Breakdown (Crash into Me) (9 page)

I cut him off with an eye roll and the best smart-ass comment I could come up with. “Because that doesn’t sound like a place the police would go to…”

“Like I was
saying
, there’s gonna be lots of cars, booze, girls—do you like girls, Jumper?”

“Not as much as you apparently.” I rolled my eyes and shut off the water. If William was wondering why I washing dishes by hand when they had already been in the dishwasher he hadn’t asked. I was grateful for it too, since I wasn’t feeling particularly clever enough to lie. Out of dishes now, however, I pretended to look through the cupboards. If I didn’t have to look at William, I reasoned, then maybe I wouldn’t be so easy to read.

“So you’re not into girls?” He stared off at the ceiling as if considering something and went to scratch his imaginary beard. “I don’t know if I’m happy about that or not. Guess it’ll just make my imagination work overtime.”

I opened a cupboard door and pounded my head against it. “You’re an ass.”

Although I couldn’t see him, I got the sense that William was taking a minute to study the license on the table. I hadn’t bothered to pick it up yet, and now I was beginning to wish I had. It was true that I hadn’t wanted anyone to know I was suicidal until it was too late, but my vanity made me care almost as much that this stranger knew my birthday and weight, my eye and hair color as well as the fact that I wanted to die.

“And you’re Charlotte Ferro? That’s Italian, right?”

I hit myself with the cupboard door again. “Such. An. Ass.”

“I’ll take that as a yes then. You don’t look like a Charlotte. Nonetheless…” He looked at the features of my face as if he was trying to figure out something important. I turned away and blushed. “More like a “Jumper” to me, a “Lottie” at best.”

“Will you leave now, or do I have to hit you over the head with a rolling pin?”

William smirked and stood up, stretching his arms to make his biceps look long and lean. “Closing in on the stereotypes of your culture? Very nice.”

Smiling now, I pointed to the front door, sure that if he didn’t get out of my house soon I might seriously think about asking him to be there every time I wanted to die. My human antidepressant.

“Get the hell out of here!”

William chuckled softly while I followed him out of the kitchen and into the hall, giving him a shove as hard as I could. Unsurprisingly, he didn’t budge, remaining at the door where I first found him.

“Thanks for the snack, Jumper. I have a new appreciation for the culinary arts—”

“Stop trying to flatter me and get going.”

He stumbled as I shoved him again, this time more successfully past the front steps and out of the house. I slammed the door in his face and listened to him laugh.

“See you soon, Jumper. See you real soon!”

I watched from the living room windows as he walked down the front path, stopping at Bloody Mary parked on the side of the curb. See you soon? He couldn’t possibly be serious could he?

And if he was, what would I do then?

Chapter Four

With William gone and no baking supplies left, I sat on Mom’s antique walnut sofa, an item Dad had been forbidden to sit on, let alone nap. Yet without Mom around I could sit on her precious couch without her pitching a fit. It was immature, silly at best, but I think it was mostly my way of rebelling within a safety-zone.

It was like flipping her off when her back was turned.

I sat there for so long I lost track of the time, listening to the ticking of the wall clock and watching the sun move across the room. The Reiner’s dog yipped and yapped at early evening joggers, and cars honked at kids who slowed traffic with their mischief. Every time one of the skateboarders fell, there was the echoing of swearing and laugher. The mailman came and went. There was the sound of a walker and its elderly owner making its way slowly down the sidewalk, and bike chains dangling as the Masson boys raced each other. I closed my eyes and tried to replace the sound of chains and flipping skateboards with engines, the smell of lemon pledge for diesel.

I had no idea why the memory of the race made my stomach so fuzzy, but only that it did, and once I acknowledged the feeling did I realize that I liked the fuzziness very much. Yet my lack of awareness on why I liked it so much added confusion into the equation that I didn’t want to deal with. I had never been one for sports, and had definitely not been interested in anything illegal. So why was it exactly I couldn’t stop daydreaming about racing? Was it the speed? The danger? Or was it just that in a lifetime of sitting in the backseat I finally had the opportunity to see the road for myself?

I had to admit that there was something strangely fascinating about seeing so many people gathered for the sake of cars, a modern machine that I had probably taken advantage of my entire life. Obviously, there were a million and one reasons to love a car, but I couldn’t ever having recalled seeing so many people gathering against society for something as everyday as a car, and it had me wondering about the motivation of those besides myself. Why did they all love it so much? Why did William?

For William, I could have attributed his motivation solely to the affection he received from his female fans. Then again, with the way he looked and his charming manner, I seriously doubted that he needed a gimmick like a nice car to get any woman he wanted.  For Mickey and Cosmo, maybe they were just trying to fit in, do what their friends did to be trendy and meet girls. The others, however, were a mystery, one that I was genuinely sad I’d never get to discover for myself if I continued ahead with my intended suicide. Before becoming aware of it, I began considering whether or not if I should go to the race—if only to see William again.

I sat up when my leg fell asleep and the sun traveled far enough across the room to blind my eyes. Without intending to, the daydreams had made up my mind for me, the memory of speeding cars inspiring fantasies I knew could never be realities. But, who knew, maybe William was right about this being a better alternative after all.

Keeping that in mind, I made my best attempt to focus on the invitation William had given to me, even if it was a pity one. I had to admit that it was nice to have something interesting to think about—other than dying anyway. If I was completely honest with myself William was just as responsible for my thinking as the races themselves. Because my mind wasn’t in great shape, I kept them both in my heart for safekeeping, letting them spin around like a car doing donuts.

Eventually, I made myself get up and go upstairs to my room, knowing full well I couldn’t wear pajamas to the race if I wanted to blend in successfully. When I got to my room, the setting sun that came through my windows burned my eyes, making me close the curtains and snap on a light switch instead. Maybe I was being an idiot, and William had only invited me to be polite, but even if he had, I couldn’t stop picturing the way all of those amazing cars had sped away from the starting line, causing an echo of screeching tires under the bridge. Even if I only lived for one more night, I could at least take comfort that my stalling was for something interesting.

If just watching the races made me feel so much, I couldn’t begin to imagine what it would be like to drive in one.

Newly motivated, I went through my closet. After remember how girls the night before were dressed however, I was immediately disgusted with what I saw there. T-shirts and jeans were tucked between a few pairs of slacks and extremely conservative skirts. I took out a short-sleeve blouse and grimaced.

How was I supposed to blend in wearing something like this?

The key here was finding the right camouflage. I knew that, if nothing else. If I wanted to look like I belonged with street racing badasses, I was going to have to work a lot harder on my appearance than I usually did. I stepped away from the closet and glanced at myself in the mirror. Frizzier than ever, my hair was in desperate need of a cut, my tired face splotchy from not eating well and lack of good sleep. This was going to take more than a decent outfit.

I tossed out a few potential tops and sundresses I had only ever been bold enough to wear while on the beach. Overall, it didn’t take long to figure out that a gray tank top with a fading black skull I had worn a few Halloweens ago was the edgiest thing I owned. I put it aside with a faux leather jacket and a dark pair of jeans. It wasn’t great, but it would have to do.

Once I felt somewhat secure about what I would wear, I went through the bottomless pit of a makeup drawer. All of the shadows, powders and pencils Mom had ever gotten me were neutral in color, designed to blend rather than pop. I found it easy to throw them away, leaving me with only a dark mascara, black eyeliner, and a set of green eye shadows that I thought were pretty brazen.

I had stopped using even basic concealers months ago, but the powder embraced my features like an old friend. Using Mom’s oversized bathroom mirrors and bright vanity lights, it was easy to hide my couple of acne scars and the freckles I hated so much. It went against my pride to admit that I did look a little better, and the mascara helped my eyes to look a little wider than they usually did instead of so tired and narrow.

When I was done, I stopped and sighed at my appearance. What was I doing? Why was I even bothering? If I really wanted to, I suppose I could have summed this up to an experiment, a last-ditch effort to do something fun before… before what? I attempted to take another header off the overpass? Trapped myself in the garage with the engine running? Or took my chances with electronics in the bathtub?

It had taken weeks for me to plan out and amp up my courage enough to go out to the bridge. Was I really going to go through all of that all over again? Even if I could gather up my courage to walk out to the ledge again, what if I just screwed it up or got stopped by another good Samaritan?

I was ready way too early and tried bidding my time studying for a calculus exam I was supposed to have that week. Being as how I never planned to take it to begin with, I knew I needed to brush up if I expected to pass. But as I started the trek of going over my notes, I realized that most of my notebook was blank, the margins of the pages filled in with little illustrations of nooses and pill bottles. I crossed some of them out and tried looking through the calculus textbook instead, another venture that also proved unsuccessful.

While I should have tried to stay productive, I gave up on trying to find things to do by the time the sun went down and retreated back to the mirror to examine my appearance. Normally, I wouldn’t have consider myself a vain person—especially in comparison to another certain female relatives—but now I was focusing on my looks way more than I was proud to admit. Still, William had been nice to me even when I looked like a waking disaster, hadn’t he? What would it matter now if my eyebrows looked a little irritated from plucking, or I had a tan line from the summer before? After the miniature pep-talk, I scolded myself and looked away. It was stupid to work at my exterior for a guy, especially if I didn’t like the way I looked myself. Isn’t that what I had silently criticized my mom for? What kind of independent female was I if the opinion of one guy was part of my motivation for my appearance?

Before I left, I put my textbooks and notes away but still, didn’t bother to check the text I had from Dad, or research what the fines and penalties would be if I got caught participating in street racing. It was only as I was pulling out of the driveway that I realized that I left my bedroom light on too. Maybe I should have turned around to shut it off, but something else was already brewing up inside of me, and without wanting to, I had already begun to soak it in—the death-ready me ignoring the need to finish things.

I was about halfway to Devil’s Promenade, contemplating this, when another weird idea entered my head. What if there was no race tonight? What if getting me to drive all the way out there was just some kind of a messed up joke? A cheap laugh at my expense? I had to confess though, even that seemed like an elaborate way of being cruel. After all, if William Do-gooder O’Reilly wanted to see pain—or have a good laugh—he could have just pulled over at the end of the overpass and gotten himself a good view. Hell, for all I could have cared, he could have taken some first rate pictures of my messy remains and posted them online.