Breakdown (Crash into Me) Read online

  For William, I could have attributed his motivation solely to the affection he received from his female fans. Then again, with the way he looked and his charming manner, I seriously doubted that he needed a gimmick like a nice car to get any woman he wanted. For Mickey and Cosmo, maybe they were just trying to fit in, do what their friends did to be trendy and meet girls. The others, however, were a mystery, one that I was genuinely sad I’d never get to discover for myself if I continued ahead with my intended suicide. Before becoming aware of it, I began considering whether or not if I should go to the race—if only to see William again.

  I sat up when my leg fell asleep and the sun traveled far enough across the room to blind my eyes. Without intending to, the daydreams had made up my mind for me, the memory of speeding cars inspiring fantasies I knew could never be realities. But, who knew, maybe William was right about this being a better alternative after all.

  Keeping that in mind, I made my best attempt to focus on the invitation William had given to me, even if it was a pity one. I had to admit that it was nice to have something interesting to think about—other than dying anyway. If I was completely honest with myself William was just as responsible for my thinking as the races themselves. Because my mind wasn’t in great shape, I kept them both in my heart for safekeeping, letting them spin around like a car doing donuts.

  Eventually, I made myself get up and go upstairs to my room, knowing full well I couldn’t wear pajamas to the race if I wanted to blend in successfully. When I got to my room, the setting sun that came through my windows burned my eyes, making me close the curtains and snap on a light switch instead. Maybe I was being an idiot, and William had only invited me to be polite, but even if he had, I couldn’t stop picturing the way all of those amazing cars had sped away from the starting line, causing an echo of screeching tires under the bridge. Even if I only lived for one more night, I could at least take comfort that my stalling was for something interesting.

  If just watching the races made me feel so much, I couldn’t begin to imagine what it would be like to drive in one.

  Newly motivated, I went through my closet. After remember how girls the night before were dressed however, I was immediately disgusted with what I saw there. T-shirts and jeans were tucked between a few pairs of slacks and extremely conservative skirts. I took out a short-sleeve blouse and grimaced.

  How was I supposed to blend in wearing something like this?

  The key here was finding the right camouflage. I knew that, if nothing else. If I wanted to look like I belonged with street racing badasses, I was going to have to work a lot harder on my appearance than I usually did. I stepped away from the closet and glanced at myself in the mirror. Frizzier than ever, my hair was in desperate need of a cut, my tired face splotchy from not eating well and lack of good sleep. This was going to take more than a decent outfit.

  I tossed out a few potential tops and sundresses I had only ever been bold enough to wear while on the beach. Overall, it didn’t take long to figure out that a gray tank top with a fading black skull I had worn a few Halloweens ago was the edgiest thing I owned. I put it aside with a faux leather jacket and a dark pair of jeans. It wasn’t great, but it would have to do.

  Once I felt somewhat secure about what I would wear, I went through the bottomless pit of a makeup drawer. All of the shadows, powders and pencils Mom had ever gotten me were neutral in color, designed to blend rather than pop. I found it easy to throw them away, leaving me with only a dark mascara, black eyeliner, and a set of green eye shadows that I thought were pretty brazen.

  I had stopped using even basic concealers months ago, but the powder embraced my features like an old friend. Using Mom’s oversized bathroom mirrors and bright vanity lights, it was easy to hide my couple of acne scars and the freckles I hated so much. It went against my pride to admit that I did look a little better, and the mascara helped my eyes to look a little wider than they usually did instead of so tired and narrow.

  When I was done, I stopped and sighed at my appearance. What was I doing? Why was I even bothering? If I really wanted to, I suppose I could have summed this up to an experiment, a last-ditch effort to do something fun before… before what? I attempted to take another header off the overpass? Trapped myself in the garage with the engine running? Or took my chances with electronics in the bathtub?

  It had taken weeks for me to plan out and amp up my courage enough to go out to the bridge. Was I really going to go through all of that all over again? Even if I could gather up my courage to walk out to the ledge again, what if I just screwed it up or got stopped by another good Samaritan?

  I was ready way too early and tried bidding my time studying for a calculus exam I was supposed to have that week. Being as how I never planned to take it to begin with, I knew I needed to brush up if I expected to pass. But as I started the trek of going over my notes, I realized that most of my notebook was blank, the margins of the pages filled in with little illustrations of nooses and pill bottles. I crossed some of them out and tried looking through the calculus textbook instead, another venture that also proved unsuccessful.

  While I should have tried to stay productive, I gave up on trying to find things to do by the time the sun went down and retreated back to the mirror to examine my appearance. Normally, I wouldn’t have consider myself a vain person—especially in comparison to another certain female relatives—but now I was focusing on my looks way more than I was proud to admit. Still, William had been nice to me even when I looked like a waking disaster, hadn’t he? What would it matter now if my eyebrows looked a little irritated from plucking, or I had a tan line from the summer before? After the miniature pep-talk, I scolded myself and looked away. It was stupid to work at my exterior for a guy, especially if I didn’t like the way I looked myself. Isn’t that what I had silently criticized my mom for? What kind of independent female was I if the opinion of one guy was part of my motivation for my appearance?

  Before I left, I put my textbooks and notes away but still, didn’t bother to check the text I had from Dad, or research what the fines and penalties would be if I got caught participating in street racing. It was only as I was pulling out of the driveway that I realized that I left my bedroom light on too. Maybe I should have turned around to shut it off, but something else was already brewing up inside of me, and without wanting to, I had already begun to soak it in—the death-ready me ignoring the need to finish things.

  I was about halfway to Devil’s Promenade, contemplating this, when another weird idea entered my head. What if there was no race tonight? What if getting me to drive all the way out there was just some kind of a messed up joke? A cheap laugh at my expense? I had to confess though, even that seemed like an elaborate way of being cruel. After all, if William Do-gooder O’Reilly wanted to see pain—or have a good laugh—he could have just pulled over at the end of the overpass and gotten himself a good view. Hell, for all I could have cared, he could have taken some first rate pictures of my messy remains and posted them online.

  I tried to rid myself of this theory, but others followed, and I found myself driving more slowly at the idea of some of those gorgeous girls teasing me for my lame attempts to look appealing, getting hit on by one of the scary guys, or William not being there at all. What if the crowd was rougher tonight than it was before? The idea of being there without knowing anyone was instantly intimidating. I wasn’t afraid of dying, but I wasn’t ashamed to admit that I was afraid of being violated, of being disfigured and mutilated—murdered without my body ever being found or identified. What if my phone got stolen? Or my car? If it did get stolen, would my insurance cover that?

  I gripped the wheel and tried to make my thoughts to go anyway. If worse came to worse I could always throw myself in front of a car like William suggested.

  William. What an appropriate name for such a handsome guy. Way better than Billy or even do-gooder the more I thought about it. I repeated the syllables of the name slowly in my head.
/>   When I said it fast, it almost sounded like revving engine.

  The Devil’s Promenade was one of the more popular areas to hike in the Riverside area. Every weekend the playground and parking lot overflowed with boy scouts and rental cars from tourists. And while no one could be kept from climbing the mountain itself, at dusk the gate to the hiking trails and picnic tables was locked up tight by a park ranger. Once I pulled up, my headlights, as well as that of others, reflected off of aluminum signs that cautioned against feeding the wildlife and the importance of recycling.

  At first, I imagined that it was pure luck that I found an open spot at all. But I quickly realized that races were just ending around the bend, prompting people to park as far away from the finish line as they could get. When I got out of my car and saw the dents in my fellow spectator’s cars, I figured out why. Despite this, I decided to risk it, too cowardly to look for another spot.

  Unsure of what to do with myself, and feeling out of place—more than usual—I spent more than a minute or two looking at the recycling bins chained to the ground and the color coded scheme of the trail directory. Off in the distance I heard the moans of either a high-pitched woman or cat. To keep from knowing which I kept my eyes to the ground and followed the stream of traffic that was walking in and out of the park.

  The rest of the cars became visible once I entered the park and walked past a grove littered with tall trees. A collection of stone benches and other statues dedicated to veterans were occupied by spectators, so I knew not to look for William there. As my eyes began taking in the sights of the cars, my blood started rushing through me, sending a staggering pulse straight to my ears. I considered that I was maybe having an anxiety attack, but when the butterflies began fluttering through my stomach, I realized that it was all excitement. Right away, I thought it was strange how I could become reacquainted with it so quickly when I was only just familiarizing myself with the feeling.

  My mind and body struggled to get in sync as I took in the smell of diesel fuel and the sight of sparks next to neon body paint. I ran my fingers through my hair and focused on the vibrating ground beneath me. Of course, I knew it was only a combination of speakers and revving engines, but I concentrated hard enough, breathed in enough exhaust—I could pretend it was an earthquake and that with enough force the earth would open up and swallow me.

  It didn’t take long before I saw the tricked out ice cream again, and a half a second later there was a tricked out Volkswagen bug painted to look like a ladybug and the lime green car I had seen race the night before. Not nearly as fascinated as I was by these familiar cars, however, there seemed to be more people drinking cheap beer around the trunks of a few trees than looking at the cars or actually racing. Once again, though, I saw some of the girls from the night before, and with rhinestones in their body piercings and elaborately designed tattoos, they made me feel more out of place than anything else. Though briefly, I did admire how effortlessly one girl with pink hair seemed to walk on the bumpy ground in her platform heels.

  Not unlike a lot of the guys, the girls traveled in cliques, lingering close to one another and taking turns guarding each other when one of them had to use a tree to relieve themselves. Many of them smoke and drank with the same frequency as the guys, pointing out one driver from another and eyeing them with intensity as the guys looked at engines and tires.

  I walked slowly past a huddle of guys trying to light the charcoal in one of the park’s pedestal grills. They swore to each other in Spanish and munched on chips loudly. Maybe I should have just stuck around there and tried to blend in with them and the girls who clung to them, but the excitement in my feet had me unable to keep still for long. Still, there was something less intimidating about hungry people, that need for fulfillment showing their humanity. I walked away slowly, but kept the group in my mind as an exit strategy.

  The entire park, from the trails to the valleys of rocks gated off for safety, seemed to be invaded by racers and their groupies. I didn’t ask how a lot of the oversized cars and pick-ups fit through the park gate, but I got the sense that I didn’t want to know either, so I kept quiet. I kept walking and ground my teeth against each other, trying to read product stickers and tattoos in dark and deciding whether or not I liked them.

  I was looking at a tattoo shaped into a top-hat with quotes from Alice in Wonderland when one of the guys with a walkie-talkie sat on top of the recreational shed in a raggedy lawn chair caught my attention. I noticed immediately how every few seconds he would rotate the flashlight he held into the crowd, shining them more on girl’s backsides than anywhere else.

  “Hey, Stew!” a loud voice called. “Knock that shit off! You keep it up and this place will turn into a sausage fest real quick!”

  I followed my line of sight from the roof dweller to the sound of the voice. Even from the distance and through my excitement it was distinctly familiar. I narrowed my eyes in the dark, and even then it took a minute, but eventually my brain did register that the voice belonged to Cosmo.

  I waited for a solid minute before I decided to go over to him and his friends. Despite my best attempts, I couldn’t see the faces of anyone else I had met the night before—William included. When I realized not seeing him was why my excitement dampened so much, I immediately scolded myself and made myself go over there anyway.

  Cosmo was sitting on the bed of a tricked out pick-up truck, drinking a beer and laughing with a dark haired guy. Instinctively, I knew it was better not to seem too desperate. I made myself uncross my arms and look straight ahead. Eye contact was important for these things, wasn’t it? And how does one start a conversation again?

  I snuck in like I was on a mission, a solider crawling under the barbed wire to retrieve enemy secrets. Once I was within hearing distance, I was standing there for more than five minutes before I considered leaving. The veil of social anxiety came over me like a bad headache, and suddenly I couldn’t think of anything else other than the idea of people staring at me, of every single person who passed me thinking something negative. With it I suddenly became paranoid, imagining every giggle and laugh attributed to something wrong I was doing. Was it okay to bite my lip? To play with the necklace at my throat or twirl my foot into the ground? What if they were making fun of my split ends or my sneakers splattered with dough?

  “Hey!” someone called to me. “I like your top.”

  I had missed the point where the pink haired girl with the platform heels came over. To be honest, I wasn’t even sure where she had come from. But she now snuggled up close to the dark haired guy who Cosmo had been laughing with. Now that I could see her up-close, I could see the fake eyelashes that matched her hair and the silver stud in her nose. She smiled directly at me, and I had to remind myself that smiling was an appropriate reaction to a compliment.

  “Thanks. I, uh, like yours too.”

  I really did like her top, her entire outfit in fact. The black long sleeve t-shirt complimented the zebra stripped corset she wore over it. I might once have thought she dressed too trampy for public, I had to admit to myself that if I had her curves, I might have been bold enough to dress that way too.

  “I don’t think I’ve seen you around here before, have I?”

  I shook my head and searched for my voice. “Probably not. This is my second time here.” I bit the inside of my mouth and laughed awkwardly. “At the races anyway…”

  If I was alone I would have slapped myself silly. Was races even the proper term, or did these social events have a stupid nickname like everyone and everything else around here?

  Noticing she was focused on something other than him, the dark haired guy nudged Cosmo until he pointed me out. Glancing over the side of his shoulder, Cosmo smiled at me immediately. I had never been so grateful to be recognized.

  “Hi, Jumper.” Cosmo nudged the guy with the dark hair and his pink haired girlfriend back in my direction. “Frenchie, Eggs, did you meet Jumper yet?”

  Frenchie rolled her
eyes and leaned forward as if sharing a secret. “My actual name is Tabby.” She reached back and hit Eggs playfully.

  I struggled to make conversation. “Um, my actual name is Charlotte—or Lottie—whichever one works…”

  She nodded like she understood before stealing the beer right out of Egg’s hand. I was then terrified that our conversation was over. And the idea of being there and not having anyone to talk to suddenly seemed so much worse than the death by fire I had once considered.

  “Uh, why do they call you Frenchie? Do you have one of those dogs or something?” As I said it, my voice squeaked just a little, letting my awkwardness shine for all of the world to see and hear. I thought all might have looked at me like I was an idiot, but the guys went back to their conversation and Tabby continued to smile politely, like she didn’t mind at all.

  “No, though I should totally get one.” She pointed to her hair with her sparkly nails. “It was my boss’ idea. Plenty of girls have pink hair, but none of them take their clothes off to the Grease soundtrack. You’d be surprised how many guys get it up for vintage.”

  I smiled like someone with half a brain. I had never met a stripper before—never even knew anyone who knew a stripper—but I would have been lying if I said there wasn’t something exciting about it. Maybe not as exciting as racing, but exciting nevertheless. Before I began to realize it, my nervousness started to fade.

  “A lot of grabby old guys?”

  Rejoining the conversation, Eggs stood up and revealed the band t-shirt he was wearing. “That’s all she ever gets!” He grabbed her knee just before she hit him. “Frenchie works the weekday afternoon shift, so all her tips are from senior citizens or unemployed scumbags.”