I went in my room, but I heard the sound of a car engine in the lot. I heard the slam of Room 7’s door. I stepped out of my room and stood under the tin awning. Rose and Angie stumbled to the Impala, which shone under the streetlight like a pomegranate seed. Someone sat in the driver’s seat, and I knew even with the shadows it was Beto Navarro. I pulled in a breath to call out to Baby Rose, to say, Hey! Come here, you. To tell her, Goddamn it, be careful. To squeeze her shoulder and smile, say, Angie’s a nice girl. To tell her I would keep her secret.
I saw you then. You ran across the street, stopping on the curb under the streetlight. Your hair, red coat, sweater, and jeans were soaked from the rain, your breath a trail of smoke. You stood in the rain and waved. You called out, “Wait. Wait for me.”
But they didn’t see or hear you. Rose and Angie disappeared into the car, and the engine roared to life.
You jogged toward the Impala as the headlights and taillights flared to life, as the reverse lights popped on.
They didn’t see you.
The car sped backward. The tires screeched.
You fell.
You landed on your back, splashing into a large puddle. I didn’t see so much as feel your head jerk as it hit the pavement. The Impala wrenched forward, nearly clipping a pole, and then pulled away into the street, my baby sister inside, oblivious to what she’d done. The Impala’s taillights bumped off the curb into the road, faded into the night.
I ran to you, kneeled at your side. The pooled water was deep, and your face was almost underwater. I pulled you up by the front of your coat and got a hand under your neck.
“Are you okay?” I shook your shoulder. “Jess. Hey. Are you okay?”
You opened your eyes. You looked at me. “What time is it?”
“Are you okay? Jess?”
You blinked a few times as the rain misted down. You struggled to pull yourself up to sitting.
“I’m okay,” you said. You touched your head and winced. But your hand came away clean. No blood.
“Should I call an ambulance?”
“No,” you said. “I think I’m okay.”
“They didn’t see you,” I said.
You laughed a little. “Yeah, I got that.” You laughed again. “This has been a hell of a day.”
“Can you stand? Let me help you.” I reached under your arms and lifted. Your puffy coat squished. You smelled of wet wool, sweat, a tinge of laundry soap or lotion.
“I need to get home,” you said. “What time is it?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “I think it’s six thirty or so.”
You got your feet under you. You stood up, leaning on my shoulder. You stepped on each leg and held your arms out, testing your weight and balance.
“See? I’m okay,” you said. “I should get home. What time is it?”
“I don’t have a watch,” I said. “I’ll check inside.”
You followed me toward my room. You limped a little, but you were upright. Standing. Walking. Talking. You stopped at the bumper of my car. “I need to get home,” you said, your voice agitated now. You flapped your hands as if shaking them dry.
“I can drive you, if you want. I can give you a ride.”
I opened the unlocked passenger side for you, and you sat down, your knees out, your feet on the pavement. “I’m all wet,” you said.
“Don’t worry about it. It’s okay.”
“I lost my umbrella. It was my dad’s.”
“Stay here,” I said. “I’ll get my keys.”
You looked up at my face. You touched your cheek. “Like a map of the world,” you said. “The world in your face. That’s how I think of it. I hope that’s okay. I hope that’s not rude.”
I stared at you as the colors began to swirl kaleidoscopic in the rain.
You smiled and looked down at your hands. Your wet hair swung as you shook your head. “Never mind,” you said. “Sorry.”
I wanted to say, Thanks. I wanted to say I wanted to be you.
Instead, I said, “My keys are inside. I’ll be right back.”
Inside my room, I grabbed my purse and keys and thought of how wet you were. I pulled some towels from the bath and then the comforter off the bed, folding it over my shoulder. I’d cover you up, warm you, but not to suffocating. I stopped and looked in the mirror. I traced the mark, its frayed edges, its dips and whorls. A map of the world.
When I returned, you weren’t in the car. I stopped and stared at the closed door and empty seat. I stared and stared, for the first time uncertain of my own sanity, wondering if I’d imagined the whole thing. I dropped the bedding and towels on the concrete and walked to the passenger side. There, on the seat: your red coat. I opened the door and picked it up. You were real. I hadn’t imagined you. I ran to Main Street, looking up and down the road, squinting in the mist. I couldn’t see you. I called your name. I went to College Drive and peered up the street, looking for a figure in the dark. I couldn’t see you anywhere. I squeezed your coat into a ball, hugging it to my chest.
Of course, I know now, I should have gotten in the car. I should have looked for you. I should have called the police. I should have called your mother. I should have realized, She’s not thinking straight. I should have done more. Partially I thought I was protecting Rose, worried she’d get in trouble. But the awful truth is, in the moment, I was offended. You didn’t want a ride from me after all, the weirdo with the world on her face? Fine. Walk then. See if I cared. I took your sodden coat inside. Hung it on the shower curtain rod to dry. You could come and get it then. I wouldn’t bring it to you.
Two days later, the paper ran the article. You were missing. You hadn’t come home that night.
The police came, said you’d been spotted in the area that night. Asked if I’d seen you.
By then it was too late to tell. Your red coat, washed and fluff-dried in the laundry room, was bundled under my bed, next to the drawings and half-used paint. By then, I’d found a pencil in its pocket and taken it, put it in the cup on my desk. By then, I couldn’t tell about Rose, Angie, and Beto and the car, about Rose and Angie’s secret in the motel, about watching you fall but then get up. It would seem as though I were hiding something. What if they didn’t believe me? I barely believed me: A car hit you. You fell hard and smacked your head, but you got up. You stood, talked, and walked. You sat in my car. And then you walked away. I threw a blanket over all of it, smothered its memory until it stopped kicking.
I told them instead I saw you across the street at the gas station when I came home from my folks’ house. About six thirty.
Did I speak to you? they asked.
No, I told them, as I saw Baby Rose swaddled in a blanket, as I heard your voice in my ear: What time is it? I have to go home.
After my interview with the police, I went to Room 11. My room. My life. I flipped on the light and sat hunched against the pillows on the bed, looking at the dingy walls and the paintings of cactuses and coyotes. And then I saw something else. Colors. Shapes.