Stories We Tell

[ Friday Part One ]

                                    [   F R I D A Y   P A R T   O N E   ]

      Outside the car, the snow trickles down steadily. Some flakes land on the windshield; perfect little stars disintegrating instances later when the wipers clear them. I tuck my hands into the pockets of my Whistler sweatshirt, shuffling towards the window. The outline of my breath is distantly visible in the air. Cool wind from the crack between window and car frame seeps in, curling around my exposed forearms so that the bluish veins along my wrists noticeably contrast the paleness of my skin. The entire front half of the Aston Martin is freezing balls. I'm convinced Trevor must've forgotten to click on the heater in the car. Either that, or the car just didn't have a heater to begin with, which in itself wouldn't be all that surprising.

      "Are you counting the lines?"

      I look up, gaze flickering from the gentle snowfall on the glass to Trevor's furrowed brow. "What?"

      "The lines." He points out at the yellow dashes on the road, hidden slightly by a fresh coat of falling snow. "Are you counting them?"

      "Why would I be?"

      He shrugs. "I don't know. My sister used to do it all the time when we were little."

      "Why?"

      "To kill time, I guess."

      "Right. Makes sense," I murmur, slouching down in the seat. He just nods nonchalantly, pushing his glasses back up the bridge of his nose when they slip down. For some reason, it bothers me, and I resist the urge to let him know that he should take the time get glasses that fit if he wears them that often.

      "So you're a journalism major," he remarks, tapping his thumbs on the wheel in time with the static of a song playing on the radio. "What's that like?"

      I take a long breath. "It's cool."

      "What's your focus?"

      "My what?"

      "Like, are you into magazine, or newspaper—or are you one of those in front of the camera kids?"

      "Definitely not in front of the camera," I promise quickly.

      A half smile tugs at his lips. "Why not?"

      "It's not really my style." I run my fingers through my hair absentmindedly, pulling it up into a messy ponytail. "Actually, I'm more into...uh, like Middle Eastern affairs and all that stuff—"

      "—all that jazz—" he quips.

      "—right...it's kind of my thing." I chuckle, a little self-consciously. I've never liked talking about my major, it's made me look smarter than I can ever actually take credit for; a reputation that's impossible to live up to. "Civil wars and globalization and authoritarian government and...you know."

      "Really?"

      "Yeah. I mean I guess it's kind of stupid, but—"

      "—No. No, it's not," he shakes his head, glancing over at me. "I think that's kind of awesome, Rosalee."

      "Rose," I murmur under my breath. When his brow furrows in question, I meet his eyes, shrugging halfheartedly. "You can just call me Rose."