1
11:22 p.m.
Fat drops of rain splatter across the windshield as I watch the speedometer creep ever higher. Curfew has come and gone. It’s no longer a question of will I get home late, but rather, how late will I be. Carole will be cool about it, but Mom will lose her shit. I push ahead faster. The cool air is exhilarating as it rushes through my window and works its way in and around each tight curl on my head. I feel practically airborne as I race against the clock. I haven’t forgotten Mom’s threat to take my car from me if I keep missing my curfew. I can do this. Just a little faster and I’ll be home. If I’m lucky, I might even sneak in unnoticed. Unlikely, but possible.
The sky opens and rain sheets across the windshield in torrents that the wipers try, but fail, to slice through. I fumble with the crank to roll the window up against the spray pelting my face. The dashboard clock advances to 11:22 and the air is sucked from my lungs. Time seems to slow, and I glance at the photo tucked into the visor. My throat is closing! Mags, Neel, and I had crammed into the photo booth for one last picture before I moved away. I can’t breathe! We’re making silly faces, but the raindrops splattering the photo make it look like we’re crying. I can’t breathe! Instinctively, I let go of the wheel and reach for my throat when I feel movement. In my stomach. Scratching. It feels like something wants out.
The car careens to the right. The abrupt shift in my trajectory snaps my attention back to the road. The headlights cast a glimmering runway on the wet asphalt. I slam on the brakes, and the car begins to spin out of control. A cold sweat trickles down my neck. Tires scream against the rough surface below as a panorama of cutting rain and passing lights spills across my field of vision. This is it. I’m going to die.
The car comes to an abrupt halt. I’m looking back toward the way I just came, but the angle is wrong. My eyes lock back on the clock. Still 11:22. My breath returns in shallow clips, but at least I’m breathing. Come on, Simon. Get it together. I gather my bearings and quickly realize that I’ve slid off the road and into the ditch. I take stock of the situation. I didn’t hit anything. Nothing hurts, and the car seems fine, but I am wrecked. I press on the accelerator, the tires spin, but the car doesn’t budge. Shit! I have to make it home, and fast. If Mom takes the car from me, I’ll never see Mags and Neel again. I press harder, the engine revs, and the tires grind deeper into the mud. I’m completely stuck. Now I’m really going to be in trouble. I lean my head against the steering wheel.
My shock gives way to self-pity and fear. Something warm drips down my face and onto my lips. It tastes metallic. Blood? No. Not metallic, salty. I lick the tears from my lips. Movement from beyond the now-fogged-up windows has my hair standing on end.
“Who’s there!” I cry out.
No one answers.
A shadow moves across the windshield, and I close my eyes in fear. When I reopen them, flashes of red and blue blur my vision. A bright light shines through my driver-side window, hurting my eyes. I put my hand up to shield from the glare.
“Kid, are you all right?” a voice says.
The light fades, and I put my hand down to see a police officer lowering her flashlight. I roll down my window.
“Looks like someone’s had quite the adventure. Are you hurt?”
My words stick in my throat like a thick spoonful of peanut butter.
“I’m going to ask you again. Are you hurt?”
Then the word vomit begins. “I’m okay now, but I was rushing home to beat curfew, and then the car was spinning, and I couldn’t breathe, and there was something…”
“Slow down.” She puts a hand on my shoulder. “Tell me what happened. You said there was something?”
I can’t tell her the truth. My face flushes with embarrassment. “There was…a deer,” I lie.
“A deer?”
“Yes, that’s it. I swerved to avoid a deer and now I’m stuck.” I can’t possibly tell her that I thought something was scratching from the inside.
“I see.” She seems dubious. “Are you sure you’re okay?”
“Yeah, I think I’m fine. Just shaken up.”
“Have you been drinking?”
“No, officer, I promise.”
“Well, I’m still going to need you to blow into this.”
She holds out a small metal box with a plastic tube on top. I do as she asks.
“Okay, good. Now I’ll need your license and registration.”
“Am I in trouble?” I hand her what she asks for.
“Just sit tight. I’ll be right back.”
She strides over to her cruiser. She’s gone so long; I can’t begin to imagine what she’s doing back there. I chew the corner of my thumbnail. She must be writing a ticket. Or worse, preparing to take me to jail! My brain won’t stop catastrophizing.
