Page 54 of Nothing Less than Magic
There’s a football game on the television, but no one seems that interested. Maybe because it’s not the 49ers. There’s country-western music playing on the sound system, a definite switch from Miles Davis. I don’t recognize the song, but unless it’s a classic, I wouldn’t.
“Have we met before?” Sienna says over the din. “I recognize you from somewhere.”
My go-to would be the TED Talks or the books, but I know exactly where she knows me from. “We met, though not formally, at Knox’s house the day you came to borrow Katie’s ski pants.” For some strange reason, I fixate on the fact that Katie’s ski pants would be much too short for Sienna, but for all I know, she was borrowing them for someone else.
“Oh, that’s right.” She takes a good look at me. “You look different, though. The same but different.”
I stare down at my jeans and sweater. “I wasn’t dressed at the time. I mean, I was dressed but not dressed.” I’m usually not so inarticulate. “I’d just gotten out of bed and was in a robe.”
“Right.” She nods, but I can see she’s already thinking about something else. “Are you Knox’s girlfriend?”
“No. We’re friends.”
“That makes sense. You don’t at all seem like his type.”
I wonder if I’m supposed to be offended. “What’s his type?” I ask.
“Me.”
This is where if I wanted to be a mean girl, a competitive girl, I would grin and say, “Not anymore.” Instead, I successfully clutch all four drinks in my arms and walk away.
On my drive home, I get pulled over by a Ghost police officer. It’s only the second time a cop has ever pulled me over. The first time was in college, when one of my taillights was out. He didn’t even give me a fix-it ticket, just made me promise to have it repaired.
This is all to say that despite being a mature, professional, competent woman, I’m so flummoxed by the flashing lights that it takes me ten minutes to find a place to pull over. The crazy part is that I head in the direction of Misty’s bungalow before I finally settle on a well-lit gas station. Because I am, or was, the daughter of a cop, I keep my hands on the steering wheel, even though my first impulse is to rifle through the glove box for my proof of insurance, then through my wallet for my license, so we can move this along. For the life of me, I don’t know what I did wrong to get pulled over.
Then I remember the two drinks. While I’m nowhere near impaired, I’m petrified he’ll give me a Breathalyzer test.
He’s out of his car and motioning with his finger for me to unroll my window.
I crack it enough to have a conversation, letting in a rush of cold air. “Good evening, officer.”
“Ma’am.” He tips an imaginary hat. “License and registration, please.”
I flip down my visor and hand him the registration, then slip my driver’s license out of its plastic holder, debating with myself whether I should ask him why he stopped me. I opt to wait, preferring not to draw any more attention to my possible Ghost Ghoul breath than I have to.
He takes my information back to his patrol car, leaving me there to watch him in my rearview mirror and explore all the bad places this can go. At least I know a good lawyer. Unfortunately, Austin is the wrong kind of lawyer, and I’m not even sure we’re still talking to each other anymore.
The police officer seems to be taking an inordinately long time. It’s not as if I have any outstanding warrants or am on an FBI WANTEDposter. My license, registration, and insurance are all up to date. I am a law-abiding citizen.
Finally, he comes wandering back, looking none too happy. But that might just be his natural demeanor. Who knows?
“I stopped you because you were weaving. Have you been drinking, ma’am?” He slides me back my stuff through the barely open window.
“I did have a drink at the Ghost Inn with some friends, officer. But I can assure you that I’m not the least bit impaired. Not even tipsy.”
He illuminates my face with his flashlight, then sweeps it across the interior of my car. “Your daddy taught you better, girl.”
At first, I don’t think I hear him right. “Excuse me,” I say.
“Drinking and driving. You know how many deaths result from drivers who swear they only had one drink? There were more than a thousand fatalities last year in this state alone.”
“It’s terrible, isn’t it?”
He blinds me with his flashlight again. “And you, of all people, should know better.”
I’m this close to saying, “Why?” Why me, of all people? But I’m not positive I wouldn’t blow close to the legal limit if he were to test me. I’ve heard those Breathalyzers can be wildly inaccurate. So, I keep my mouth shut.
“Step out of the car, please.”
