Young and Reckless
Three
His fingers tap a tune against the steering wheel as he makes another turn along the curvy country road. The traffic jam leaving Chicago is some three or four hours behind us and now, as we cruise through the open countryside, we find ourselves on a deserted scenic route to nowhere. The radio was on but the golden goddess said she couldn’t sleep with music filling the car. The windows were open but the golden goddess said that the wind made her too cold. Now the three of us sit in silence, save for Pete’s tapping tune against the steering wheel.
“Peter, I can’t sleep with you tapping so loudly,” the golden goddess snaps. Behind closed eyelids, my eyes roll. I hear Pete mumble an apology and a contented sigh escapes the golden goddess’ lips. I open my eyes in time to see Pete pulling a face at the goddess’ sleeping form and I snigger. He smiles at me. Not the toothy, million-dollar grin but the charming smile that I know and love.
He pokes me. “Go to sleep, you.” I’m meant to be asleep, that’s why Pete is behind the steering wheel and I am not. I don’t trust him with my car though and I can’t let myself sleep knowing that he’s behind the wheel of my baby. He pokes me again, softer this time, and whispers, “I’m not going to crash your car, promise. Go to sleep.” I should know better than to trust promises made by a man-boy but hours of driving and getting nowhere have made me tired and my protest to his proposal is lost in between the folds of my subconscious.
When we were children, Pete and I, we didn’t like each other. His backyard led into my backyard and I’d always wake up every summer morning to find that my toys were missing from my garden or that the sand in the sand pit had been shovelled out onto the grass. Then I would peer over the top of the fence and see the little bastard playing with my toys or ripping the hair out of my dolls or piling my sand into buckets.
Instead of running back into my own house and tugging on my mother’s sleeve, I’d run to the Wentz’s front door and ring the doorbell. Looking as innocent as possible when Mrs Wentz would open the door, I’d say, “Mrs Wentz, I saw some of my toys in your yard. Could I get them back please?” Mrs Wentz, sweet as ever, would lead me inside, through the house and we’d step into their backyard to see Pete playing with my toys. Nothing gave me greater satisfaction that to listen to him being scolded by his mother.
As time progressed we moved past stealing toys and tattling to each other’s parents. An odd kind of friendship formed. During school time we pretended not to know each other, because when you’re nine-years-old the girls stick with the girls and the boys stick with the boys. But when the school day ended we race home together, grab our bicycles and head down to the lake to skip stones and run around in fields full of flowers. The eighties were a good time to be a kid, oblivious and almost-innocent.
Kids grow up into teenagers and the nineties were a good time to be teenagers, full of it and thinking that you know everything. There were good-looking boys and pretty girls and wild parties in parent-less houses or by the lake. There were proms and homecomings and soccer games to go to. Our friendship turned into a friendly acknowledgement - nods and smiles in the hallways, borrowing notes, turning up barely on time for soccer matches and flute recitals. This summer was supposed to fix that.
The first thing I do when I wake up is peer over the top of my seat to see if Sian, the girl with sunshine in her hair, is still sleeping. From the way her chest rises and falls steadily and the way her breathing is almost silent, I guess that she is. The sky tells me that it’s not quite dawn and my watch tells me that it’s 04:31. I sit up straighter and lean against the car door.
“Maybe we should pull over somewhere,” I say, yawning, “so you can catch a few hours of sleep.”
Man-boy shakes his head. “I’m not tired.” I raise an eyebrow as he stifles a yawn, covering his mouth with one hand.
“Yeah, whatever, now pull over.” Without protest, my car slows down and pulls off of the road into a field of rapeseed.
Pete turns the engine off and stretches his arms, yawning. I climb into the backseat and pull two duvets off of the floor. I place the smaller of the two over the sleeping Sian and drag the bigger King Size duvet back into the front seat with me. Pete grabs a corner of the duvet and pulls it over himself.
“Did you really have to invite her?” I watch as he flattens down the lumps in the cover. “Couldn’t she have gotten to California on her own?”
“I wanted you guys to get to know each other.”
“Why?”
He turns to look at me. His expression is so stern, he reminds me of his mother when she used to tell him off for defacing my dolls. “I’m really serious about her Em, but I want to know, I don’t know... what you think of her?”
In truth, I think that Sian is amazing. She’s prettier than I could ever dream of being. She’s got those silly little girl ambitions but she could actually achieve them. She’s not stupid or oblivious or arrogant. She’s smart enough to know that the world you see in the TV screen is different from the world you live in.
I shrug my shoulders. “She’s alright, I guess.” Pete nods and looks out of the window whilst all I can think about is how he would feel in between my thighs.
“Peter, I can’t sleep with you tapping so loudly,” the golden goddess snaps. Behind closed eyelids, my eyes roll. I hear Pete mumble an apology and a contented sigh escapes the golden goddess’ lips. I open my eyes in time to see Pete pulling a face at the goddess’ sleeping form and I snigger. He smiles at me. Not the toothy, million-dollar grin but the charming smile that I know and love.
He pokes me. “Go to sleep, you.” I’m meant to be asleep, that’s why Pete is behind the steering wheel and I am not. I don’t trust him with my car though and I can’t let myself sleep knowing that he’s behind the wheel of my baby. He pokes me again, softer this time, and whispers, “I’m not going to crash your car, promise. Go to sleep.” I should know better than to trust promises made by a man-boy but hours of driving and getting nowhere have made me tired and my protest to his proposal is lost in between the folds of my subconscious.
When we were children, Pete and I, we didn’t like each other. His backyard led into my backyard and I’d always wake up every summer morning to find that my toys were missing from my garden or that the sand in the sand pit had been shovelled out onto the grass. Then I would peer over the top of the fence and see the little bastard playing with my toys or ripping the hair out of my dolls or piling my sand into buckets.
Instead of running back into my own house and tugging on my mother’s sleeve, I’d run to the Wentz’s front door and ring the doorbell. Looking as innocent as possible when Mrs Wentz would open the door, I’d say, “Mrs Wentz, I saw some of my toys in your yard. Could I get them back please?” Mrs Wentz, sweet as ever, would lead me inside, through the house and we’d step into their backyard to see Pete playing with my toys. Nothing gave me greater satisfaction that to listen to him being scolded by his mother.
As time progressed we moved past stealing toys and tattling to each other’s parents. An odd kind of friendship formed. During school time we pretended not to know each other, because when you’re nine-years-old the girls stick with the girls and the boys stick with the boys. But when the school day ended we race home together, grab our bicycles and head down to the lake to skip stones and run around in fields full of flowers. The eighties were a good time to be a kid, oblivious and almost-innocent.
Kids grow up into teenagers and the nineties were a good time to be teenagers, full of it and thinking that you know everything. There were good-looking boys and pretty girls and wild parties in parent-less houses or by the lake. There were proms and homecomings and soccer games to go to. Our friendship turned into a friendly acknowledgement - nods and smiles in the hallways, borrowing notes, turning up barely on time for soccer matches and flute recitals. This summer was supposed to fix that.
The first thing I do when I wake up is peer over the top of my seat to see if Sian, the girl with sunshine in her hair, is still sleeping. From the way her chest rises and falls steadily and the way her breathing is almost silent, I guess that she is. The sky tells me that it’s not quite dawn and my watch tells me that it’s 04:31. I sit up straighter and lean against the car door.
“Maybe we should pull over somewhere,” I say, yawning, “so you can catch a few hours of sleep.”
Man-boy shakes his head. “I’m not tired.” I raise an eyebrow as he stifles a yawn, covering his mouth with one hand.
“Yeah, whatever, now pull over.” Without protest, my car slows down and pulls off of the road into a field of rapeseed.
Pete turns the engine off and stretches his arms, yawning. I climb into the backseat and pull two duvets off of the floor. I place the smaller of the two over the sleeping Sian and drag the bigger King Size duvet back into the front seat with me. Pete grabs a corner of the duvet and pulls it over himself.
“Did you really have to invite her?” I watch as he flattens down the lumps in the cover. “Couldn’t she have gotten to California on her own?”
“I wanted you guys to get to know each other.”
“Why?”
He turns to look at me. His expression is so stern, he reminds me of his mother when she used to tell him off for defacing my dolls. “I’m really serious about her Em, but I want to know, I don’t know... what you think of her?”
In truth, I think that Sian is amazing. She’s prettier than I could ever dream of being. She’s got those silly little girl ambitions but she could actually achieve them. She’s not stupid or oblivious or arrogant. She’s smart enough to know that the world you see in the TV screen is different from the world you live in.
I shrug my shoulders. “She’s alright, I guess.” Pete nods and looks out of the window whilst all I can think about is how he would feel in between my thighs.
♠ ♠ ♠
Fail or win? I'm hovering between the two...