“For me, yes. Because of the deliveries.”
I nodded. “Cool.”
“You want to drive?” you said.
“Drive … this?”
“This truck, yes. Do you want to drive it?”
I stared at you. “My dad doesn’t like me to drive.”
“But you have your license, right?”
“Yeah.”
“Then why not? This beach is three hundred yards wide, easy. And there’s no one around. Almost no one. What are you going to do, crash into a pier? They’re pretty big. I find it easy to avoid them.”
Smart-ass, I wanted to say. But I wasn’t in that kind of place. I wasn’t ready to be joking around with you. I just sighed. “Okay.”
“Hey, don’t be so enthusiastic,” you said.
“Sorry.”
“You don’t have to be … Look, just switch with me.”
You got out and we switched places. The engine was still running—all I had to do was slide the lever from P to D and we were rolling, over that hard-packed sand, and a gull that had been picking at some leftover food went clattering into the sky, screeching at us, Cass, Cass, Cass, what are you doing driving this boy you hardly know on the beach, Cass, Cass, Cass.
But the voice—my voice—was gone.
I was with you, and the voice was gone, so right then I wanted to stay in that truck forever, to never have to go home.
I pressed the accelerator. The truck lurched forward, and soon we were, well, it’s something people always say but it really was like we were flying over the beach, not like driving on a road at all, the sand so smooth below the wheels, and I turned in a long arc to avoid the first gaggle of people and then we were cruising again, between the city and the ocean, the wheel seeming to connect me right to the ground-up sea creatures beneath, to the rock under them.
I don’t know if I have described the beach and the town properly, but I mean the beach runs the whole length of the town. It’s hard to think of a comparison for how big it is, how wide, how long. We’re not talking in football fields, as a unit of measurement, we’re talking in airport runways, and even then we’re talking about many of them, lain end to end.
What I mean is: I wanted this to last forever, and it was like it did last forever. I rolled down my window and you rolled down yours, and the cool night air came whipping in, bringing with it fine sea spray, and I rested my left elbow on the door frame and put my hand out the window and curved it, concave, let it ride on the wind, undulating, like a bird, feeling the resistance of the air, sculpting it, and it was like one small part of me was free and flying away.
And the moon was shining, and the ocean was bright, and we could hear the music from the stalls on the boardwalk, and far-off laughter, and yada yada yada.
You were there too, I know, I know.
Anyway I drove up and down the beach, I don’t know, three times, and then I realized my dad was going to be home soon probably and I said I had better get back.
I slowed, passing a lifeguard stand. There were two silhouettes sitting in it, close together, merging almost.
“Kids go up there to make out,” you said. “Watching the water.”
“I know,” I said.
Then I wished I hadn’t. I felt myself blushing. I coughed. I saw your hand tense on the coat-hanger holder thing (to use the technical term). “You should take over,” I said.
I stopped the truck, and we switched back. I don’t really understand how, but some kind of frostiness had settled into the space inside the truck; I was almost expecting to see steam from our breath. Maybe it was just the downer that always comes when something magical ends; maybe I was reading too much into it, I don’t know. But I don’t want you to think that I wasn’t … feeling stuff, I guess.
“Thanks,” I said, inadequately.
You nodded. You drove back toward the road.
Silence.
Not so comfortable now.
WHAT I MEANT: thank you so much, that was a beautiful experience I loved the wind and the feel of the beach thrumming, resonating through the whole body of the truck and through my skin, and my hand buoyed up by the air, and the lights of the city and the glimmering of the ocean, like dancing jewels all around us, like stars surrounding the black space of the beach, galaxies, towers of interstellar dust.
But all of that is a lot to say if you’ve been in the hospital, and then put on drugs, and then you’ve been talking to girls who tell you their fathers molested them and you’re supposed to process all of that.
You drove the truck carefully over the small mounds leading to the path onto the road again. “What kind of music do you like?” you said, a little nervously.
“I don’t like music,” I said.
****, I thought.
You flinched a little. “Right.”
WHAT I MEANT: I don’t “like” music. I need music. I use music, to keep the voice quiet, at least for a moment. The same way I’m using you, right now, sitting in your truck. But it came out all wrong. It always does with me.