2. The “Servo”
THE “SERVO”
It’s dark outside. Midnight, or at least close to it—but it doesn’t really matter considering where I am going; they’re open twenty-four hours.
The stars are out, clear of any dusty clouds, and the frigid night breeze relaxes me enough to listen to music. I scroll through my playlist until I find a song I can listen to on repeat: “Believer” by Imagine Dragons.
As I walk down the street, cars drive past with their headlights glaring, piercing my vision while casting silver light on the tall trees, gardens, and driveways.
The shadow of mine grows, turning into a giant.
It grows taller and taller until the car passes me, and then the giant version of me plummets, hiding within and lying dormant.
The service station, or what everyone calls “the servo”, is near my home. The most convenient place to indulge in his addiction, as well as my short-term escape. The service station lights up like a beacon on a stormy night out at sea.
There’s a white Toyota Corolla parked out front. Shiny—a new model. The same car I’ve seen in the school car park.
Some days, I imagined myself inside, fiddling with its large touchscreen display and listening to the quiet hum as it rumbled to life. And if it got too much at home, I would curl up in the back seat and sleep there for the night.
The automatic doors to the service station open as I enter.
Dad’s beer is at the back, in one row of the fridge section.
As I walk past the second aisle, someone I recognise catches my eye.
Conner stares at the various flavours of chips with full concentration.
He stares as if he wants any packet of chips to jump out of the rack because he doesn’t want to choose.
I take another step when a sharp pain hits my arm. I step away from the rack filled with packets of lollies and hiss as I grab my arm. I cradle the redness throbbing there and look to Conner. He stares at me.
I stare at him.
Silence. An awkward silence plagues us.
Suddenly, he grabs the bag of chicken chips and makes his way towards me. Lowering my gaze, I take a step away and turn my attention to the beer. As I make my way towards it, Conner’s fleeting steps move in the other direction.
I know what I want, but I look like I don’t while I put the song on mute. The cash register pops, and Conner murmurs, “Thank you.”
Opening the fridge, I grab the six-pack, close the door, and make my way to James (the night worker). He says nothing, only giving a tight smile as I place the beer on the counter.
James places it in a flimsy plastic bag, sneakily slipping a Snickers bar inside. My smile strains on my face, not fully clicking, but enough to keep questions at bay.
As I leave the service station, my stomach double-knots.
Conner stands outside the door of his car with his cigarette pressed between his fingers.
On the other side of his car, two people were making their way towards me.
They’re dressed in black and blue, and the two men have guns strapped to the buckles around their waists.
I duck my head, hoping they don’t notice. But as we pass each other, the younger police officer stops, turns and says, “Hey.”
Chills shudder up my spine like spiders on a disturbed web when I freeze.
With it, my maladaptive daydreaming manifests.
I imagine myself becoming agile enough to flee from two police officers.
I’m faster than them, and in this fictional mind of mine, I escape the confines of the police with the beer I’m not supposed to have.
“What’s in the bag?” he asks.
They aren’t stupid. The bag is clear plastic. They can see what’s inside.
“It’s…”
I think about coming clean. The dynamic with Dad comes to mind, but will they believe me, or will they drive me home and expose my words to him?
Then, after they leave, the terror and horrors I have pushed to the back of my mind will free themselves.
And as I crumble on the dirty carpet, would I see Mum in the corner crying again as she watches the bruises come to life on my body?
Somebody appears beside me and says, “It’s mine!” Conner takes the bag from me, my fingers slackening on the handles. “I couldn’t carry it all, so I left the bag on the counter to get after a smoke.”
My surprise leaks out, but I try to keep a passive enough expression and play into what he’s saying. He’s so persuasive that I believe his lies even as I stand here.
Conner dips his hand into the plastic bag, takes out the Snickers bar and says, “This must be yours.”
The older police officer grimaces. “Can I see some form of identification?” Conner goes into his pocket, takes out his phone, unfolds the front, and hands his license to them. After a glance, the officer hands it back and says, “Have a good night.”
That’s it? I expected more—or for them to take out a notebook and write our names and numbers. Maybe even question us further. And if I’m being honest with myself, I would have probably crumbled under the pressure.
Conner drops the cigarette and squishes it with his shoe until the orange glow fades.
“Why did you help me?” I ask.
He shrugs. “Why wouldn’t I?”
I bite the inside of my cheek, too afraid to answer.
Instead, I reach for the bag when Conner walks towards his car and says, “I’ll drive you home. You don’t want to get caught walking home with this. They will probably follow.”
From the other side of the transparent glass window, the younger police officer watches us like a hawk. So, I nod a few times, follow Conner to his car, and slide into the passenger seat.
As I assumed, the leather is comfortable.
The car hums to life, and Conner slowly reverses out, showing he’s a cautious driver. I don’t even reverse this slowly. Then again, Dad’s car jolts, so it’s hard not to fly back when I apply a little pressure and speed up.
“Which way?”
I tell him my street. He nods, knowing where to go as he turns right into the dead of night.
I don’t know Conner well, and have only seen him in art. This is the first time we have spoken. Year eleven and twelve students share electives. I only do art because Mrs Jones told me—when she was my therapist—that it would ease my daydreaming if I expressed what I thought.
And it helps…somewhat. But it’s not enough. Still, I love art and have received three awards for the art I have produced. Mr Rogers says I have a unique and imaginative touch.
From afar, I always admired Conner’s realism when he drew and painted.
And one day, Mr Rogers wanted us to go outside and find something to draw. Conner and I sat in silence as we sketched the same tree. Mine became twisted and darker, with thorns like something from a horror movie: sharp and terrifying.
When I stole a glance at Conner’s drawing, it was realistic. He drew leaves as he saw them, and I envied the realism but also accepted it. Everyone had a different artistic style; I steered more towards fantasy, while he had a realistic touch.
Conner stops the car a few houses down from mine. I lied about where I lived because I didn’t want him to hear anything. I hope it’s far enough for the sounds to become muffled.
But even if he does, I can easily lie and tell him my neighbours are loud. He won’t know.
I grab my bag and open the door when Conner says, “Why were you buying a pack of beer? And why did the guy working there let you buy it?”
“Uh…” My mouth becomes dry and fuzzy. We haven’t spoken until now.
If anything, I half-expected a “goodbye” before I stepped out of the car.
I never thought Conner would ask me anything, which means he’s more observant than I give him credit for.
So, I will sticky-note that in the back of my mind if we ever re-encounter each other. “I have Face I.D.,” I say.
“Really?” he says, bemused. “Why didn’t you just say that to the cops?”
“Because it’s not a very good one,” I reply. “Besides, police officers scare me.”
“Why?” He leans over, intrigued by the conversation.
Lowering my focus away from Conner, I clutch the door handle, shake my head, and take a deep breath as I force a smile. “Thanks for the ride, Conner.”
As I push the door open, he says, “Noya, wait.” His hazel eyes darken, and his short, light brown hair falls forward as he looks down at the cup holder.
I do the same and see the Snickers bar. With a sigh, I grab it and shuffle out as Conner leans back comfortably and says, “I’ll see you in Creative Arts tomorrow. ”
Dad shouts from inside my house before I can shut Conner’s door. My eyes widen, and a frigid chill drains whatever heat burns at my face. Conner furrows his brows while looking ahead, and a few houses down, at my house.
I quickly close the door, step onto the path and wave, but Conner isn’t leaving. Instead, he winds down his window and leans across. “I’ll wait until you get to your door.” He darts a look at my house again and says, “Your street isn’t really that safe.”
My street is safe. It’s my home that isn’t safe.
But I’m still pushing the narrative that I live at my neighbour’s home—except I don’t live there.
My elderly neighbour lives here, and I often see her early in the morning tending her garden while overlooking my house, likely silently judging my family.
All the lights are off, and as I walk up the pathway, I silently thank the elderly lady for going to bed too early and being hard of hearing. Her garden flourishes on either side of me, one of the new, well-tended gardens on the street.
Conner still waits, but his focus is on the loud shouting two doors down.
The sensor light blinks on as I make my way up the steps and onto the veranda. A shaky breath escapes my parched lips as I stand at the door. As I “search” for my keys, Conner does a U-turn and drives back the way he came.
With a deep, exhaled breath, I turn away from the door when it opens. My neighbour peers out to look at me. “Noya? What are you doing here in the middle of the night?”
“Uh…I’m sorry, Mrs Crawforw,” I say. “I just needed somewhere to hang out before heading home.”
She leans outside her home and cocks her head, listening to the symphony of crying and shouting from two doors down. Then, her focus rests back on me. “You can come in if you like, dear?”
I shake my head, and with a weakened smile, I say, “It’s fine. I just needed a breath of fresh air. Sorry to have woken you up.”
“Okay…well, take care, dear.”
Hastening my step down the steps, I instinctively look to my right first and to the way Conner went before heading to my house and to the sounds of Dad (hopefully) getting murdered.