Chapter 13 #2
I turn to the right, and after a few minutes I hit a dead end.
It takes me several minutes to figure out how to turn my cart around because I couldn’t find the lever labeled F and R underneath my seat and between my legs, and then, after driving around for fifteen more minutes, I’m more lost than ever.
Worse, I’m pretty sure I’ve passed the bench where Dylan had been sitting at least three times. Thankfully, she’s gone, and
I don’t have to feel like the kid who waves to her parents every time they pass by on the merry-go-round.
I do my best to start over, this time turning left where I think I previously turned right, veering off the pavement onto
grass and then onto what looks like a dirt path. I can see where I need to go off in the distance past a few holes of the
golf course, and even though I’m pretty sure we weren’t on dirt before, I think these carts can go anywhere. They drive on
golf courses, which is a ton of grass, sometimes even sand, right?
At some point, the hard ground beneath me softens, and the cart slows and starts to make a funny noise—sort of an angry whirring.
The front left end of the cart is leaning farther than the other wheels, and when I look down, I see the tires spinning, stuck
to the halfway point in mud.
“Oh, come on!” I shout. But a quick glance around tells me I’m shouting into the ether. There’s nobody out here.
I’m lost.
And stuck in mud.
How appropriate.
I groan and stupidly try to get out of the golf cart, but when I plant both feet, I’m instantly up to my ankles in mud. My
new white shoes are ruined, which is frustrating because the only other shoes I brought are a pair of bright green Crocs.
Also frustrating because I’m not sure how to get my feet out.
I grab on to the overhead bar on the driver’s side and pull my whole body up, extracting my feet from the slurping wet ground.
The sound is funny to me, and I actually laugh out loud de spite my misery. Immediately after my rueful laughter, though, I start to panic. What if no one finds me?
What if there are animals out here? Like coyotes? Or bears, or wild turkeys? I know this is Wisconsin, but it might as well
be the African plains. I’m not built for this.
I once had a run-in with an angry goose in the crosswalk of a city street. It came for me as if I were the one out of place
and chased me halfway down the block.
I hold my mud-covered feet up in the air, hanging halfway off the cart, and I try to flick the chunky globs off my shoes.
I kick slightly, and a giant pile of dark sludge falls with a splat to the ground. I turn around and try to see where I veered
off the path, as if I have any hope of getting back there. The tire tracks are pretty defined, and I can see the spot where
I hit this Midwestern swamp. It’s only about three big jumps away. Three jumps to solid ground.
Three jumps.
I took dance.
I can do that.
If I can get back to that spot without sinking farther into this mess, I can walk back the way I came and hopefully find someone
to help.
I absently brush my hair from my face, and I can feel the giant wet trail of mud left on my cheek.
Fabulous.
I glance down at the large imprints my feet left in the mud. They’ve filled back up with water already.
This is going to be messy. But it’s just mud. And mud washes off, right?
Yeah. Tell that to my shoes.
I strap my bag around my shoulder crossways, pull the key from the ignition (as if anyone could steal the golf cart in its
current state), and draw in a breath.
“Mud washes off,” I tell myself as I spin sideways and scootch to the passenger side, holding my brown chunky feet up over the dash. Maybe if I go fast, I won’t sink. Maybe on the other side of the cart it’s not so wet.
I take another breath and, before I can think about it, I jump out of the golf cart, trying to run toward the grassy area
with every ounce of strength in my body.
Nope. It’s just as wet. And even a little deeper. My feet sink to mid-shin, and because I leapt with Olympic-long-jump fervor,
my torso momentum continues as my feet stay firmly planted.
I instantly flop over, hands out, face down.
I gasp, pulling my face up, inhaling a mouth full of thick, wet dirt as I do. I spit and swipe, trying—failing—to clear my
eyes and nose with mud-covered hands. I can’t see anything, but I can hear rustling to my right. I start shouting, “Stay away
from me, coyotes!” while flailing my arms, because somewhere, once upon a time, I saw on a nature documentary that you’re
supposed to “make yourself big” if confronted by a wild animal.
“You don’t want to mess with me!” I yell, but with the mud slathered on my face, it comes out sounding like, “You don wanf messif me!” I’m still mostly lying prostrate on the ground when, out of nowhere, I feel myself pulled up out of the muck like a rag doll
and placed in an upright position.
I’m verbally protesting—because what is happening? —but quickly realize the rustling I heard wasn’t El Chupacabra; it was an actual person. Someone must’ve come to my rescue.
Unless this is the start of a murder-by-opportunity type scenario.
When I shout, “Don’t murder me!” (because that’s a good deterrent for murderers—they run away for sure when you shout that
at them) I get another mouthful of sludge that slid down from my forehead and over my nose, which I spit out directly at the
person who pulled me out of the muck.
“What the—? Rosie! Calm down!” the voice says. “It’s Booker.”
I go still.
Of course. Of course it’s Booker.
My hands are caked and useless, so I try to shake the mud from my face—only to succeed in thwapping a mucky slab of hair around
and smacking myself in the face with it.
Lying face down in the mud—or a coffin—is preferable to him seeing me like this.
“Don’t say anything,” he says, and I swear I can hear stifled laughter in his voice. If it’s there for real, I’m going to
get back in the cart and drive over him.
“Just grab my arm and walk with me. I’ve got a towel in my cart.”
I never thought the words “I’ve got a towel in my cart” could be a turn-on, but here we are.
I let him lead me out of the muddy area and onto firmer ground.
He stops. “Okay, wait here. I’ll be right back.”
As if I could go anywhere with my eyes burning and my face covered in sludge.
I hold out my hands for the towel when I feel him return, his body close enough for me to reach out and touch, but he steps
closer, ignoring my outstretched hands and begins wiping my face with the towel.
“I think it’s safe to open your eyes,” he says.
I blink them open, and it’s like he’s an angel, bathed in light as the sun sets behind him. I go to wipe some of the mud from
the corner of my mouth, and he stops me.
“Let me get it...” He reaches up and wipes a glob away. It falls to the ground with a wet plop .
I wince.
“Do I even want to ask?” He glances past me to where my golf cart has sunk even lower in the mud.
I just look up at him, a grotesque mud monster from the depths.
He grins.
“Why are you smiling?” I ask, because honestly, why is he smiling?
He raises his eyebrows. “I knew you were going to be fun to have around.”
Shut up.
Shut up right now.
Shut up your stupid beautiful stupid face.