trepidation, paisley jones

Music blared and strobe lights exploded in rainbow colors. Seniors and a few, scattered juniors filled the house with laughter and underage drinking. Most didn’t recognize one another; they were products of different suburbia and were all required to wear Halloween costumes for entrance. The bass was booming, offering steady rhythm and hardly any lyrics, at least not any that made sense. The air was stale with a stench of cheap alcohol and sweat; their beers almost tasted as plastic as the confetti and glitter that littered the floor and furniture. They were all so engrossed in their dancing that nobody noticed the bits of said confetti fluttering about in their drinks, and Halloween candy wrappers floated among the more permanent decor.

Mini conversations went on in the sidelines, which were barely audible, even to those speaking. Most were friends looking for a ride home, or couples in need of a closet or a bedroom to share. Outside, two girls stumbled on the pristine green grass, inhaling a cool midnight breeze as crisp as the leaves crunching under their feet. The host of this October Extravaganza, well-known and notorious for having killer parties, helped these girls into their car, insisting that they get home. He was worried about their safety, but not so much not to let them drive. The shorter of the two girls spoke up.

“I’m fine Carter, re-really! I’m not even buzzed!” Roaring hip-hop and Top 40 hits could be heard in the background, her slurred words almost disappearing within the noise. Carter looked at the girl and then to her friend.

“Nixon, make sure she isn’t the one driving.” He left the pair with a wary glance but quickly jogged back to his party. As he entered the front door, cheers erupted.

“Every time we come to one of these parties you do this. I think you just like pretending to be drunk.” Nixon spoke with glass in her glance, but laughter on her lips.

“These things are never any fun. Feigning drunkenness makes it a little interesting. Are we going to yours?” Nixon nodded a yes and they sped away from the flashing, pulsating, oh-so-intoxicating house with no remorse. Neither of them had actually had much to drink, and what they did drink barely left an effect.

These girls, Nixon and her so-called shadow Paisley, were only juniors in high school, not so high up in the teenage food chain. They wouldn’t have been invited had it not been for Nixon’s social status, which was founded entirely on being the first girl to be called hot by a boy in the eighth grade.

Paisley rolled down her window and breathed in the brisk autumn air. It reminded her of elementary school when they wrote poems about their favourite fall things. Nixon noticed Paisley’s reminiscing and smiled, almost as if she shared the same memory. Not an uncommon thing between the two; ever since they found that they had the same birthday in kindergarten they’d had plenty of adventures together. Two goofy looking five year olds in matching cardboard crowns started it all.

One slim finger reached down for the stereo and turned on its favourite indie station. This late at night there were no announcers, no commercials, and no interruptions, just a continuous pre-made playlist. A seemingly perfect medley vibed through the speakers and instantly prompted the girls to sing. They swayed in their seats and sang every lyric from memory. Nixon’s house wasn’t far from where the party was, only a few blocks away. But instead of heading straight for it, they took a longer route, savouring the cool night and the music that proved to be the soundtrack to their lives.

They stopped at a twenty-four hour gas station, putting an even twenty in the tank. The “OPEN” sign flickered red and blue lights like a beacon, drawing the girls inside. The interior wasn’t as inviting; spilled coffee stains and packs of cheap cigarettes were illuminated by a not-so-fluorescent yellow glow. The cashier was nice enough, as nice as anyone working in an old gas station in the middle of the night, on Halloween, could be expected to be. She sat up and gazed at the girls with foggy eyes, greeting them with a bland “Will that be all, this evening?”

Nixon paid for her gas and Paisley paid for her fountain soda and the girls headed out again. They couldn’t wander around too much longer; curfew that Halloween had been set at 2am and they only had an hour left to spare. Paisley rested her head against the cold glass of the passenger side window, counting the stars and the scratches in the car door and the number of times she and Nixon had had drives like this. If she could do this every night, all night long, laughing and singing and counting and creating more perfect memories, she would; both of them would.

They had a pact: if either of them were so sad they couldn’t cry, so angry they couldn’t think, or so tired they couldn’t sleep, all that was needed was a text or phone call and the other would be on their way. Sometimes these late night escapades resulted in drinking, or smoking, crying or laughing. But usually they would talk about the things that nobody ever talks about in public. They would share their secret thoughts with each other, unlocking a heart-shaped box of emotions and pain and throwing away the key.

“Snap Out of It” by the Arctic Monkeys’ started to blare through the speakers as they entered a neighborhood they didn’t recognize. Familiar lyrics rose up out of their mouths almost without a thought. Their voices fell into sweet harmony as they sang. “What’s been happenin’ in your world? What have you been up to?”

It was one of those story-book perfect “housing communities,” the kind that holds neighborly events like cookouts and pool parties. Each house was almost exactly the same in design at the basic level; the only differences were the add-ons the family living within it constructed. It was the kind of neighborhood that makes you feel poorer than you really are; the kind that likes to brag.

“This looks like the set of Desperate Housewives,” Paisley bit her lip as she looked at all the sameness. These sort of picket-fence districts were enough to ruin somebody’s self-esteem.

“It does. I don’t understand how people can handle all this repetitiveness. It’s so fucking boring.”

“Yea.” As the two spoke, the song played on without them.

Nixon’s eyes went dull and blank, her features blurring into a palette of no expression. Time seemed to slow and in a matter of seconds things seemed off. Her arm jerked at an angle that probably wasn’t natural and the steering wheel went into a fit. The car started spinning and twirling on the pavement. Shrieks erupted from the vehicle, still audible over the sounds of scratching and collision. Outside everything was a pitch black blur; the houses, gardens, cars, stars all meshing into one terrifying realm.

The turning and twisting made Paisley sick to her stomach and caused tears to spring out of her eyes. Nixon, however, seemed absolutely fine; she was oblivious to the entire mess, just one continuous blank stare out the windshield. She laid there limp, tossed and flung about like a ragdoll, not holding on to her seat or her life at all. Her seatbelt dug into her ribs and neck so hard it was sure to leave bruises. Cliché lawn ornaments flew up into the car windshield, shattered on impact and left cracks on the glass. Paisley’s open window served as a devastating free reign for tiny shards to waltz in and cut her face and chest.

There was one tree on the block, a looming weeping willow with shady branches and tons of shade. This tree took the car into its arms and cradled it, whispering promises of safety. Paisley’s cries ceased as a giant white cloud launched itself into her chest. Time came back to its normal pace as her eyes drooped and her nose bled. A horn wailed and headlights flashed into the bark of the willow as the car decided to go berserk. The collision with the tree introduced thousands more splinters to invade the space between the hood and the girls.

Every house in the neighborhood spit out unfamiliar faces, drenched with confusion and concern. They closed up robes over their nightclothes and padded out on slipper-covered feet. 911 was dialed by twelve different people that night, and they all reported the same crazy accident. Each of these callers took their time describing the scene in front of them, but not a single one of them had the time to see if the girls were hurt, or worse, dead.

By the time the ambulance had arrived, the airbags had shrunk and the worried bystanders had returned to the safety of their homes. The person who owned the willow tree and ceramic gnomes stayed, outraged by the damage and tried to discuss how it would ever be paid off. All of the others peered out through their blinds and curtains, thanking God it wasn’t their daughters in that car. They left their porch lights on as one last effort to comfort the freezing bodies that lay slumped and bloody in their seats. The only noise left was the last, haunting line of what would no longer be their favorite song.

“I want to grab both your shoulders and shake, baby, snap out of it, snap out of it.”

***

Later that night, both of the girls’ families were gathered in the Living Treasures Hospital waiting room. They’d been informed that their daughters were okay, but that they would need to stay overnight in order to finish the tests and ensure that they would be stable at home. They concluded that while Nixon suffered more injuries, her black-out kept her from feeling the pain she may have had if she were aware of the circumstances. Police and doctors asked her what happened and why she swerved the steering wheel; she had no recollection of why or how she managed to cause the wreck.

Both of the girls were sat up in a room together, hooked up to their very own tubes and machines. It bothered Paisley that Nixon supposedly blacked out, that she didn’t remember any of it. Things like that don’t just happen, right? She thought for what seemed like decades about how she would bring it up to her friend without seeming rude, or inconsiderate. She didn’t know how to soften the blow.

“You didn’t do this on purpose, did you?” she choked on tears as the accusation flew out. She couldn’t bring herself to look her best friend in the eyes when she asked, but the gaze Nixon planted on her felt as if it would burn holes in her skull.

“No, I didn’t. But I didn’t really tell the truth about what happened...” She looked to her friend for comfort, a vow that she wouldn’t ever let the secret out. Paisley nodded.

“It was like these voices were telling me to do it. They said horrible, horrible things about how I should die and take you with me,” she paused as she began to cry, taking in new air, “and I tried to focus on the music and keep my eyes on the road, but the words were distorted and my eyes stung. These voices, I don’t know where they came from and I don’t know why they showed up but they took over. I couldn’t control what I was doing. I’m so sorry.” By the end of her confession she had enough water flowing down her face to fill an ocean. Her eyes darted to Paisley, who had scrunched brows and worried eyes as she reviewed the information she’d just received.

“Please don’t tell anyone. Just stick to our story. If anything like this happens again I’ll tell you, I swear. But for now, just please, please, don’t tell anyone.”

Paisley got out of her bed and crawled into Nixon’s, taking her hand and laying down again. For a moment they just breathed each other’s’ air, taking in the mixture of sweet flowers, helium-filled gift shop balloons and that distinct, clean, hospital smell. Paisley looked up at Nixon and took into account the distress evident in her eyes. She lifted her pinky and motioned for Nixon to do the same.

They interlocked and she said, “I promise.”