The Color Project by Sierra Abrams
Chapter 1
Sometimes I like driving east when the sun is setting in the west. That way I can see all the signs as they’re lit up in flames along the road, their words unreadable, all the buildings glowing in the evening sun. The sky is neither blue nor black; rather, it’s a mix of in-between purples and pinks and oranges, and for just a few minutes the world shines like a bright star before it’s plunged into darkness.
This—this moment of suspension—is what I love most about my drive home from work. Today, everything’s like fireworks. A splash of color here, a blinding sunray there, the dark skyline bleeding into the rest. I’m enthralled at the sight of it all, basking in its beauty, with music blasting and the windows rolled down and my (too long) hair whipping against my glasses.
I am the most unsuspecting person, and all because of a golden sunset.
I’m jolted by two separate bumps, one right after the other, followed by the terrible yet inevitable noise: Thump.Thump.Thumpthumpthumpthump— That’s my only warning before my car jerks to the left, then to the right, then back again. There’s a loud clunking noise that makes me want to shriek to the high heavens, but I can’t, because my jaw has locked my mouth shut in fear.
For three-point-five seconds, I have no idea what’s going on. My hands are shaking (Is this an earthquake?!) and my heart is pounding in my throat. Cars rush past me, way too fast (or am I just slowing down?) and their drivers are angry. Someone swerves around me while I try to get into the next lane to my right. I wait a few seconds, taking a deep breath…..and a scraping sound comes from behind. The reality of what’s happening hits me hard: My tires are indeed flat, my tailgate is dragging on the asphalt, and if I don’t pull over soon I’m going to get hit.
It takes a lot of maneuvering (and telling myself out loud that I will not die like road kill) before I manage to make it to the sidelines without impact. California drivers pass me at speeds well over the 65 MPH limit, honking rudely and flipping the bird, all because they have places to go and people to see and I got in their way.
“I could have died!” I protest aloud. My voice comes out wobbly. I grip the steering wheel and gasp, blinking back tears. It’ll be all right…right? I think. Almost hyperventilating, I turn on my hazards and proceed to stare at the blinking in my dashboard. It’s like someone’s holding a giant sign right in front of my face, with flashing letters that say, “WELCOME TO ADULTHOOD”.
I am thoroughly unamused.
On my list of things I want to do during the summer after graduation, you might see the words Go to the beach and Read ten books and Bake more. Never ever would you see, Run over something inconspicuous on the freeway and get two flat tires.
But who cares about my list, anyway? Two flat tires are what I get.
It takes a few minutes, but I eventually calm down enough to call a tow. I probably sound pathetic because Jenny, the woman on the other end of the line, tells me to sit tight and not worry. How kind of her.
I make myself as comfortable as possible with a bottle of water and a book (which I always carry in my purse for emergencies just like these) while I wait. I can’t concentrate on the story, but the smooth white pages and contrasting black ink have a way of soothing me. After about thirty minutes—five of those were spent staring blankly—I finally close the book and set it in my lap.
And take a good, long look at the tow truck as it slides into place in front of me.
Here we go.
When the driver steps out, my first thought is, Oh, great. He’s big (about twice my size) and hairy (like a freakin’ Yeti). He almost looks mean. I groan as I slip out of my car, the freeway wind hitting me. Suddenly, as my limbs stretch for the first time in over an hour, a dramatic growl echoes in my stomach. Of course I would get hungry now, of all times. All I want from life is an animal-style cheeseburger from In-N-Out, and, right now, that’s the last thing I’m going to get.
Oh, just get this over with.
Thankfully the tow truck driver, Julian, is quick and efficient and hardly talks at all. I nearly laugh when I see his name tag. I always imagine Julians as lean, young men with good hair. Probably surfers. Definitely playing the guitar. It’s totally inappropriate to laugh, however, so I stifle myself with two pieces of gum while he goes about his business.
Eventually, his business includes the official stuff. I hand Julian my driver’s license and cringe, as I always do when I know someone’s going to see my full name. All my important documents are a constant reminder that the truth is often a lot uglier than life’s many facades.
Thing You Should Know About Me #1: My full name is Bernice Aurora Wescott, and I hate it. Who thinks of these things? Apparently, only my parents. And only my parents, my sisters, my best friend Gretchen, and my employer know my full name.
To everyone else, I am Bee.
I sometimes wonder if my mom went crazy in those very important minutes after my birth when she named me, and I think maybe my dad went with her. They did it again, with both my sisters, Astrid Jean (hers is the most tolerable) and Millicent May. Poor Millicent. Sometimes I think she has it harder than all of us, but at least we can call her Millie. There is only one child in our family who was spared eternal torment—our older brother, Tom.
All things considered, I know I have no right to think Julian’s name is humorous, and watching him look at my driver’s license sobers me greatly. After our brief interaction, when he hands back my documents, he gestures for me to sit in the passenger seat of the truck. I awkwardly climb in (I’m short; I can’t help it) while he gets in on the driver’s side. When he pulls into traffic, I flinch at the truck’s protesting screech, as if my car could fly off at any given moment. But then we’re driving, and the road is smooth beneath us, so I try to relax and trust that Julian-the-non-surfer-who-can’t-play-guitar (okay, maybe he can) knows what he’s doing.
That doesn’t last long. Minutes later, when I can’t bear the awkward silence anymore, I pull out my phone to call my mom. “You’ve reached Chloe Wescott,” her voicemail practically sings to me. “Leave me a message at the beep.”
“Hey, Mama,” I murmur into the receiver. “Just calling to let you know—”
The line beeps. She’s calling me back, so I click over.
“Hey,” I say, falsely chipper.
“Hey,” she replies. She’s not even trying to be chipper. My mother, who speaks fluent Sing-Song and has the laugh of a hummingbird, sounds upset. Sad. Anxious.
I squint. “Sorry to call while you’re driving the girls around—”
Her sniffle interrupts me. “It’s okay, Baby Bee. Your dad took them to dance class today.”