Shadows

Yellow lines crawled away.  Gaining momentum, stripes crisply zipped until running together, turning to a ribbon splitting asphalt in half.

If one had superhuman abilities, such as freeze framing within optical organs, you could hold onto District 147, a faded muted black stencil halfway up golden canary yellow sheet metal.  Once the part-time driver got the beast over 45, freeze frame became mere memory bored into reality.

Bored out of their gourds, idle chatter rapidly succumbed to nodding.  Field trips, no matter how intoxicating intellectual stimulus created, always drained.  Kindergartners could fall asleep in line waiting to get back on the bus.  Budding teenagers would brave it out, holding up until they turned onto the highway.  High school juniors were beyond putting up a front, getting comfortable before the bus pulled out of the sand-covered, eroded asphalt lot.

Three teachers, all science, one cut from the crust of geology.  Aside from teachers, two other adults were present, mothers posing as teachers on the ride-along as chaperones in case the field trip turned to a dance. 57 hormonally-challenged, synapse-snoozing teenagers trying to keep collective hearts aflutter despite continual monotone detailed explanations of tectonic plates within the Eastern United States, their massive collisions, upheavals, forming Adirondacks, Appalachians and the eastern coastline. One part-time bus driver, a senior and former truck driver who once took a snooze on a 17-hour haul across I-10, dumping a load of avocados and peppers two miles outside Mobile.  No harm done except for a few cars slipping on a delightful guacamole spread across four eastbound lanes.

Continental glaciation. New York Bight Inter-continental shelf.  Moving beaches.  Beach sediment and what a handful of sand can tell the scientific community.  All attendees were required to scoop up a handful.  One alabaster-skinned boy scored a Timex.  A mother scooped up what she thought to be an expired jellyfish only to be horrified holding aloft a brittle condom. Another teen, dressed to impress with new jeans, retro Alice Cooper concert T-shirt and high-top Converse, scooped up kitty scat.  A teacher, unperturbed, droned on about minerals in the sand.

Mr. Levin, clueless about kids as well as the rest of humanity, at least knew his geology.

If the geological information didn’t overwhelm them, the sun did.  Brilliant hominy white, it burned all afternoon, never once deigning to hide behind the cirrus floating lazily low across the horizon.  Hot.  A stop sign, while creating a small shadow anorexic girls bounced around to stay out of the ray’s direct shot, reflected rays off its silver sheen tossing enough energetic heat bread, crumbs from hours-old processed meat sandwich crusts, dried out and burned.

Do you see it?

Not anymore.

How long?

Tough call, that one.

Shaded sand sifted through her toes, choking the magenta flip-flop, flooding its neon yellow band.

Cool over here.

Cool everywhere here.  Everywhere.

Everywhere is anywhere.  Over there?

Right hand flipped semi-east, fingertips flopping over the range towering above beyond the highway.
Nowhere.

Grains stuck on toes, clinging to tiny hairs, nestling between pores after failing to attach to French pedi’d nails.
Nowhere.  Scoot back.  Shoo.  Go away yellow transporter of boredom.

Three eruptions.  Laughter bounced off the cliff, echoing back past the trio until tide sucked up sound. Donna snapped up, her palm print dress picked up by light sea breezes as she twirled.
Freedom, ladies!  Freedom!  Tyranny has been squeezed out like the breath of a drowning cat.

A what?

I don’t know – drowning cat.  It’s what came to me.

I see the drowning, Donna dear.  The cat sounds, coming from you, well… filthy.

Donna brought her dirty blonde locks down to the sitting duo’s level. Holding them off her forehead, turning eyebrows askew, she brought conversation down to a level qualifying to anyone within fifteen feet as a slight murmur.
You think it.  I do it.

Sara picked sand off the fringes of her jeans before raising her hand for Donna to help her up.
Donna honey, you do it – a lot.

A lot is better than…

Than what?

Hand pulling back her hair to keep it off her face, Donna demurred.
Just better.

Uh-huh.

I, for one, am seriously thinking about taking a dip.

Emily stood.  She clapped using her flip-flops, slapping the semi-hard navy blue rubber against her heels.

In what?

The ocean?

Not body of water ding-dong, what’s on your body?

Strip and run.

You are a brave one, for such a…

Conservative?  You Donna dear, have me mixed up with my mother.

Your mother couldn’t be more mixed up.

True. Sad, but true.

Woman’s wound tighter than a dog’s intestines after eating a rug.

Oh, do tell.

Oh, too long. Seriously Emily, I was shocked to see you stepping out in shorts.

They’re not exactly cheek huggers.

Yeah, I see that. Still, I would have been less shocked if you rolled out of mommy’s gigantic Lincoln in one of those ankle brushing white cotton summer dresses.

Great…

It’s not a bad thing, it’s you… it’s… you know.

Emily took her time stretching, rolling her arms up over her head as if they were part of a semi-frozen out-of-the-box pie crust a baker slowly rolled out to prevent cracking.
I know.  Swim?

Nope.

Nuh-huh.  Me neither.

Shits.  Both of you.  Shits.  Fine.  Screw it.  We have what… two hours of daylight left?

Donna, more European than American, loved invading personal space. She got nose-to-nose with Emily, unnerving her with a snapped-off monologue.
Two hours before the giant squid comes out of the Atlantic, snatching all three of us at once, hoisting us in the air with its twenty-foot long tentacles. Three of eight filled with screaming teenage girls, their screams drowned out by the rides on the boardwalk and passing diesel trucks squeezing out their air brakes.

Tentacles?

What I said.

Octopus.

Squid have them too.

Not eight like arms.

True.  OK.  Octopus.  ooooOOOOOh – scary.

Sara, done burying her left foot with her right, straightened up.
Stop it.

What’s wrong sexy Sara?

What were we thinking?

What weren’t we thinking?  This could be one of the best days of our lives.  We have cash, a boardwalk, promenade and two hours, sister.

Or worst.

Baby blue jeans, it’s all planned out.  We’re not going to be stuck here in the dark.  Person has a promise to keep.

What did you have to promise to get a promise Donna?

Nothing that hasn’t been done already.

So there’s no incentive to come back.

Sure is.  Offered you up.

What?!

First, half-balled up so as not to cause terminal damage, hit Donna flush on her left collarbone.

Ouch! Damn, fighter. I’m joking.  Jesus.  I gave up Emily.

Water cascaded as water rushed.  Five feet from their collective 15 toes tidal recession began as the dune darkened directly between Emily’s feet.
Em?  You OK?

Not funny.

I’m not making…  oh sweetie.  No.  I would never.  Ever.  OK?

I can’t…

We know.  It’s not something to kid about, right Donna?

Donna stared past.  The cliff, as brilliantly beautiful as it had been in the early afternoon when Mr. Levin eoned on and on and on about rock formations and sediment, was now becoming more and more foreboding.  Beyond it, promenade lights in a dazzling neon display, began to show off, begging Donna to rid herself of incoming darkness.

Yep.  OK.  Correctomundo.  Promenade?

Go ahead.

We are.  We are.

Can’t.  There is no guarantee.

Of…?

Yes.

No, isn’t.  Right.  But Jesus mother of God, Sara.  You can’t hide.

I don’t think I am.

You’re hiding in the open.

Very well planned hiding, I might add.

Shit, yes.  It’s not like I don’t have anything to hide from.

I know, Donna.

I am not afraid.  Not with us, the Terrific Trio.

Terrified Trio.

Terrific.  Together.

Terrified.

Shuffling.  Side-to-side, front-to-back.  Sand filled.  Sand emptied, building sand anthills behind each heel.  Arms akimbo, each looked in a different direction.  Wondering eyes, wandering spirits wondered.

Cliff shadows grew stronger, absorbing shoreline.  Shadows moved slightly, each girl twisting within their own footstep as each set of eyeballs inspected the others’ flip-flops and sunburned feet tops.

Excuse me?

Three screams, short, slightly muffled by the source of a male wavering voice.
Whoa.  Pardon.  A whole mess of them.  Wasn’t my intent…

To scare the shit out of us?  Imagine if it was.

If it was, I would have found a more exciting way to do it then walk straight up to…

Like we saw you.

Obvious now you didn’t.  Again, sorry.

Arms fell back akimbo with the exception of Sara’s.  Defiant, she folded her two tightly under her breasts.  She continued jabbing as Donna demurely started twisting her locks.
What the fuck do you want cowboy?

Cowboy?

Donna smiled.  Coyly, she brought up her left foot, pretending her sole needed a good scratch.  Palms and coconuts climbed up her left thigh.

She thinks cowboys, my friend Sara here, because…

Sara.

Yes, she is.  I think she may be calling you cowboy because, how is it said in cow country?

I ain’t from around these parts?

All three hooted.  Donna shouted the hoots down.
You got it, cowboy!  Texas?

Is that the natural assumption?

You bet, pardner.

And you are?

Someone who wants a question answered.

Which is?

Your origins?

Ah.  You first.

Oh, a game?

Donna?

Thank you…

Emily.

Was that Emmy?  Your shirt kind of soaked up your voice, there.

Chin out, eyes straight, shoulders back, Emily annunciated slower.
Em…ill…ee.

Thanks… Em…ill…ee. So, we have Sara in sandwashed jeans, Donna – dress, and Emily – empty-armed T.

Very good.

Alliteration.  Helps.

Sidestepping tourist, you are.

Excuse me?

Your origins?

Oh right.  Texas could is a decent natural guess, so I won’t hold that against you.  New Mexico.

You’re Mexican?

New Mexico, Miss Sara.  It’s a state.  Not everyone who lives there is of Mexican heritage and none are “Mexican,” we’re all Americans.

Sara, he doesn’t even look Mexican.

Or Spaniard, Cuban, Puerto Rican, Colombian, no Hispanic in me despite hailing from the southeast corner of the state where desert meets hills.

Still – tourist.

Traveler.  Traveling before all hell breaks loose.

School?

Escuela ha terminado.  The breaking of loose threads – some disguised threads actually wicks to dynamite – making up the crazy quilt of adult responsibilities.

Oooh, ladies.  We got ourselves a legitimate adult male here.

In age, possibly.

With a camera.

A good one.

Large anyway.  Taking photos of sunsets, Mr. Adult Male, or young pretty girls?

Why pretend?  Sorry.  I’m Paul.  Seen any?

Hey…

Joking. Really, I would love to take photos of you three.  However, subjects are merely subjects unless you know a little about them.

You know enough.  Shoot away.

No.  Not yet.

Shifting over so what light was left perched over his left shoulder, Paul kept sun’s rays off the absolute front of their clean-scrubbed Oxy’ed faces.
Girls, I have been here most of the day, spending a considerable amount of it shooting happy kids and miserable parents on the boardwalk.  Sometimes I got lucky and caught polar opposite in my lens, not often. So…

So shoot.

Paul, deliberately with careful ease a trained elephant set its beautiful sequined trainer down to the ground, placed his Nikon on his abdomen without disturbing the strap.
Why did you three deliberately miss the bus?

Stalking us?

No.  Observant.  Photographer.  Question still stands.

There are no short answers.

There is merely a small amount of daylight.

Ah.  Correct.  You win.

And if you take our picture?

Your soul will remain intact.

No.  Can we see it?

See them?  I’ll send the best to you.  Just need three emails.

Shoot.  I am growing bored.

Well, Ms. Donna.  I was unsure of your plans.  Sorry.

Emily popped in faster than an industrial grade microwave turns butter to soup.
We have no plans.

Emily…

Zero.  None.  Fire away.

Automatic shutter shot off once, twice.  Paul twisted his wrists, creating an unusual angle.  Donna and Emily posed while Sara’s defiance defined her.
Why that camera?

35 millimeter.  Digital.

I know that. Nikon. Why?

Fits my hand best.

Donna purred to the lens, pursing her lips.  Leaning forward, she breathily uttered
I am a slave to your lens.  It is so big.  So big.  How big?

18 to 200 millimeter.

Are you at 200?

Too close.  I’m at 18, the wide angle.

You’ll need it to get her ass in the picture.

Sara stuck her tongue out.  Donna deigned to greet the protuberance with a snide
Bitch.

Not denying it.

Emily’s smile blushed the sun.  Gleaming teeth, an after-photo orthodontist’s dream, her top fronts fell right in front of the lower fronts, chiseled to perfection, two peppermint Chiclets.
Emily, that’s one impressive smile you have.  I certainly hope you are showing it off and often every day.  It’d brighten up a nuclear winter.

Shutter stopped after another twenty.  Paul stepped toward the trio, toggling the camera back to show shots.  One by one he flipped.  The girls made him stop a few times, laughed, uttered snide remarks about each other’s hair, hair color, hairstyle, make-up, lack of make-up, pimples, tan level, anything and everything.
This is the best one.  Look at your shadows.  They mirror your personalities.  Donna – come hither; Emily – iconic like a statue; Sara – pensively thinking.

Donna… Emily… and Sara.  Emails?

Donna took a stick, etching one out in wet sand.
Donna!

That’s Em’s.  It’s really the only one you need. She knows how to… or is that how not to be too… forward.

Jesus, Donna!

Paul stepped up, offering his hand.  Sara gripped it with both of hers, giving his a single hard shake.  Emily weak-wristed a quick shake.  Donna stood still.
You don’t have to accept it, however it would be impolite at this juncture.

Donna grabbed Paul by the face, planting a long deep kiss on him, wrapping her tongue around his molars as if it was a starving eel fishing.  She suctioned off him.
Not a big believer in hand shakes.  Don’t exactly know where your hand has been.

Paul, nonplussed, stood straight.
My hands, both of them, are now ready to grip a steering wheel.  Anyone need a ride?

Emily wasn’t as fast as Donna.  Never would be as fast as Donna.  Before she could think about showing some bravado, Donna popped
Waiting for a friend of mine.  He’s coming with daddy’s big old Lexus to pick us up.

Oh, Lexus.  I beg your pardon.  OK then.  Shoving off.

Cliff’s shadow conquered coastline worked its way rolling over the Atlantic.  No shore showed sun.   Daylight dropped. Emily looked over to Donna.
What time did he…?

He’s here already.  I know it.  Off to the boardwalk.

Old wooden steps, once solid planks freshly sawn off large Adirondack Pine stained dark to contrast cliff’s crags, now split open over years of trudging, sea salt invading wood’s wounds.  Unstable in daylight, the haphazard steps were treacherous during day’s death knell.
Donna took lead with Emily holding Donna’s back belt loop and Sara holding her own.
After a few slips, one tumble and no scars, they were in the boardwalk parking lot.  Five cars remained in a lot large enough for 60 plus side spots for school buses, emergency vehicles and tired truckers.
Four cars.  One pulled away as Donna tried to see her friend.
And he’s where?

Probably got caught up… that’s him.  No, wait.  Nope.

Glow from her phone illuminated her keypad enough to find numbers. Emily and Sara, shaking from the sun’s blatant refusal to stay around long enough to warm them as they waited for their ride, huddled listening to Donna’s stilted monologue.
Yes.  Yes!  I wasn’t fucking with you!  No.  We’re here now.  Yes!  It’s dark you toker!  Put down the ganja and open up a curtain!  Jesus!  2 hours?

The phone, however abused, was unharmed upon Sara’s theft out of Donna’s right fist.
Listen you little fucker – get your scrawny ass here now!  Now!  Understood?  Hello?  You little shit!

Is he coming?

What do you think, Em?  Do you think Donna could do anything but fuck?  I didn’t.
Fist knotted up with brown strands.  Sara’s fist took a good swing, catching air.
Let go of my hair!  Donna!

Fuck you, Sara! Skank!

Sara caught Donna’s diaphragm with a left uppercut.  Gasping, Donna let hair loose.
Skank?  I’m a skank?  What the fuck does that make you?

Stop it!  This is not helping!  We are screwed!

The fighters put down their fists.  Emily’s tears came out again, TKO’ing the battle.
You both know the dark…

Car!

Little shit… better be you.

Smoky silver, pewter with a shine, the newer Malibu rolled to a stop.  Passenger front window powered down.
Sorry it’s not the Lexus you hoped.  However, you three…

The trio stared into him.  They looked at each other, opossumed.
Choose convenience over hope.  Get in.

Shoulders shrugged as Donna’s hands gestured toward the Malibu.  Emily shook her head no.
It’s three against one, Emily.  What could I get away with?

Donna and Sara secured themselves in the back.  Emily rode shotgun, quietly whispering…
Thanks Paul.

Asphalt, newly paved, roped black licorice over the cliff onto longer valley stretches. Noise from tires grasping tar fell into the interior, breaking through Paul’s Mingus CD and the trio’s deafening silence.
Lost light girls?

Lost sight.  Thought I could rely on a toker.

And you?

Rear view mirror displayed a clearly agitated Donna, jaw tight, lips down, eyes hard.

Toking?

Not now.

Today?

Not today either.

At least that was sound judgment.

We’re fine.

Three girls alone on a beach in the dark.  No ride. May not have been.

Fine now.

Mingus fell back. Finishing his set, he retreated into holding slot 3.  Slot 4 pushed Miles to the forefront.  Soft trumpet surrounded all ears, rolling around shoulders, enveloping.

Donna raised her skirt to scratch her thigh.  High enough to be religiously obscene, she casually left it there.  Sara, glaring, gently pulled it back down as Donna went for oral to get Paul’s attention.
I suppose nothing illegal for you, right?  Straight shooter as it is said?

In certain times, sure.  On a beach without back-up?  No way.

It got so dark.

Tends to do that Emily.

Paul, Emily has a thing about the dark.

Voodoo?  Boogeyman?

Rapist, Paul.

Jesus, I am so sorry.

Unnatural fear.  Her mother…

Shut it, Donna.

Well… not like it’s private.

Maybe I don’t want complete strangers knowing everything too!

Internet?  Patriot Act?

Shut it!

Sara punched Donna on her thigh hard enough to make her skin flush, not enough to cause a bruise.
Short version, Paul, is Emily’s mother has filed four false rape charges against Emily’s various dates.

She thinks they had nonconsensual sex with her?

Well, yes. No. No. Not with Emily.  With her.  She accused them of coming over just to seduce her into having sex, pretending to like Emily just to get in the door.

Ah, Emily, I’m…

It’s OK.

Not really.

I know she’s seriously certifiable.  I deal with it.

Now when Emily likes someone she’s afraid to talk to the boy for fear he’ll…

Shut it!

Donna’s face fell into a smirk.
Like you, Paul.

Donna!

Oh Jesus, Emily.

Like you have nothing.

I don’t Em.  You have the big house, fancy car…

And the crazy mother.

Got me on that one.

Your mom’s awesome.

My mom still thinks she’s in high school.

Sara leaned over to the driver’s side, whispering between the driver’s seat and door.
She was 17 when she had Donna.  Missed the senior prom.

And most of her junior year, blabbermouth bitch.

Donna gets pissed when we talk about her because she’s acting just like…

Zip it!

It’s true.  Jesus, Donna.  No one’s going to stone you or splatter a scarlet letter on your chest.  You just…

Paul can’t possibly be interested in…

Au contraire. Go on. Information beats ignorance.

Donna, we love you.  We just want you to be more cautious.

It worked out for my mother.

Did it really?  Took her what?  Eight years to get through college?  Her twenties were spent caring for you?  Did you ever…

All the fucking time!

Donna has a friend.

Donna has a stalker, Sara.

Whatever you want to call the dude, Emily. He’s old enough to be…

Can we not talk about it?

Nine and three.  Paul was trained at ten and two, but with the current regs requiring an airbag to shoot out in a front-end collision hopefully saving your life while burning your face, nine and three allowed the bag to do its job.  Ten and two blocked the bag, leaving one with burned arms and a lightly toasted face.  Paul’s burnt eyes looked into the rearview mirror.
Was he at the boardwalk?

Donna?

Paul, you need to get off at the next exit.  Left at the light.

Donna?

What?!

Was he there?

Yes!  It’s why I wanted to stay on the beach and you two to stay with me.

Why didn’t we get back on the…

Because we didn’t.  Because none of us wanted to go back.  Because what we have back are problems.  Your crazy mother.  My stalker.  And Sara…

Seriously?

Paul, our little torn jeans-wearing gorgeous Sara…

Careful Donna, I’ll kick your ass.

You need the practice.

Emily!  You do surprise me sometimes.  Usually those comments are reserved for me.

Donna, it’s true.  Why are you wearing jeans on a hot September day, Sara?

Emily…

Sara…  it’s OK.  Paul’s not going to know anyone involved.

Stores went by in slo-motion.  All stores.  Every big box, superstore, so-called superstore, fast-food outlet known to all humankind.  Donna silently counted all stores she had been in, 17 out of 20, and ones she and Sara had scouted to steal big money from but never did, 3 out of 20.
Sara, you told me you had one bitch-ass sunburn.

Bad bruises more like it.

Emily!

Sara, come on!  I don’t care how old he is, he’s an abusive asshole!

Who?

Her grandfather.

Grandfather?

Her parents, for the lack of a better description, are gypsies.

They are not gypsies.

OK.  They travel a lot from city to city doing odd jobs to make a living.

They send money back.

Great, Sara.  Meanwhile…

Sara, the tallest, had arms a good rebounder would envy. Her jab into the front passenger seat, impressive with its classical twist of fist, was not quite long enough to clock Emily.
He beat the shit out of you in front of me.  Remember? Someone has to take care of you better.  You should move in with me.

Are you kidding?  Deal with your crazy mother?  Rather fight.

Right at the stop sign, then a quick left.

Her eyes.  Sara’s interior spoke more for her than her exterior would allow.  Her wall, while impressive, held no mortar.  Paul moved out.
Whose house is first?

Donna flipped her hair, pulling the bright yellow scrunchy out to free her brunette ponytail.
Mine.  Third house down on the left.

The one with the pine?

If you mean the short pine looking as mentally unstable as a tree can, yes.

Donna had the door open before Paul’s Malibu completely stopped.  He looked in his rear view mirror as the interior light came on.
Another risky venture?

What?  Oh, the door?  I always do that.

Flip-flops hit gravel.  Donna unfolded out.  Knuckles caught the driver’s side window, rapping.  Once unrolled, Donna leaned back into the driver’s side window and gave Paul a big kiss on the cheek.
You are such a sweetheart.

It’s a weakness.

Thanks, good knight.

The Malibu carefully rolled back out into the street as Donna opened her front door.
Anyone have breadcrumbs?

No one’s hungry.

To find our way back.  Hansel?  Gretel?  Anyone?

Oh yeah.  Got it.  You have us as guides… or collective witches.  I’m next.

So Miss Sara, directions?

Back to the light.

Which one?

The one past the stop sign.  Go straight when you get to the light.

Different subdivision?

I guess.  All look the same to me.  Small house, bad landscaping, crappy cars. Emily’s the exception.

How far down?

Oh.  Count five streetlights.

Stoplights?

No.  Streetlights.

Lamps.

Soda… pop.  No dif. That was number three.

Better than number two.

Emily snorted as Sara ignored it.
Next left.

Close enough to walk.

What are you saying?  Should have dropped me off at Donna’s?

No.  Just close enough to walk.  You live close to her.  I’ll bet you walk over sometimes.

Sara, chill.

This house!  Stop!

I can pull into the driveway.

Don’t.

It’s closer, no problem.

No, no, no.  The lights.

Paul put his arm over the passenger seat, turning he looked at Sara.
You need me to come in?  I will.

Sure you would.  Bigger mess if you did.  See, you can save only temporarily.  You can’t stay.

Sara scooted to the middle.  She gave Paul a quick hug from the backseat, hit the dome light switch to off with her right thumb.
Sorry, every precaution you know.

I’m sorry.

I’ll be OK.  Thank you.

You’re welcome.  Hey, does she know how to get to her house from here?

I’m not dead.  I can hear you.

Bye.

The door?
Noise. Not shutting it.  Just go down the block and hit the brakes real fast.  It’ll shut on its own.

Emily, where to?

You can go straight.  Street winds back.

A circle?

I guess.  They called it a lane.

Lane. Circle. Drive.  Don’t know the difference.

Rear passenger door slammed shut as Paul accelerated.
Physics.

What was that, Paul?

Physics.  Laws of motion enabled the door to shut on its own.  Sara had it backwards.

Backward.  Forward.

Emily placed her left hand on Paul’s right.  Nervous sweat created a thin watery plane between ecru and ruddy.
Take a left at the end.

Same subdivision?

No.  Go left.

I’ll need both hands.

Sorry.

It’s ok.

Go about three miles.  There will be an old barn about ready to collapse.

That’s your house?

No, silly man.  That’s the entrance to the drive.

Ah.

Miles, having gone through nearly his whole set, now trumpeted elite. Lone streetlamps, each announcing a new entryway to a more private subdivision, quickly ceded to more elaborate ones.  Single lamps near their archways.  Old-time lamps, hanging low on stone, showed off mouths of winding drives.  Gates, wrought iron ready for Halloween, greeted other guests.

Guess your friends weren’t kidding. Nice area.

It’s OK.

Hand placed back on top, she leaned into him, using him as her pillow.
I’d think that would be uncomfortable.
Is it?
Not for me.  You.
This one.

Wrought iron, lamps slightly swinging, making shadows appear and disappear. Crackling Malibu tires slungshot loose gravel into the ditch.  Winding around a tight S-curve, Paul maneuvered the Chevy close to a berm boasting magnificent Maples bursting with fall color.  Leaves cascaded onto the front windshield as front discs brought the Malibu to a halt.

Can you walk me up?

Sure.  Hold on.

Paul got out, jogged over to the passenger side and opened the door.

Why thank you sir.  Always the gentleman?

Like to think so.

The stroll over red cobblestone, however beautifully framed with boxwoods desperately holding their small green waxy leaves leading up to potted purple and yellow Asters, was too short for Emily.

My mother isn’t home.

Mine is.

You live with your mother?

No.  But if I went in with you, somehow she’d know.

I’m not your type?  Not pretty enough?  Not good enough?

Paul grabbed Emily by the shoulders and turned her to face him.
Emily, you have more going for you than…

I want you to do it.  Do it.  Now.

Not now.  Not right.

I want it done.  I am tired of being…

Being what? You? Emily, you are bright, beautiful and have plenty to look forward to in the future.

And you?

I am good.

I’ll bet.

No, well yes.  But wrong meaning.  I am fine.

You’re a great photographer.

Someday maybe.

Not now?

Not paying the bills.

Are you unemployed?

Paul laughed out loud.

I hope I didn’t scare midnight raccoons.  You said that as if being unemployed was akin to leprosy.

I didn’t mean to…

I know.

Can I see you again?

After school.

After?

Yes.  No other way.  You have your key?

Emily unzipped her beach tote small side pocket. Brass glinted off bug yellow incandescent porch light.
You sure you don’t want to come in?

Want and should are two different schools. Can’t, Miss Emily.

Too bad, but thank you Mr. Paul, for the ride.  Email address?

Still have it.

Paul began the short walk down cobblestone to the drive.  Before he heard the door latch, he turned, uttering
I won’t write you – or your friends – up.

Emily’s voice, however muted, successfully navigated through boxwood.
What was that?

I won’t write you up.

Flip-flops rapidly slapped cobblestone as if hail from a freak hailstorm.
Write what?

Write you up.   Now that I know all your stories, I won’t do it.

What the hell…?

Darkness couldn’t stop translucent plastic from making the identification card illegible.  Paul’s picture, albeit a bad flash photo shot at the local DMV by an elderly man sporting coke-bottle thick glasses, sat side-by-side along name and title.
Paul Lynch
School District 147
Assistant Liaison, Truancy Division

Tags: Adirondacks, Alice Cooper, Appalachians, Atlantic, Converse, eel fishing, field trip, flip-flops, geology, kindergartners, leprosy, Lexus, Malibu, Mexican, Miles Davis, Mingus, Mobile, New Mexico, New York Bight, Nikon, Octopus, photo, photography, Promenade, school bus, school district, squid, Texas, Timex, truancy
Posted in News, stories. Permalink for this post: permalink. If you are a Digg user, please  Digg this post.