Her Name is Sorrel

VIII

8

We cut our study session short - an hour and a half short.

Sorrel helped me for approximately 30 minutes.

She literally excused herself to the bathroom, bawled the hell out of her eyes, and came back into the room like nothing happened.

“Okay, library tomorrow?” I asked, leaning against the doorway with my backpack slung over one shoulder and keys in hand, “Same time after school?”

“I believe your football season’s officially starting tomorrow,” she patiently reminded me and I mentally kicked myself in the ass.

“Oh yeah ... well-”

“We can meet here around 8 if you want,” Sorrel suggested.

I squinted. Was she really inviting me back?

“Unless you don’t want to of course,” she suddenly sputtered, “ I mean, like, I totally get it if you don’t want to study here cause like sometimes-it-smells-like-weed.”

I blinked twice. “Oh, I don’t mind.”

Her hand instinctively flew up to the base of her throat, fingers resting on the rose gold locket. “Really,” she squeaked, “You don’t mind?”

“No, do your parents mind a teenage boy alone with their daughter in her bedroom?”

She pursed her chapped lips which were cracking from the dry air, “No, Daniel, they don’t care. They honestly don’t give a shit about anything. They wouldn’t even care if we ran off to Vegas and got eloped.”

“Is that a suggestion?”

She laughed, tipping her head back and letting the strands of sweaty hair fall out of the ribbon holding it up, “That’s such a bad idea!”

“One a scale of one to ten, how bad?” I challenged amusingly, leaning inside the doorframe, not ready to leave just yet.

“As bad as kicking Hitler out of art school.”

“Oh shit,” I laughed, “Guess we can’t get eloped.”

“So be it. Good night, it’s getting dark and the superstar needs his beauty sleep before his first football practice of the year.”

I jogged backwards towards my mustang, “Thanks again for the hel-”

Ow what the fuck.

My hands flew up to my eyes to shield the blinding light penetrating my retinas, “Whoa.”

A car door slams and two drunk individuals stumble out of a beat up hatchback.

The Solby’s were home.

“Oh god,” Sorrel muttered, “Danny, just leave now.”

“Shelbs, who’s this?” a woman screeches, “Is he from the bank? Tell him we already paid the mortgage last month!”

“Mom, no, this is a classmate from-”

“Ohh,” the woman slurred, “No money?”

“No, mom.”

“In that case, don’t care, don’t care,” Mrs. Solby tittered drunkenly, leaning against her husband for support, “I’m so sleepy Kurt.”

She suddenly bursted out laughing, spontaneously clapping her long, manicured hands together and tugging on the brown floral skirt that skimmed the floor, “I’m so damn sleepy! Take me inside!”

Mr. Solby pushed his ray bands up the bridge of his nose and grunted in my direction, dragging his estranged wife up the drive way towards a shocked Sorrel who stood quietly under the doorframe.

I gawked; the Solby’s were the epitome of hippies. Mrs. Solby had blonde, waist length hair and several little braids adorning the sides. Her long brown skirt clashed with the teal crop top that barred her slim midriff. Mr. Solby on the other hand had mutton chops and a leather vest that was worn down in the back.

Holy shit, it was like, That 70’s Show, only this time - Mila Kunis and Ashton Kutcher were absent.

“Come on in boy,” Mr. Solby suddenly slurred and I felt a whiff of tequila bury itself into my nostrils, “Come on in!”

“Danny,” Sorrel gasped exasperated, “Leave already!”

“Oh Shelbs, let the damn boy stay!” Mr. Solby roared, stumbling through the door, tripping and taking Mrs. Solby down with him, “We’re just about to smoke-”

The door slammed in an earsplitting BOOM and I’m left standing alone on the drive way under the dimly lit light of the garage and the moon shining on top of me.

Sorrel wasn’t kidding. Her parents were complete wrecks.