“You’re giving me your car?” I asked.
“No, I’m not giving you my car. I’m letting you drive it. Figure you’ve already driven off a cliff once, what’re the chances of that happening again?”
“Not funny,” I mumbled.
“Too soon?” She nudged my shoulder. “Oh, come on, it is a little bit.”
I grinned. “Thank you, Annika. You’re a good friend.”
“Well, I heard there was a boy involved. Do me a favor, when you get back, leave the keys in the visor, yeah?”
“Okay, I won’t be late,” I said.
“Don’t go making any promises,” she said.
Annika swayed back up the front walk, and then she lingered near her door, like she was waiting for me to get in and drive off. I was frozen. I knew, in theory, I’d have to drive again. Otherwise, I’d become trapped like my mother, each of my fears chipping away little by little at the world, until all I had left was the bubble. The world shrinking, twisting, slipping—I’d always be stuck in that moment. I’d always be falling.
Annika, maybe sensing as much, called over to me, “Lightning doesn’t strike the same place twice, Kels.”
Which wasn’t really true—turns out, despite popular opinion, lightning did not discriminate. But I got the point—what were the chances?
Take comfort in the logic, Jan would tell me. Chance is on your side.
—
I had to drive down the windy mountain roads into town, to the community center, where the ceremony was being held. I took the turns about ten miles under the speed limit, not caring that there was a car on my tail that eventually blew by me on a rare stretch of straightaway. I gripped the wheel, eyes on the yellow line, hovering so close to the center that a car on the other side honked. Any time I saw headlights, I flashed back to that foggy moment—a flash of light, a car on my side, jerking the wheel, the panic closing my throat.
I wondered if it was possible that the panic itself had knocked me unconscious. I wouldn’t doubt it.
Eventually I had to pass the site of my accident. I crawled by it, overcompensating each turn of the wheel—worse than my first driver’s ed lesson. The metal barrier on the side of the road had already been replaced. There were no signs anything had ever happened, except the stretch of metal was fresher, with no imperfections yet. If I’d died, there would’ve been flowers or teddy bears or a cross on the roadside.
We did not fall. We did not die. Everything was fine.
It wasn’t until I hit the lights in town that I relaxed my grip on the wheel. Wasn’t until I exited the car and stared at my hands, slightly trembling, that I began to laugh. I’d have to tell Jan about this one day, when it was far enough away. When I wouldn’t get in trouble. A fear I overcame, the picture of progress. Standing there, in the middle of the packed parking lot, I’d never felt so powerful.
—
I recognized a bunch of student parking stickers on the cars around mine, and some fire department bumper stickers on others as I walked up the steps to the community center. The reception area—the gymnasium, actually—was pretty crowded, with rows of folding chairs set up and reporters with cameras and notepads standing along the wall.
Out of force of habit, I found myself taking stock of the exits: the double doors behind me, an emergency exit to the side of the makeshift stage, another presumably behind the platform. I looked up: a few windows, but no way to open them. I stayed near the door, another habit I couldn’t quite break. “Always take note of the exits,” Mom had said, worrying her thumb over each of her fingers, until her knuckles popped, one by one. “Besides the obvious. There’s always another way out. The windows. The ceiling. The floor. You have to think beyond, and you have to think fast.”
I couldn’t help picturing that now: all these people trying to funnel through the double doors in the event of an explosion or a fire. And me, caught in a stampede. I shook my head, clearing her out of there. The words of a paranoid mind. The words of fear. It wasn’t too late for me.
Up front, it looked like they were about to get started. The men and women were in suits, and so was Ryan. He was fidgeting with his tie, and an older man stepped forward to straighten it for him, before placing a hand on his shoulder.
It’s in my blood, Ryan had said. A family legacy. He was surrounded by a group of people who had watched him grow up, who were waiting for him to join them. He had a place he always knew he would belong.
Meanwhile, I was alone and completely out of place. I looked at my jeans, my purple shirt, my black sneakers. It hadn’t occurred to me that this would be a formal affair. I mean, it was the community center. The basketball nets had been retracted upward, toward the ceiling, but this was a place where people worked out. At least I was wearing my nice jeans. And at least I’d put some product in my hair. My curls were shiny and tamed, and I guess that counted for something.
A hush fell over the crowd as the people up front started assembling themselves into order, in a straight row. A man who must’ve been the mayor made his way to the podium.
I saw Ryan scan the crowd, the seats, but he never got to me. His gaze drifted back to the floor, and he took a deep breath. If I didn’t know any better, I’d guess he was nervous. He’d already done the hard part—me, the car, the fall. All he had to do now was stand there while other people in suits said nice things about him.
I noticed several people from our class in the chairs near the aisle—the guys I’d see Ryan with at school, in the halls, or the ones who stopped by the Lodge during the summer, looking for him. Mark and AJ and Leo, in khakis and button-downs. AJ had his girlfriend with him. There were also a few vaguely familiar faces, who I thought must’ve been from his fire department. One of them, standing behind Ryan, was watching me back, and I didn’t know whether it was because I was severely underdressed or because he remembered me. Had he been there that night? The only person I remembered was Ryan—the promise in his words, making me believe. Even the medic’s face had faded away. I understood how my mother could’ve forgotten everything after her imprisonment. Everything else was buried under a layer of fear, and I didn’t want to poke at it too hard.
The other firefighter leaned forward, whispered something into Ryan’s ear, and Ryan’s eyes scanned the crowd, settling on me. His face didn’t change, but he started raising his hand. But then the microphone snapped on, and the mayor’s quick intake of breath echoed through the room before he let out a booming “Good evening!”
The crowd settled, and even Ryan turned his focus to the mayor.
And then there was an all-too-familiar voice in my ear, a minty whisper, and a jangle of bracelets. “Hey there, you.”
Emma stood beside me with two of her girlfriends. At least Cole didn’t seem to be here.
“Hi, Emma,” I whispered. “What are you doing here?” And are we friends again? I didn’t get the memo.
She nodded her head toward the girl beside her, leaning against the wall. “Holly wanted to come. For Ryan.” She smiled again, all teeth. I made myself smile back.
Holly-in-the-flesh was slightly less scary than the Holly-of-my-mind, who I’d turned into a vacant texting machine who chewed gum and had long, manicured nails. The Holly who had actually texted Ryan (all caps, super-excited) was rather sweet-looking, with dimples and wavy strawberry-blond hair, phone nowhere in sight.
“Shh,” someone said. The room echoed, like a gymnasium. It was a gymnasium after all.