Ren
January 4, 1997
It's Saturday night, and I look out the window into the winter darkness and then eye the clock—7:42 pm. I send a puff of air through my nose and drum my fingers on the sofa, annoyed. My dad returns to the room with a brandy and Pepsi for him and a plain Pepsi for me and sits beside me on the sofa.
He's wearing his ubiquitous Khaki shorts, even in winter, a blue Polo T-shirt, and white Airforce One shoes. My dad dresses pretty preppy, even though he still has long hair, in a low man bun and a beard, from his 60s hippy days.
I pull my hoodie tighter around my sparkly, black crop top that shows off two inches of skin at my stomach to make doubly sure my dad won't see. Sydney bought it for me for Christmas and convinced me to wear it tonight, even though it's out of my comfort zone to show my mid-drift. I'm already regretting the decision.
My dad relaxes into the sofa. "I thought Sydney was picking you up at seven?"
"That was the plan." I huff and take a sip of my Coke. "She's running late—as usual. But she should be here any minute."
"You said you guys were going to see a concert tonight?"
"Yeah, at the Trinity Theatre. Conspiracy is playing there tonight."
Conspiracy is a local ska band, and I'm so psyched to go—just the thing I need to get out of the house and out of my head... if I ever do get out of the house. Finally, I hear her car pull up my quiet cul-de-sac.
I leap off the sofa and grab my bag. "Bye, Dad!"
"Bye, Honey! Be safe tonight, and remember—don't lead the police..."
"To you," I finish for him and smile—he always tells me that. I wave at him and shut the door.
My parents divorced my first year of high school, and my dad, who I live with Monday through Friday, is pretty chill about me coming home whenever. Although I do a lot of bad teenage things, like drink alcohol, smoke pot, or the occasional cigarette (in places I shouldn't), I'm smart about it and lucky, I guess.
I don't mess up bad enough to get in big trouble, and I've never been grounded because he's never found out about the questionable things I've done. I don't plan to change that. He puts a lot of trust in me not to screw up, and I try pretty hard to keep that trust. I skip over to her car.
"Hey! Sorry I'm sooo late!" Sydney apologizes dramatically with wide apologetic eyes as I slide into the passenger seat and close the door.
She's quickly brushing her strawberry blond hair before tossing the brush in the back seat, flipping down the driver's visor, and flicking open the mirror. The vanity's little bulb dimly lights the car's interior, and she studies her chin and teeth for a second, then pulls out a tube of pink and green CoverGirl mascara and begins applying her makeup, still in the midst of getting ready.
"That's okay," I sigh as my annoyance fades. I'm just so glad to be with her and in her familiar Volvo station wagon again. The distinctive smell of old leather, faint cigarettes, and the pine tree air freshener hanging from the mirror to hide it provides a cathartic effect on me, dissolving all my worries—I miss having her around me immensely.
The effect wanes slightly as she applies more mascara and then opens a tube of lip gloss—this is taking forever! "Come on—let's go already! The band starts in ten minutes!"
"I'm sure there will be an opener. We'll be fine," she says calmly, reassuring me with warm brown eyes.
She pops the cap back on her lip gloss and flips up the visor, immersing us in darkness again.
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