Chapter 6 Solana
SOLANA
I stare at my laptop screen with slumped shoulders. Three overdraft fees hit at once. All for tiny purchases—a four dollar coffee, an Uber ride, some gum from the corner store. The bank’s basically robbing me at this point.
I need more money. I need a job.
Again.
My last job at the Wheaton student union was only a temp position. As soon as last semester ended, I was cut lose. It hasn’t exactly been easy trying to land another one, except for the occasional gig work I find.
I switch tabs to the babysitting site I’ve been haunting for weeks now, scrolling through the same stale listings. Ten dollars an hour to watch twin toddlers who “might be a handful” as the listing warns.
Which is obviously a polite way to say they’re little hells on wheels.
Twelve bucks to tutor some eighth grader in pre-algebra, but that’s all the way in Boulder and the cost it’d take me to get there every week would cancel out the pay.
Los Angeles has started to feel more and more like some fever dream. Some impossible goal I’ll never achieve.
I’ll never save up enough to escape Pulsboro and pursue acting. I’ll be stuck in this town forever like Unc and Moses, except they actually want to be here. They have the motorcycle club and wouldn’t want to be anywhere else.
Then there’s me who feels like I couldn’t belong less. It’s gotten even worse in recent days given what went down on Saturday night (if only I could remember).
I keep scrolling, even though I’ve memorized every listing by now.
The Rodriguez family needs date night coverage.
The Johnsons want someone to pick their kid up from soccer practice.
None of the listings pay enough to matter.
Not enough to dig me out of this hole, definitely not enough to get me to California.
A new listing pops up, seeking a local babysitter for their ten-year-old son after school. Eighteen bucks an hour. Only a few miles across town.
The mouse hovers over the contact info—Rachel Roberts, 710-233-8917.
This is better than anything I’ve seen advertised in a while. I click on the button and type up an email to express interest.
The sooner I’m able to save up, the better. Then I can finish this semester and transfer to a school out west.
I won’t have to deal with everything that’s been going on with Kel and the others. He asked me out on Monday, but I’m still not sure what to think about it. I’m not sure what to think about anything.
Something’s off… I know that much.
Shay and Yvette have been acting different. Spencer’s been grinning and giving me weird looks.
It could be paranoia—Unc has always said I’m way too anxious—but I swear a few people around campus have been staring at me like they’re in on some joke I’m not.
My stomach churns just thinking about it. It’s almost like I’m drunk all over again.
The present blurs with Saturday night. Suddenly I’m stumbling down a sidewalk, the night spinning around me like I’m on a carnival ride, not my own two feet. The streetlights look like bright, fuzzy dots swimming in front of my eyes.
It makes walking impossible… which is exactly how I end up tumbling to the ground.
The cement catches my fall. I go down with a scream, hands and knees getting the worst of the impact.
But the world doesn’t stop spinning. It goes round and round, circling me and making my head pound even harder than it already does.
Laughter rings out. Whoever I’m with finds it hilarious I’ve gone down.
I try to push myself up, but I don’t have the coordination for it. I crumple back on the sidewalk, the streetlights streaking across my vision like shooting stars.
The buildings themselves lean and stretch like they’re made of rubber.
My phone buzzes and dissolves the memory. I jump so hard I almost knock my laptop off my bed. It’s a text from Shay.
hey blackout u up for mani/pedi tomorrow??
Blackout.
She and Yvette have called me that a few times now.
I blow out a breath and let the phone screen go dark without answering. I can’t deal with her right now.
We’ve always been the kind of friends that joke around and give each other a hard time. But this feels… different. It doesn’t feel like harmless jokes being made for fun.
It genuinely feels like they’re laughing at me. Like I am the joke.
I can’t believe I let myself get so drunk. I was hoping the situation would go away when the mystery bruises faded, but it seems like nobody’s willing to drop it.
Closing my laptop, I get up from my bed and then wander the halls. It’s five p.m. and I’m spending another evening alone.
Another night in an empty house.
Unc’s off “handling club business” which could mean anything from actual Steel Kings stuff to drinking with his buddies. Moses is still in Colorado for another three days at least; he hasn’t called or texted, so he’ll probably be gone even longer than that once the bike show wraps.
I have the place to myself. Hours upon hours to get stuck in my head.
So I grab the script from the Pulsboro community center’s upcoming spring production called Moonshine & Magnolia and start practicing.
Auditions are coming up, and I need to nail this.
It’s the only thing in my life that feels like it could lead somewhere, even if it’s just some small town play only a couple hundred people will see.
Right now, it’s the only thing taking my mind off Saturday night.
I stand in front of my full-length mirror and draw a deep breath, channeling Magnolia and her Southern belle sass and charm.
“Now I know you think you’ve got it all figured out, Samuel Hayes,” I begin, putting on a slight drawl.
“But there’s more to this town than moonshine and gossip.
There’re dreams here. Big ones. The kind that could swallow you whole if you’re not careful.
You think I’m just another pretty face in a Sunday dress, don’t you? Well let me tell you something—”
I go from looking at myself in the mirror to looking up at Kel. His face floats above me, swimming in and out of focus like I’m looking at him through water.
Everything’s tilted wrong, the sidewalk pressing against my back now instead of my palms. When did I end up on my back? Did I fall again?
His hand extends toward me, huge and distorted.
“Damn, down again, Lana?” he says, chuckling lightly. “Don’t worry. I got you.”
There’s still laughter, the sounds faraway and close by all at the same time. I shake my head and reach up to take his hand, barely able to sit up, let alone speak properly.
Slurred words leave my lips. Words I’m not even sure you can call part of the English language.
Kel merely chuckles again, then wraps his hand around my arm and pulls me up. I catch a whiff of his cologne—way too strong, so strong mixed with the potent smell of liquor in the air that my stomach rumbles in warning.
I feel like I might throw up.
“See,” Kel says once I’m back on my feet. “Told you I’ve got you.”
My eyes slip closed, and I’m back in front of the mirror in my room. My hands are trembling, twisting the script into rolled up paper.
Kel helped me.
He was there when I needed someone. I should feel grateful. Relieved that he was the only one who helped me up and seemed to care.
…so why does remembering his hands on me make my skin crawl? Why does nothing about Saturday night feel right?
I try to get back into character, lifting the script again. “You think I’m just another pretty face in a—”
But I can’t. I can’t disappear into another character when I’m breaking up on the inside and can’t even explain why. It sounds so dumb, yet it’s how I feel as I turn from the mirror and drop onto my bed, eyes on the ceiling.
I’m not sure how much longer I can go on like this. How I can go on with a chunk of my memories missing…
Kel shows up outside the house, honking his horn to let me know he’s arrived. I finish penciling in my eyeliner, then grab my purse on the way out.
I’ve dragged my feet even getting ready for this date, which is insane to think about considering how long I’ve crushed on him. But I’ve been dreading it so much I almost texted him to cancel.
I haven’t been in the mood for the movies. Or much of anything the past few days.
Kel’s grinning when I slide into the passenger seat.
“What’s so funny?” I ask, buckling my seatbelt.
“Nothing,” he says, a note of humor in his tone. His gaze drags up and down me in a way that makes me want to shrink into the leather seat. “Just that you look cute. I like your sweater.”
I tug at the baggy material self-consciously. I’m on my fourth oversized sweater this week, drowning my frame. It’s not a fashion choice. The bruises on my arms haven’t faded yet, purple-yellow marks I don’t remember getting.
There’re more on my ribs, my hips, and throat. My body’s like a map of Saturday night, but I can’t read any of the landmarks.
We drive in silence. I stare out the window at Pulsboro rolling by—the same strip malls and fast food places I’ve seen my whole life.
I clear my throat, desperate to fill the silence. Desperate to stop giving my anxious thoughts power to ruin a moment I’ve thought about for months.
A date with Kel Greene.
“So… what do you think about Professor Harmon’s class? That last paper was rough.”
He shrugs, barely glancing over. “I don’t. You know I barely show up.”
“Right,” I say, forcing a smile. “I forgot.”
He laughs suddenly, like the topic’s funny. “I worked out a deal with Yvette though. She does all my assignments for me. Girl’s desperate for attention, you know? Makes it easy.”
Silence falls back over the car as I draw another shaky breath and my stomach churns some more. It feels unsettled, like I’m about to be sick.
Is this how first dates are supposed to feel?
I haven’t been on many dates, but even those awkward coffee meetups freshman year weren’t like this. Those guys were nervous, fumbling, trying too hard.
Kel’s totally relaxed, one hand on the wheel, tapping along to whatever’s playing on his music app like he doesn’t have a care in the world.