“Wait, Wayne,” I tug the back of my sneakers out from under
my heels as I slipped into my shoes and grabbed a jean jacket. I caught the screen door before it slammed and
hurried after my younger brother. “Maybe
this isn’t such a good idea.”
“What are you talking about? We’re just going to see Cara and Jacob.” Cara.
My best friend until two years ago when the car her older brother, Dexter,
was driving crashed into two people from our school before hitting a tree. He was drunk with no injuries except a small
cut on his chin. The car totaled. The two people, Brandon Wilson and Paula
Taylor, dead. Both were a little shy and
quiet and maybe that’s why they got along so well. They had been dating six weeks and he was
walking her home from a movie. It wasn’t
even that late, only 7:30. It was dark,
but Paula was wearing a white jacket and blue jeans and Brandon had tan khakis,
white reeboks, and jean jacket. The street
lights were on and they had looked both ways before starting across. Dexter’s car suddenly skidded around the
corner. Someone who heard the whole
thing said it was just like in the movies: the shriek of the tires, the rev of
the engine, the high pitch scream of Paula (Brandon’s a little lower pitch),
the thud of their bodies, and the crash of the car into the tree. Cara and her family had moved out of town
soon after that, but Cara’s younger brother, Jacob, needed special care for his
autism and the commute was too much. So they
moved back into their old home, which they had never sold. Which led us to today.
