“Yeah, too bad.”
Cisco rubbed his shoulder beneath the jacket. I could see the crimson stain spreading on the white T-shirt he wore under the leather.
“Got me right in the rotator, I think. Probably going to get a new shoulder to go with my new knee.”
I didn’t answer. I leaned against the car next to him and watched traffic build up behind the accident scene. Pretty soon it would be a parking lot stretching all the way back to downtown.
RUNS GOOD
by Kelly Braffet
CARO MISSED THE bus. She usually did. The last one left the mall at ten and unless she managed to clock out a few minutes early, she inevitably saw it pull away from the curb as she was still running across the parking lot. Tonight, sweaty, heart pounding, feet killing her, she put her headphones on and started walking.
Past the car dealership, on the side of the road near a place that sold outdoor furniture, she came upon a battered white Civic. One side mirror was held on with duct tape and there was a decent-size dent in the bumper. The sign in the window said FOR SALE, $1,000, RUNS GOOD. It was late; she was tired and bitter about missing the bus, which was bright and quick and safe. Too often her life seemed disproportionately inconvenient and annoying, and now, looking at the car, she found her feet slowing, and stopping, until she stood by the side of the road in the cool damp grass as cars roared by on the four-lane next to her.
A thousand dollars. What a big, slippery number that was. If she managed to squirrel away a hundred a week she could have it in ten weeks (three months-ish, by which time the car probably wouldn’t even be there anymore so why was she even bothering to do the math). She put the numbers together in her head, food and electricity and the phone—Margot’s SSI almost covered rent—and looked away. She couldn’t manage to save fifty dollars a month, let alone a hundred a week. And that wasn’t even figuring in insurance and gas. Her last boyfriend had been all worked up about insurance and gas, how much they cost.
But at the same time, she wanted the car. It pulled at her. Having her own car would make everything better. It would mean no more walking by the side of the highway in the middle of the night, no more hauling everything she needed for both of her jobs around in her backpack. The car would mean no wrestling Margot onto the bus for doctors’ appointments, no more hikes to the bank to deposit checks. No more having to take Does he have a car? into account when a guy asked her out, no more having to take But he has a car into account when she didn’t want to see him anymore.
Caro was not quite eighteen, but she was smart, and, more than that, she was realistic. She knew that right now, as things stood, she could not have the car.
Someday, she thought—as she always did—I will look back on this part of my life, and it will be in my past, and I will not have to live it anymore.
Still, she burned with frustration.
It was not fair.
Caro had applied for a job as a bartender and she would have gotten it, but her fake ID was terrible, and Freddy, the manager, didn’t buy it for a second. He said he’d hire her as a waitress, and she needed money so she took the job. She acted more grateful than she was and got good at finding reasons not to be alone in a room with him.