3. Noah
Noah
I’m a just latte-sipping, vegan douchebag.
I tell myself not to forget that every morning while I do my daily affirmations. Well actually, it’s what my old bandmates called me before they kicked me to the curb, regardless of my actual dietary inclinations. But still, it motivates me to be better. In a weird way, I admit.
While driving like a grandma, I sip on my latte, pound a Mcgriddle in three bites, and throw the wrapper in the passenger seat.
I practice verses to songs I’ve written, but of course, I keep forgetting the lyrics to the chorus.
You would think I learned my lesson to roll up my window while driving or to put my hair up in a beanie, because at the wrong moment, a piece of my hair lodges itself into my mouth, and I inhale it, gagging instead of singing the lyrics.
I forgot when I thought it was a great idea to become Rapunzel, but whatever, I’ve grown my hair out for the past several years, and I don’t plan on cutting it. Ever. I’ve worked hard growing these beautiful locks, but I could work harder in getting this chorus down for our demo.
I ease on the brakes, coming to a halt at a red light, tapping my fingers on the steering wheel.
I creep forward as cars pull out to make a right turn.
The Civic in front of me must think they pulled out a little too far.
Cars speed past them, and I’m guessing they’re too nervous to be barely past the white line as their brake lights flash and they start backing up.
No biggie, I’m sure they’re just gonna get out of the crosswalk. But they keep coming.
“Hey... Whoa... Stop...” I breathe out the words, as if they can hear me. They're seriously not stopping. Their reversing wheels just gave my armpits a rush of sweat. I start honking the horn, laying on it.
“No! Stop! Stop! Stop!” It was like they were in their little world, singing la-la-la, just backing up, no worries here.
Are they blasting music? Clearly, they’re clueless about the persistent honk.
I’m inches away. There’s no room for me to back up either when I can’t even see the headlights of the car behind me.
I press my lips together and embrace it.
The painful jolt and the metal scraping against metal sent my heart to my stomach. They hit me.
“You gotta be shitting me,” I say to myself, and I throw my skull into the headrest.
Two people within the tinted windows of the Civic look frantic.
They’re yelling, possibly, because I see hands flailing all around.
Their yellow hazards flash as they drive off, and I tailgate them to ensure they don’t speed off into the distance.
I’ve seen that occur on countless occasions while death-scrolling reels when insomnia gets the best of me.
The Civic turns and heads into the parking lot of a nearby Walmart.
They find a parking space and double-park between the faded white lines.
They’re even crooked. Talk about asshole parking.
As I place my truck in park, I talk myself off the ledge of being a typical douchebag today, but the temptation is winning.
I leap out of the truck, slamming the door shut.
I watch two girls crawl out of the car, arguing with each other. And lo-and-behold, Trouble from the church bathroom carves a hand through her black hair, racing to her bumper where there’s a minuscule dent in the dead center.
Panic is ingrained on her face as she waves her arms up and down at the other girl with her.
I round my truck, only to spot a decent-sized scrape that merely chipped away paint.
The dent isn’t too noticeable to the naked eye, but it will make me wince every time I see it.
I stride back over to them, putting my hands in my trouser pockets.
My feet scrape over the loose gravel as I inch closer, overhearing the two bicker with each other.
“Mom’s going to kill me! It’s her car!” Trouble bites her thumbnail, and she says it in a normal tone and not the Beverly Hills dialect that was rather obnoxious the other night.
“I’ll tell her I hit a mailbox,” her friend shrugs.
“Like that’s gonna roll over smoothly with her! Jesus, Payt! You only have your permit!”
They look so similar and I wonder if they are sisters with both of them rocking out lengthy dark hair, but Trouble’s little friend is thinner, with pale skin, big blue eyes, and a light coat of freckles running across the bridge of her nose.
“It’s fine!”
“Shut up, shut up.” Trouble presses a finger to her friend’s lips and takes two steps in front of her as if she were some magical shield that would protect her.
She flashes me the biggest grin with the prettiest white teeth.
Thank God, she’s not going downtown on a piece of gum because I’m a bit relieved I’m not hearing the persistent smack.
Her face turns beet-red as she meets my gaze. “So, um...” she says and rocks on her heels. “Hi again. Funny seeing you here.”
“Have you ever heard of a rearview mirror? Or do you have a boyfriend who can talk to me?” I ask, with a bead of sweat skating down the side of my face.
It came off douchier than I expected, but maybe my affirmations are finally working.
I glare hard, and I can feel my eyebrows scrunching together.
I make sure I win the unannounced staring contest, and the second she blinks several times, I allow myself to blink once.
“I’m sorry.” Trouble cups her hands together, holding them to one side, and she spins one foot around in a circle. That pose might work with her daddy, but not with me.
“That’s all you have to say?” I ask as the ball in my throat thickens.
“I really am...” She bats her long lashes at me.
I run a hand down my face to wash off my expression so she can’t read my emotions. “Are you sorry about the bathroom graffiti, too?”
“Okay, you should've asked if anyone was in the bathroom before barging in like you owned the place. Plus, I gave you my number.” There’s the eye roll and sass again. Good, now I have a reason to dislike her other than her friend hitting my truck.
“I scrubbed your number off my arm. You have a boyfriend. Remember?”
“Charlie, do you know him?” Her friend folds her arms.
“You remember when I said I met a guy?” Trouble leans into her.
The friend huffs. “I don’t wanna date anyone. I told you that.”
I step back, looking both girls up and down, and scoff.
“You’re kidding me. You gave me your number so you can hook me up with your friend?”
“Okay, and what if I did?” Trouble asks.
“Well, not only have you wasted my time scrubbing the stalls, but now I’m going to be buffing out the hood of my truck. I’m calling the cops.” I make a beeline to the driver’s side of the truck, throwing the door open and snagging my phone lying on the passenger seat.
“No, wait! Wait!” Trouble chases after me, leaping up on her tippy toes to grasp the phone in my hand. “I’ll do whatever you want! Just say the word!”
“No, I ain’t playing your games! You’re gonna be my thirteenth reason in my suicide note tonight!” My thumb hovers over the numbers on my screen.
“You’re not funny!”
“No, I’m hilarious! And it’s gonna be a real comedy show when the cops get here!”
“Please! Just say the word!” She extends her fingers into the air as if her five-foot self could steal the phone from my grip. She’s not even close to being tall enough to take me. “I’m begging you. My mom is going to kill me! I’ll do whatever you want. I’ll show you my goddamn tits!”
“You’ll what?” I raise a brow.
“I’ll show you my tits!” She reaches for the seam of her shirt.
I press my tongue against the inside of my cheek, and a brief laugh comes up. “Oh, yeah?” I ask, not that I wouldn’t mind being flashed by a pretty thing like her, but at the same time I’m not that big of a douchebag.
“Yeah...” she says.
“I’ll make you a deal. I won’t call the cops if you stop vandalizing the church.
If I catch you with that damn Sharpie again, I’m gonna rat you out like a little five-year-old to that mommy of yours.
Now hand over that marker!” I hold out my hand, giving her the motion to cough up the Sharpie because I know it’s in that purse of hers.
Trouble nervously laughs and walks backwards to her car, struggling to grasp the door handle.
She flings open the driver’s side and with two hands she yanks her purse out, and it plops onto the hood of the Civic.
She paws around what looks like pounds of makeup, gum wrappers, receipts, and whatever else girls hoard.
Then she holds up the Sharpie caked with globs of eyeliner, mascara, and foundation smudges.
She hands it over to me, and the second I take it, her makeup residue is on my palms.
“Give me your hand.” I use two fingers to motion to her, and she does as I ask. I pop off the cap, take her right hand, and start scribbling out my number.
“Call me sometime babe,” I mimic her girly voice from the other night and blink my lashes like a little preppy girl.
Her mouth drops open as I push the cap back on the marker.
I drop the Sharpie onto the asphalt below and walk back to my truck, getting in and shutting the door.
Trouble stands like a statue, staring at the numbers on top of her hand as I ignite the truck’s engine to life, backing up and leaving.