The No Seatbelt Song

We pull up to the stoplight at Oak street and Vee reaches forward to turn up the radio. A song I remember from past days is playing. Kim yells along, out of key and cheerful as she brandishes her cigarette wildly.

For just a moment, we're freshmen again, sitting together in the back of Ms. Castleton's algebra class and passing notes about the boys we hated.

And then I've blinked, and the light is changing to green, and River is pressing down on the gas pedal.

And just like that, it's over.

I will not see these people again after this. Tomorrow we will cross the stage in front of all our friends and family and our peers. We will make false promises to keep in touch after we disperse. We will spend one last night together, drinking in the back of this beaten down El Camino and think of all the times we almost, we should've, we didn't. And then we'll go off, not unlike fireworks, yet only half as bright.