Exordium
We are the beginning of some forever, only waiting for this present time.
FOUR MONTHS EARLIER
Late, I tore into the student parking lot at the back of the building. It was the last week of my sophomore year, and tensions were at their peak. I couldn’t be late. Our finals, mixed with cabin fever, were a Molotov cocktail of breakdowns and mid-day dance parties in the cafeteria. Not gonna lie, the dance parties were my favorite part.
This was the reason, I would later tell myself, that I failed to see the motorcycle. And whoever said, “Everything happens in slow motion,” well...this didn’t. It happened in a single heartbeat. I didn’t register the horror of watching the bike and the guy fall over. I didn’t see the metal beast trap this stranger under it.
There were so many things I didn’t see or know. I didn’t know that I had just hit the love of my life in my mom’s decrepit old Lexus. I didn’t. I failed to see that beautiful head of chocolate colored curls.
Some say you are supposed to run towards the one you love, but I ran from it, from him. Unintentionally, of course. I was panicked. What do you expect? I reversed the car with equal swiftness and hit Heather Price’s Jeep Grand Cherokee.
Dumb and cataclysmic things happen when people are under this emotional duress. I blame my teachers, parents, and sister for putting this much pressure on me. Stress doesn’t begin to cover it.
“Do well in school.” “Did you study?” “Zara, get up. You’re going to be late.” The last one was just that morning.
Heather yelled something at me, and her tone suggested that she took the vulgar route. I ignored that, too stressed to respond. I really didn’t need this in my life—not now.
Until this moment, my year was unscathed. My reputation was intact. I floated in and out of friend groups. The artists, the dance squad. I was social and unaffected.
Given everything that just happened, you would think the accident was the worst part. It wasn’t. And it wasn’t when I fled the scene of her crimes. No, the stupidest and most sophomoric thing I did was park my mom’s paint-faded car cattywampus in the parking lot aisle.
This lacked the art of blending into the background. All the neon signs in the world were pointing, “If you are looking for the idiot who did this, right here.”
By the time I got to my first class, I was flushed and about ready to pass out. Still, I made it. Too bad, as soon as I sat down, the bell rang in the hallway.
An even better stroke of luck; it was almost my last day of school. As long as I avoided Heather, I could slink home without looking back.
I tried to ignore the weight of guilt, but it wouldn’t leave me. I dug my nails into the palm of one hand while gripping a number 2 pencil in the other. I broke two pencils that day—more innocent victims.
By the time I returned to the scene of my crimes, the student parking lot was emptied of everything but my mother’s car, her prized Lexus. It was dented already and not worse for wear.
The car became a sanctuary. I ran to it and jumped into the driver’s seat, praying it would start. I couldn’t bear it if someone saw me now. I eased on the gas and took off towards home, prayers answered for now.
The following day, I rode with her sister to school. She was smug, of course.
I slinked into the building. I looked down the hall in each direction before opening my locker. And yet, I still failed to see Heather, whose face was now inches from hers, sneering.
“We’re going to sue you?”
I leaned away from Heather, who was too close and too much for 7:00 AM in the morning, but I banged my head into the locker. “What? Your Jeep has no damage,” rubbing the goose bump on my head.
Heather was the type who would sue. I met Heather’s parents once at a band concert, and they were nice. It was hard to believe Heather was related, but I trusted my queasy, grumbling gut that this was Heather’s bluff.
“Just wait.”
I leaned further back into my locker, not wanting to find out if there was more. Just let me get through the day. My thoughts took on a begging tone.
It was the last day, and if Heather’s lingering Juicy Couture perfume was the only thing to follow me the rest of the day, I would be fine.
What, then, about the helmet-wearing motorcyclist? Did he see me drive away like I was pulling a bank job?
The guy in question was a transfer student. There was a wellspring of gossip already circulating. His name was Nathaniel, and he transferred from Clarington Prep.
Whispers suggested that his parents had a lawsuit against the academy for religious exclusion. They were Jewish. She didn’t know anyone Jewish. I hope forgiveness was a tenet of their faith.
I also learned that yesterday, the dreadful day, was his first day. Apparently, I was on the welcome committee from hell.
So, when I saw him in the hallway later in the day, I started to believe that the whole thing might be fate. He was gorgeous. Those curls, as I already mentioned, framed his handsome face, and dare I say it, kissable face.
Except it wasn’t fate. He didn’t see me, or instantly forgive me. He didn’t see me at all.
Thankfully, he wasn’t seriously injured, though the grist in the mill provided no strong diagnosis as to the type of injury. Was it a bruise or a sprain? The gossip was unreliable on this point.
I wanted to apologize, but another student, Liam, was always there, helping Nathaniel get to each class. I refused to apologize in front of Liam.
By the time the day was over, nothing more was seen of Heather. The perfume dissipated, and I was left to daydream about those curls.
I could see it now, a little house, children playing in the yard by the sea.
It has to be fate. One day, the kids will laugh when we retell the story of the day their mom hit their dad with her car.
Le
