I have work later today, but need to get the grocery shopping done beforehand because, in Jeremy’s words, “We ain’t got shit” to eat, and he’s a hell of a lot more pleasant when he can make his pancakes for breakfast—which is part of the current problem. He didn’t get his pancakes this morning because he eats like a damn trucker and blew through the family sized box in under a week.
As we travel down Main Street toward Safeway, a blue Honda Civic coupe swerves in the right lane up ahead. It’s just enough to make me nervous, but not bad enough that the driver’s done any damage yet. The car speeds up dramatically and then comes to an immediate stop, causing the car behind it to slam into its bumper. Directly behind the accident is a wagon that swerves into my lane to avoid becoming the third and thus creating an actual pile-up, effectively cutting me off. I slam on my brakes, and my torso is thrown into the seat belt. The surprise of the accident gets to me. The cars behind me approach rapidly, giving little time to make a decision. Pushing aside my near panic attack, I hit the gas and maneuver around the accident and into the clear right lane ahead. As I pass the blue Civic, I flip the driver the bird and scream at her even though I know she can’t hear me over Jeremy’s own personal concert.
My chest heaves in frustration and fear. Meanwhile, Jeremy’s gripping the “Oh Shit” handle that rests in the curve between the windshield and the passenger window. He looks over at me with wide, worried eyes. For the first time in a while, I remember how young he actually is. Not that I forget his age or anything, just that right now I see the boy that tries so hard to be the man he isn’t just yet. He’s the only family I have, and I’m the only thing he’s got that’s keeping him from foster care—or the Stone house, but that’s not an option.
“Were you even paying attention?” he gripes loudly enough that I can hear him, but just barely, over the music. Feeling my temper not just rise, but explode out of my chest and coat the entire car with its venom, I reach over and turn the volume dial down so quickly that it actually pops off—again—and half stare at my brother and half watch the road.
“Shut up!” I scream at the top of my lungs. “Just shut your mouth! Shut up! Shut up! Shut up!” With every word, my voice gets impossibly louder and more frantic. I’ve worked myself into such a state that I nearly miss the Safeway parking lot and end up taking the turn a little fast. My little car jostles its way into the nearest spot, where I put her into park and, with a heaving chest, stare at my brother. He opens his mouth, but before he can say a single word, I yell, “I said shut up!”
“Okay,” he says. His eyes are wide in surprise, and he raises his hands to the side of his head. “Calm the fuck down. Shit. Just calm down. Are you on your period or something?”
I can feel my eye twitching at the question, and my hands tense around the steering wheel.
“No, I’m not, thank you very fucking much! But it is coming up soon, so keep that in mind next time you try to mouth off to me or so help me God I might have to choke you!” I scream in one long stream of words that overlap and mesh together. An older woman walks past the car with a disapproving look on her face. Catching her eye, I yell, “What the hell are you looking at?”
The woman hurries up, huffing, and crosses the parking lot at high speeds. Beside me, Jeremy whispers, “Holy shit.” He says nothing more as I try my best to regain my composure. I take several deep breaths, close my eyes, and focus on the sound of my frantically beating heart.
“Do you need Midol?” he asks oh so quietly from the passenger seat. My throat constricts in response, and my gut tightens with such ferocity that I worry I’m going to make myself sick. I open my mouth to respond, but I don’t get a single word out.
My phone chirps from the center console. Removing my hands from the steering wheel I look over and see that I have two missed calls and a new text message. The text message is from Chel. DUKE & DIESEL. FORSAKEN PKG LOT. HURRY.
The message makes little sense to me, but I don’t wait long enough to let it soak in. Throwing the car into reverse, I back up out of the space then throw her into drive and peel out of the lot. I drive faster than I should back down Main Street toward the clubhouse. Jeremy grabs my phone out of my hand and reads the text message.