The Cellar

Chapter 7

Chapter 7

            The beginning of October brought cooler temperatures and torrential rain. On my walk to school, things didn’t look so bad, but by the time I got out of P.E., the sky was thick with dark clouds. As I headed across the field, fat drops began hitting my face and splotching across my shirt. “Great,” I muttered, wishing I’d thought to bring an umbrella when I left the house. I ducked under a tree and took out my phone. My mother’s phone rang and went to voice mail. No point leaving a message. I’d be home before she ever got it.

            I picked up my pace as the rain increased, and by the time I got to the road, it was coming down so hard I could barely see. A car honked to my left, and someone was shouting. “Hey, want a ride?” A battered blue truck had pulled up and Derek was at the wheel. I was suddenly conscious of my hair plastered to my skull and the soggy droop of my clothes.

            “No, I’m okay,” I said, turning away. He leaned over and shoved the passenger door open.

            “Don’t be an idiot. Get in.”

            I obeyed, hiding my embarrassment by leaning over to shove my sodden bag in the space at my feet. “I’m getting your truck all wet.” He shrugged.

            “It’s seen worse. Where to?”

            “Keep going down this road and turn right at the second light.” As I fumbled with the seat belt, I registered the music playing on his stereo and my mouth dropped open. “You listen to Elliott Smith?” I blurted. I saw a flash of dimple.

            “Yeah. Why so shocked?”

            I snapped my mouth shut and pushed my wet hair back. “I don’t know. It’s just not what I would have expected.”

            “What would you have expected?”

            “I guess classic rock or country or something like that.”

            “I see.” He braked at the light and turned to look at me, one eyebrow raised. “So you’re saying because I live in the South, you’d expect me to be blasting ‘Sweet Home Alabama’ or cranking me up some honky-tonk?” He laughed as my face turned red.

            “Well, when you put it like that…”

            “This isn’t the deep South, and not everyone who lives in a southern state is a redneck stereotype, you know.” The light changed. “It’s not like I have a gun rack and a Confederate flag in my back window.”

            “Yeah, but you are driving a truck.”

            “True, but that doesn’t mean much by itself. I thought you city folk were supposed to be more open-minded than that. You know, more sophisticated and not as judgmental as us country hicks.” He said the last part with an exaggerated twang, and I laughed.