Page 1 of Logan
1
Jane
My car lurches forward like it’s about to be violently sick. A loud clunking sound rings ominously.
“No!” I slam my foot on the gas, hoping if I press down hard enough the engine will suddenly fix itself. The smoke billowing out from the hood will disappear. Charlotte, my sister, and I will be laughing about this in twenty minutes when we arrive fashionably late to Kate’s wedding.
“Typical,” Charlotte says after I’ve pulled over to the side of the road and we’ve stepped a safe distance away from my possibly-about-to-explode car. “I asked if you went and got the oil changed, and you said yes!”
“I did go,” I tell her, avoiding eye contact. “But there was this really nice shoe shop next door, and they were having a sale, and I thought I’d pop in and see if I could pick up a bargain. You know how much I like a bargain.”
Charlotte folds her arms across her formidable chest. Her eyebrows are scowling at me like two perfectly plucked exclamation marks. Her mouth is pursed into a tight pink line. I can practically see the smoke coming out her ears… or maybe that’s just my car.
“Look,” I say, putting my foot out and showing her the beautiful blue high heels I ended up buying instead of getting my car serviced. “Half price.”
“Fat lot of good they’re going to do us now,” she says. “Although, they are nice shoes. I’ll give you that.”
“Thank you,” I say, straightening my posture and happy to take the compliment. “And besides, I’ve got roadside assistance. All we have to do is give them a call and someone will be along to rescue us in no time.”
“Jane,” she sighs, “we’re in the middle of nowhere.” She looks at her pretty silver watch. “The wedding starts in an hour. We’ll be lucky if a tow gets here in time for the cake cutting.”
“We could walk?” I offer. “I mean, it can’t be that far! The satnav said we’d be there in ten minutes!”
“There’s a big difference between ten minutes in a car, and ten minutes walking… Anyway, you’d ruin your shoes.”
“Yeah.” I look down at my feet again.
We may be stuck on the side of the road in the middle of nowhere. I may be about to miss one of my best friend's wedding. But at least my feet look extra pretty.
“Well, we can’t just stand here,” I say. “We’ve got to do something.”
“We could run?”
“Yuck!” The sandwich and cake I ate for breakfast threatens to reappear. Running’s something that has always made me feel physically sick. “I think I’d rather die.”
A sudden whooshing sound from my car draws both our attention. “What the…”
Boom!
We’re thrown to the ground. My ears are ringing. The thick stench of burning rubber fills my nostrils.
I turn over and lie on my back. A large, puffy white cloud floats above me in the sky.
It kind of looks like a giant shoe, and I can’t help but laugh at the irony that my love for nice shoes ended up blowing up my car and now I’m lying on my back looking at a cloud that looks likes a shoe.
It seems like it might mean something. Like maybe the cloud is trying to tell me something. I wonder what it might be, and then I wonder whether I might be going crazy.
I’ve never suspected a cloud of trying to tell me something before. But I figure if Moses talked to a bush, there’s no reason I can’t talk to a cloud. At least clouds are pretty. I mean, I don’t think I’ve ever seen a bush I’d like to have a conversation with. Usually, they’re just green, and in the way, and at certain times of the year they’re full of bees. You have to be careful because if you stand too close to them a bee might land on your shoulder and then you end up freaking out and if you’re anywhere where there are people they end up thinking you're a crazy person because they can’t see the bee and they just think your jumping about and shrieking for the hell of it.
“Charlotte,” I mumble, my hand wobbling around on my shoulders like I’ve had ten too many tequilas. My neck hurts and when I look at my elbow it’s all dirty and black and there’s a wet, red line snaking down it that frightens me. I manage to catch a glimpse of my feet and notice a big green scuff mark on the top of my shoe. One of my heels has completely snapped off. A solitary tear leaks out of my eye. I bet my car insurance doesn’t cover damaged footwear. And the worst thing is, the receipt was in the glove box. “Charlotte!” I yell, suddenly worried because I haven’t heard her answer me. “Answer me, you wench! You better not be faking it!”
“I’m fine,” she mumbles. “Thanks for the concern.”
“I am concerned.” I push myself up onto my elbows and then manage to stand up. “Mom would seriously kill me if I blew you up,” I say. “You know how she is.”
“Yeah,” Charlotte says, standing next to me, looking over herself and checking whether she’s sustained any lasting damage. Somehow she seems to have come through it without a scratch on her. Even her shoes are fine. “She’s funny like that.”
“Tell me about it.” I roll my eyes and take a look at the smoking, burning lump that, up until a few seconds ago, used to be my primary mode of transport.
