in the high school said they wouldn’t want mixed-race babies, cause then their kids wouldn’t look like them, but I didn’t see how that mattered. As long as you loved someone.

Whatever that meant.

I guessed I’d just stay here like always, while Emily moved on to bigger and better things. That had always been the plan. My plan, anyway. Emily would talk about me getting into some college too; coming with her, us rooming together in the dorms like girls in a sitcom. I’d go along with her, how great that would be, but she wanted it like it was a thing that could actually happen. Her hope was as precious to me as ever…but I knew better. I knew where we each belonged, as much as I hated to be away from her. She was a citronella candle; she shed golden light and it was like the bugs didn’t bite when you were around her. She had a reason and a purpose, blessing everyone around her. It only made sense that she would take that beyond us, beyond this place. She had to.

It put me out of sorts, then, when Emily’s trajectory was interrupted. She stopped practicing. Studying. She stopped doing much of anything.

“My dad wants me to get a job.” She said to me one day, monotone, once again sitting side by side on her front porch.

“Yeah? How come?” I asked. Up to this point, her parents had encouraged her to focus on her music and academics.

“Mom—“ Her throat caught. “Mom brought in most of the money,” She took a deep breath. “We’re not sure how we’re going to be able to afford for me to leave now.” I could tell she was holding back tears.

“What about the scholarships?” I asked. “Didn’t you get—“

“No!” She snapped, then softened. “No, they’re not enough. And anyway, Dad has a lot of debt…”

“That’s not your responsibility.” I sounded overly-cynical.

“Well I’m not just going to leave him alone! He’s not like—“ She stopped short.

“Not like my dad. I know. No, it’s fine.” I sighed, and reached for her hand. As if the physical contact dissolved her foundation, she collapsed into my lap.

“I hate it here!” She sobbed. “I thought I was getting out…I thought…I miss my mom. I’ve always hated it here but it’s so much worse without her.”

“I know, I know.” And I did, I always did. I wrapped my arms around her and kissed the top of her head. “It’ll be ok.” I whispered.

“How?” She gulped through tears.
I didn’t know, and that was agony.

***

Her depression was crippling. It looked like her dad’s was too; their once-pristine house was piled with clutter and empty take-out containers. She hadn’t invited me inside in a while, but I saw the day I came over with some THC brownies I’d hoped would cheer her up and get her to eat something. Jeb at the local greenhouse had taught me how to make them; boil the plants in a butter mixture for a good long time and then strain it—the butter’s the good stuff now. I’d never baked in my life till then, but I thought maybe if I said I made them myself she’d eat them.
When I knocked on the door, it came open a crack.

“Hello?” I called into the dim entry hall. “Em?” No one answered, but I heard movement upstairs. “Em? That you? It’s me; I have a surprise for you.” I stepped in and flipped the light switch. Their dog ran down the stairs and snuffled my hands. “Hey bud,” I said, scratching his ears. He looked thin. I poked my head into the grimy kitchen and saw that his food and water were empty. “Em,” I called in the direction of the staircase, “I’m going to feed Buzz real quick, then I’ll be up.” No answer. Maybe she was in the shower? But I couldn’t hear the water running. Then, a thump. “Emily?” I started climbing the stairs.

“No!” Finally I heard her half-sob from behind the closed door of her bedroom. “Don’t come in here!”

“Emily what’s wrong?” A brownie slid off the plate I was holding as I sped up. Something didn’t feel right at all.

“I’m fine.” She seemed to be gasping. “Don’t—“

I opened the door, and the plate fell from my hand. “Emily, no!” I fell to my knees next to her on the floor beneath the ceiling fan, amidst a pile of a rope that was still looped around her neck.

“I’m sorry!” She sobbed, crawling into my lap. “I’m sorry!”

“Oh Emily!” I hugged her to me, my tears glinting in her golden hair. “Please, please no. Never again. I couldn’t…I…”

“I won’t.” She looked up at me, red-rimmed eyes and red-ringed throat, blue eyes pricked brightly with a thousand points of grief.
My chest hurt like it was being crushed. A sob caught in my throat and without thinking I bent and kissed her. Before I had time to re-think my impulse, she was kissing me back. We clung to each other for I don’t know how long, tears mingling, crumpled there on the floor.

***

It’s not like I’d never brainstormed desperate measures before. Things I’d do to get out of here, if only I were brave enough to do them. Things only done by those who never deserved to get out in the first place. But it wouldn’t be for me. I was born having given up on myself, but I’d be damned if I’d let either of us give up on Emily. Desperate times…

I stewed as I drove around our little down, a half-drunk flask of vodka tucked between my thick thighs. “Janet’s”, read the sign of the local bakery that only stayed in business because there was no competition. The name “Janet” sounded crass in my raw mind, and sharp, like the sting of a yellow jacket. Or when you’re chewing something crunchy and bite your tongue. A name you’d expect to find in this flat little town. This town with barely-patched roads and ragged lawns, full of houses with peeling paint and blankets tacked up inside the windows with their air conditioning units that hung lopsided from the sills. Tilted lots surrounded by chain link fences that separated the dogs from the bitches, the pit-bulls from the children. Kids were playing with broken toys in stray-cat-soiled sandboxes, passed over by the vacant eyes of adults in stained clothing, cigarettes dangling from their slack, jaded lips.

My house was one of these. I parked Rogelio’s car a ways down the street and walked the rest of the way. As I went up my driveway, I guessed my dad was passed out inside; I couldn’t see any lights through the windows. My steps lightened instinctively even before I reached the door. I tried the knob; he often forgot to lock it. It turned, and I sneaked inside. Normally I wouldn’t mind banging around and making him regret another bender, but this time I didn’t want him to know I’d come in.

It was on the top shelf of the coat closet, where it always was; where he’d always take it from when he wanted something to swing around to emphasize his drunken rants. And it was loaded, just like he always swore it was. Didn’t even have a safety.
I grabbed it, a bottle of tequila, and what little cash there was from under the sink, then stopped by the phone in the kitchen. I dialed Emily’s cell.

“Hey Em,” I said as softly as I could and still be heard on the voicemail. I could hear my dad snoring somewhere else in the house. “Meet me at that blue motel in Cleveland tonight; the one we used to make up stories about. We haven’t had a sleepover in a while. Might take your mind off things. See you there.” I’d explain everything then. I hung up the phone and slipped back out of the house, unnoticed.

***

“Rogelio!” I called as I stumbled from the car outside the pizza shop. “I need a ride!”

“Why?” He asked, standing up from where he sat to take his smoke break. “You don’t look so good.”

“I’m fine.” I said, though my head was a little fuzzy. “I just need you to drive me to the liquor store, and then to the motel, the one by the Shell station in Cleveland.”

“Then can I have my car back?” He asked in exaggerated irritation.

“Sure, all to yourself.” I promised.

“Chica, what have you been drinking?” He asked when he got closer to me. “Good thing you asked me to drive.”

“Yeah, yeah; just drive.” I slouched into the passenger seat.

“What’s with the hat?”

“I’ve always loved the—“ I took the cap off to look at the logo. “Chiefs.”

“Uh-huh. You ok? You need somethin’? You in trouble?” Rogelio looked genuinely concerned.

“I’m fine.” I said, maybe a little too lightly.

“Aren’t you hot in that?” He nodded to the oversized black hoodie I wore as we pulled onto the highway.

“I’m fine.” I insisted. “Drive faster.”

“Why?”

“Just do it.” I turned the radio on, and up. He accelerated, and I sped the road up in my mind; I imagined us barreling down the paved straightaway with the dead yellow grass all around. I rolled my window down, took off my cap and leaned out, the wind whipping the ends of my short hair against my face until it stung. It filled my nostrils forcefully; I pretended breathing was no effort of mine. I don’t know what was being blown away from me as I hung out the window—Rogelio was hanging onto my belt loop and saying something—but whatever it was the wind was pushing it off my skin and through my hair and far, far away from me and it felt spiritual; like redemption of everything I ever was and in advance of every sin I’d ever commit, like an infant baptism.

Out here there was always gravel somewhere; if it didn’t cover the roads it was at least on the shoulders of the paved stretches and if you weren’t careful it would grab your tires and pull; could flip you right over into the ditch. What if I grabbed the steering wheel, yanked it over? Maybe first we’d spin out; the yellow-gray world would spin around me dizzily until a tire caught the gravel and we’d skid to the side. I’d crash into Rogelio as the car jolted; our hair would stand up on end as we flipped upside-down. I’d hit my head, blood streaming into my eyes, as he yelled in Spanish and shielded his face from the shattering glass.

Maybe we’d land right-side-up, bumps and bruises; cry then laugh and hug and say “Fuck, wow, that was…that was something.”
Maybe we’d land upside-down and one of us would crawl from the wreckage and the other wouldn’t. One of us would sob and the other would sway quiet, suspended limply from the seatbelt.

Maybe neither of us would crawl free.

I kept my hands clasped tightly around my cap, eyes closed, the wind in my face until I felt us slow down.

“We’re here.” Rogelio announced. He’d parked right in front. I’d hoped he wouldn’t do that, but it would be weird to ask him to move.

“Ok, wait here. I’ll be right back.”

“You sure? You don’t look so—“

“Wait here.” I demanded. He raised his hands in surrender, and I stepped out of the car. I pulled my cap down low on my forehead. With each step toward the door, I could feel my heartbeat speed up.
I almost jumped at the jangle of the entry bell. I took a deep breath—it sounded ragged in my ears—and stalked around to the back, trying to calm the hammering in my chest. I shuffled up the aisle of red wines, pretending to read labels. Sweat was starting to soak the rim of my Chiefs cap. I mumbled some song under my breath, inhale and exhale, but I don’t remember which one.
I glanced up and I was at the cash register. The bored, bearded cashier was staring at me as if he’d just asked me a question and was waiting for an answer. I held a bottle of Cabernet by the neck, gripping and re-gripping it in one hand while the other clutched the handgun in the front pocket of my hoodie. I felt a droplet of sweat trickle down the side of my face; the edges of my vision seemed blurred.

“Ma’am?” The cashier’s voice sounded garbled.

“This.” I demanded, and slammed the bottle of wine down on its side in front of the register. A trickle of translucent red ran out from beneath the glass.

“You still have to pay for that.” The garbled voice mumbled.

“Give me all the money.” I was pointing the gun in his face, an inch from his bushy beard.

“Holy shit lady—“

“Give me it!” I shrieked. My voice hurt my own ears; I forgot how to make sentences. There were shapes and colors around me and the sunlight in the windows was bright. I winced at the ring of the register opening and tried to focus on the face before me as I stuffed cash into my pockets and my purse. My throat felt like it was closing; I could smell the cigarettes of the past ten patrons. The cashier was saying something but all I heard was a jumble. I jumped and flinched at sounds that may or may not have occurred.
I heard the jangle again, and my arm swung around. I heard words that the back half of my brain understood in a voice it took me two seconds too long to recognize. My knees probably hit the ground at the same time his body did, because the moment my finger twitched on the trigger I recognized Rogelio’s face, backlit by the bright sunlight in the doorway. Coming in to check on me.

I could hear the cashier’s garbled voice in a one-sided phone conversation as I scrambled on all-fours toward my friend, choking on my own sobs. Blood was pouring out from the gory flesh-rose in his throat. His face was already pale by the time I reached him, his mouth gaping open and shut like a fish on land.

“No no no no no” I gasped and cried, flailing for something—anything—to fix this.

“The police are on their way! The police are on their way!” I finally realized what the cashier was saying over and over.

“No no no no no” My trembling hands held Rogelio’s face as it ceased movement; as his whole body shuddered and went limp. I pushed myself away in horror, and scrambled from the store.

“Shit shit shit shit.” I tried with all my might to shove the keys into the ignition. I seemed to stab them everywhere but in. Finally, I managed it. I careened out of the parking lot. My knuckles were white on the steering wheel by the time I reached the motel. In a moment of miraculous clarity I thought to drive the car a couple of miles away and deep into a field. Then I walked back to the motel, thanking a god I didn’t believe in that I’d made the reservations in Emily’s name.
In the room, I took a shower with only hot water. Then one with only cold water. I couldn’t feel it. I could barely breathe.
The bright floral wallpaper and the white checkered linoleum of the bathroom made me dizzy. I looked up, my eyes clawing for some neutral space, but they were met with a popcorn ceiling sprayed with silver sparkles instead of the smooth white sheetrock I’d been hoping for. Suddenly, violently, I began to dry-heave. I almost knocked my head against the wall as I doubled over, clutching my stomach. I heaved myself up and spat bile into the sink, then shakily turned the water on again. I thrust my face beneath the rusty showerhead, hard water in my eyes and up my nose. Goosebumps rose over my skin. I swallowed the hard lump in my throat again and again and again. Finally, finally I felt I could breathe. I turned the water off. I wrapped myself in a towel, then in a white bathrobe thin as paper.

I’m not sure how long I sat on the edge of the plank-like queen mattress before I heard the knob turn. I leapt to my feet, heart racing, but relaxed when I heard her voice.

“They told me you’d already checked in.” Emily closed the door behind her and locked it. She’d always been wary of these cheap motels. “What did you want to meet me for?” She asked, looking quizzically at my getup.

“I just—“ I secured my robe tie. “Thought we could get our minds off things. Have a sleepover like we used to, except, well, somewhere different.”

“That’s a good idea.” She smiled.

“I meant to get some snacks for us but things didn’t really work out.” I ran my fingers through my damp hair.

“That’s fine.” Emily sat cross-legged on the bed next to me. “There’s a gas station across the street; we can get some stuff there.”

“You wanna go? I’m…” I gestured to my state of dress.

“I’ll be right back.” Emily laughed, and I felt a cool sprinkler in the heat.

It was like it used to be, sort of. We ate cheese puffs and gummy worms and by-the-slice gas station pizza. We watched late-night TV movies and made fun of them; I braided her hair and then combed it out again. We laughed about things we did as kids; silly things we believed. Avoided mentioning the silly things we still believed.
And eventually, as usual, she fell asleep. She always fell asleep before I did, but this time I didn’t sleep at all. I worked desperately to keep the inevitable thoughts at bay. I stared at the red characters on the clock.

WED 3:00 AM.

She’d know, before too long. She’d know what happened; that I really couldn’t leave without burning everything down. But I’d be gone by then. I’d just keep driving, until I found another car. Then I’d keep driving more, I guessed. I didn’t know what next. I didn’t know why I did the things I did. Why things had to turn out this way. It almost seemed predestined. As if all the bad decisions were mine, yet at the same time, I didn’t have a choice.

I’d planned to use the money to get us both out of here. I thought we’d take it and take off together, do something different, be someone different, because anything was better than what we were leaving behind. But in my panic I’d only made it to the motel with twenty-five dollars and change, plus whatever cash I’d grabbed from my dad’s—I knew that was barely worth counting. I needed every cent to get as far away from here as I could. Even then I might decide I didn’t deserve to keep taking up space, but for now…

I looked at Emily, sleeping peacefully. The moonlight through the window drained the color from everything but her hair, sparkling like spun gold on the pillow. Her chest rose and fell gently; a goddess in cheap hotel sheets. Had the events of the previous day really occurred? Had I been dreaming? Or was I dreaming now?

No, no dreams. It was time to go.

I committed the vision-like image of Emily to my memory and brushed my lips gently against her forehead. In a few hours the sun would rise, and I meant to be gone by then. I dressed quietly, silencing the jingle of Rogelio’s keys in my palm, and slipped out into the street-lit dark.
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