Suffocating Familiar
First week of June
I always knew I’d end up back here. Fallon sucks you in like a black hole; only the truly determined—or the ones with the right last name—manage to escape its pull.
At the base of the Stillwater Mountains, my hometown is famous for three things: cantaloupe, teen pregnancy, and water that might give you cancer, but they'll never fully admit to it. It's the type of town where the have-haves don’t mix with the have-nots... unless drugs are involved. Where bars outnumber churches, but you’ll catch the same faces in both, and when the neon lights come on, the visiting military scrap with local guys, while bored women egg them on. If there’s no testosterone handy, those women turn on each other instead, comparing claws and fighting over ex-boyfriends neither of them really want. All while hating each other for living in the same shallow pond.
Fallon isn’t a horrible place to grow up, but I’m not sure it’s a smart place to crawl back to. With fewer than nine thousand people, news travels fast and rumors travel faster; a stranger can know the state of your love life before you do. I thought I’d escaped that, but after a few years of drive-through visits, I’m home for good.
And I’d forgotten how suffocating Fallon feels. College was the opposite: I rolled onto campus knowing no one and loving the blank slate. I wasn’t trapped in the seventh-grade hole I’d dug and never managed to climb out of.
Seventh grade is brutal enough, new teachers, hormones, acne. I topped it off by shooting to five-seven with a B-cup closing in on C by age twelve. “Uncomfortable” doesn’t begin to cover it. It was around that time I started to notice old farmers’ hugs lingered too long; Mom started planting me in front of her in grocery-store lines.
It was the first time a boy groped me, we stood in a circle of friends. His grimy hand reached around and squeezed hard. His friends laughed, mine too, and the humiliation burned like acid. A coach later jabbed a finger in my ribs and joked, You’re going to get me in trouble. My twelve-year-old brain couldn’t make sense of any of it, only that I suddenly monitored every word, every movement—never too dramatic, never too loud, never to bring attention to myself.
Almost ten years later, that scared twelve year old girl, still surfaces the minute I cross county lines. Logic says I’m an adult now; panic says hide. I have to push past it, because this time I’m not heading back to campus when summer ends. Whatever else Fallon is—claustrophobic, judgmental—it also feels…safe. That part I can’t explain. Maybe it’s the curves of county roads flanked by corn and alfalfa, or the desert-bonfire smell that clings to your clothes. Maybe it’s Jerry’s Diner at 2 a.m., stuffing my face with my brother and our friends. Or maybe just because it's home.
I was supposed to spend summer in Capitola before senior year started. Then a switch flipped—I couldn’t get out of bed. Homesickness swallowed me whole, and one week after driving back I emailed my coach a half-truth excuse and quit. I should be more upset, but there was no way I’d survive another semester there.
Whether coming back is a good decision, I haven’t decided. I don’t know much of anything right now. All I do know is there sweat is trickling from the back of my knee down my calf.
God, it’s hot.
The Nevada sun beats through the windshield while my ancient A/C wheezes. My brother loaded my iPod with a new playlist that rattles my speakers as I wait outside Jerry’s. Rachel—best friend since age thirteen—called earlier; her brother parked her car somewhere inconvenient and she needed a ride home. We planned to go out anyway, so it wasn't a big deal.
Rachel is often described, for lack of a better word, as a bitch, and I adore her for it. She’s been my ride-or-die since the night she plopped next to me on the squeaky high-school bleachers, offered gum, and—without preamble—said, "My boyfriend dumped me. If I’m alone I might try to kill myself again. Can I come over?"
I was stunned but said yes, called my mom, and we spent the night watching old movies, trolling music chat rooms, and trading secrets. From then on we were inseparable. She is everything I’m scared to be: tiny, gorgeous, mouthy.
A bass drop yanks me back to the present just as Rachel’s messy blonde bun bounces into view between pickup trucks. I crank the window and light a cigarette.
“Hurry up!” I yell. She flips me off. Right before she grabs the handle, I lock the door.
“Mia, are you kidding me?”
“Oops,” I coo, then unlock it and pass her the cigarette.
She inhales like it’s oxygen. “Tonight was dead. The creepy new cook kept staring at my ass.” Smoke slips between her lips when she talks. I used to think that looked cool; now it hurts my lungs.
I should tell her I quit. Don't. Something’s off between us lately; this isn’t the time.
“Oh my god, did you hear about Crystal?” she rambles as I pull into her driveway.
“No. Should I?”
“Got caught hooking up with the new dishwasher. Her boyfriend stormed in and threw a plate at him. I didn’t even learn the guy’s name before she was on break giving him a blow job.” Rachel cackles, hopping out. “You coming?” She leans back in for her purse.
“Yeah, need to call Mom. Be right there.” I flash my phone.
“Quick shower, then.” She rolls her eyes and slams the door.
Even after moving out, I update Mom whenever I go out. I can stil hear her voice telling me, "I don’t want to be that mom on the news who knows nothing when her daughter goes missing."
Rachel calls it controlling; I call it caring and avoid discussing it.
Those two have always had a strained relationship, especially after my mom caught us drinking in Palm Springs and branded Rachel the Bad Influence for life. Even though I explained to her countless times that it was me who smuggled the vodka.
Tonight, I’m not in the mood for her side comments she always seems to have sitting on the tip of her tongue. As I dial her cell phone, my stomach tightens with nerves. I know she has a race in the morning so she’s probably doing last minute prep or already asleep. It goes to her voice mail; I thankfully wait for the beep.
“Hi mom, I was calling to let you know that I got Rachel’s and we will be at her or Brett’s place tonight.”
Why is my voice shaky or is that just me? End the call.
“I haven’t heard from Kyle tonight, but I think he’s with Brett.” I pause, try to figure out what to say next, “Alright, I didn’t want you to worry or anything. I’ll text you if anything changes. I love you, bye.” I end the call quickly. Resting my head back, closing my eyes I take a deep breath.
Why are you like this? You’re an adult. You don’t have to report your every move to your mom. Damnit, you did the right thing. I know. Paint that smile on, you’re taking too long.
I pull down my visor to check my face before heading in. I see broken eyes staring back; I don’t recognize them. Regretting looking at myself I slam my visor shut.
