Page 78 of Fade into You
“Okay, I’ll call you down when the pizza gets here.”
I go upstairs and lie in the dark and breathe in the scent of Jessa on my pillow. Like Irish Spring soap and the autumn leaves outside. And as if a switch is flipped inside me, I start crying.
JESSA
End of October is usuallyDade’s and my time to shine. We marathon scary movies, come up with esoteric costumes, cook steaks bloody raw, and watch slasher flicks until long after the trick-or-treaters have come. But this year I won’t be carting a blank pumpkin to his place to find some humorous design to carve into it. I won’t be there to pass out candy ironically, which is the same as passing out candy unironically.
This year is different because it’s mostly been me and Falstaff in my free time when Bird isn’t available and when she is, well, it’s me and Bird being just about as bad as Dade and Kayla with the making out. Except to keep it safe, it’s in my car, bedroom, or any quiet liminal space we can find. One bonus of Bird witnessing the Mack chaos is that my house is no longer off-limits, as long as Mom’s still at work or doing whatever church things she does.
Bird has made it clear she likes neither scary movies nor bloody ones, and I’ve been racking my brain for something Halloween-y but also not scary, and think I finally found theright fit. I’ve got her meeting me after school with a backpack full of warm clothes, road snacks, a flashlight, and, of course, sensible footwear. We are both properly alibied with backup excuses if need be, so time stretches out in front of us, open and ours to be together.
She has no clue, but I went for something historic and poetic and—to use our favorite word—liminal. We’re still trying to finish the semester project, and with all the shit we’ve been dealing with, we have none of the photographs that we need despite having far too many words. It’s kinda the way of us—lots of words, a little less on the visuals and tangibles. But this afternoon will change that.
Last bell and I’m running to the parking lot to Betty the Buick and getting her going, so by the time Bird’s walking down the concrete steps, I’m pulling up with the window down and checking for anyone else, and when the coast is clear, I yell out, “Hey, baby, need a ride?”
She hops in with that flirtatious little grin I’ve found I like a bit too much, and buckles in, grabbing my hand after I shift into drive, and we pull out toward adventure.
“Okay, can I know where we’re going now?” She hates surprises, but I think this one is gonna be a winner.
“Jeez, you have zero fucking patience, Bird, you know that?” I say, pulling on my shades against the afternoon sun and hitting the highway. “Get us soundtracked, why don’t you?”
She flips smartly through the CDs and finds the Cranberries’No Need to Argueand it blasts out “Ode to My Family,” a perfect start to the trip. Soon enough we’re shrieking to “Zombie” andfeeling everything Dolores O’Riordan feels in our own way.
We’re getting out into the country, but I’ve got a full tank of gas and a lot of hope that I’ve made the right choice. Since we agreed on our secret relationship, I’ve felt like we needed some “us” time, and out here we’ll get it. Fuck, we’ll be the only souls within thirty miles. If you listen to the stories, the onlylivingsouls at least.
Once we’re well away from school, I firmly plant my hand on her thigh, squeezing the sexy soft flesh with hard muscle beneath, all my senses on fire. She reaches a hand to the back of my neck, toying with the hair at the nape, driving chills through me. I shudder.
“Someone’s walking over my grave,” I say.
“Hmm?”
“Something Mom always says, when you shiver like that.”
“It would be weird if time was that liquid, and somehow itwasthat. But I’m guessing it’s a biological reaction of some sort,” she muses. I find her so fucking adorable when she goes down these thought pathways.
“We should cancel all our plans, hit the library, and look it up immediately,” I joke. She laughs, she’s gotten good at seeing my brand of sarcasm as funny. And I see where, previously, I might have been a jerk and said something like,Good call, Einstein, must be biology. She’s taught me more kindness, and aside from her incredible kisses, it might be my favorite part of our relationship.
Our relationship.
I look over at her, in a jean jacket and a Smashing Pumpkinstee that looks stolen from my stash, her curves accentuated by the way it tightens to her. Her jeans torn and the heart I secretly drew on them during journalism right by the knee. Blue ballpoint, shredded denim, so incredibly sexy.
“Much as I love you looking at me, the road probably needs your attention,” she kids. I nod and snap back to the highway, which is still highway, but I realize I’m a mile from our exit. I love her humor, soft and fun and showing up every day like a happy surprise. Never realized how funny she was until we finally started relaxing together.
“So, do I get to know yet?” she asks as I take the exit, an old-ass gas station with pumps from the sixties and metal signs the only proof of life on the road, trees filling in spaces between fields.
“I figured we’d work on our school project.” Mysterious on purpose. I see her scrunch up her face at the avoidance, but she’s having fun too.
“Schoolwork, on a Friday? What alien replaced you, Jessa?”
“It’s Spooky Season, shape-shifters only. Maybe demon possession.”
“Wait, we aren’t going to a haunted house or haunted hay ride or anything like that, are we?” She’s suddenly concerned, scared.
“Abso-fucking-lutely not. I know you, and I don’t want to scare you. It will be just us.”
“Oh, good.” She relaxes, switches out the CD, advances tracks, and Poe’s “Angry Johnny” beats out, and unwittingly fits the mood. Creepy and fun.
When we pull onto a gravel-and-dirt road, I can tell she’sgetting nervous, so I break out the research I planned specifically for this moment.
