FOUR
Did you know that your car is pink?
On Friday afternoon, I sit outside on a bench, waiting for Micah to get out of class. I’m listening to some classical music today, because sometimes I just like listening to music without words.
I watch the crowd as I sit there. It’s fascinating how different people are. Everybody tries so hard to be “normal”, but there really isn’t a normal. Normal is just a word people use as an excuse to conform.
When I was younger, I used to try to do the same. I wasn’t myself, though in my defense, I wasn’t really sure who I was back then. I would try and fit in a certain mold that I thought I was supposed to. I thought that if I acted a certain way, people would want to be my friend. And I was right. People did want to be my friend. I was popular and had a ton of friends.
I watch a girl with pink hair walk by. I admire her for her bravery and boldness, but I would never do something like that to myself. She has headphones in her ears and she gives off this I don’t care attitude. In my experience, it’s usually just a front. If you don’t try, you can’t be rejected. Therefore, why try? It’s easy to just observe.
One of my headphones is pulled from my ear and I look to see Micah sit down beside me. He sticks the headphone in his ear.
“Moonlight Sonata. Nice,” he says. “I love Beethoven.”
“Do you like sneaking up on people?” I ask.
“I’m surprised I can sneak up on you. You’re really observant,” he says.
I haven’t always been. But when you face death, it changes something inside of you. I now live in constant fear.
“There is a bonfire tomorrow night after the game,” Micah says, standing up.
I turn off my music and we start walking towards the coffee shop together. I’ve never liked coffee before starting college, but I can’t get enough now. I think it’s a requirement to drink coffee if you’re a college student.
“Game?” I ask.
“Football,” he answers, giving me an odd look. “Isla, you are really strange.”
I don’t try to deny it.
“I’m not sure if I like football,” I admit. At least not anymore. I haven’t been to a football game since I stopped being a cheerleader my junior year of high school, and I haven’t seen a Bulldog game since way before then… not since my dad left.
“Then let’s find out,” he says. “Want to go with me to the game?”
I have good memories of football games. Some are memories with my dad and some are with my friends. The tragedy that happened doesn’t change the fun I had. They’re still good memories. And I kind of want those memories with my new friend.
“Sure,” I answer.
Why not? It beats sitting alone in my very pink dorm room all night. The bright color makes me want to vomit.
“Do you want to go to the bonfire too?” Micah asks.
“I don’t know,” I answer. “I’m not really into that whole scene.”
“What scene?”
“The party scene,” I clarify.
“Have you ever been to a party?” he asks.
“When I was sixteen,” I answer. I actually went to a lot of parties back then, but they were never wild. If they were, Scott never would’ve let me go. Back when he was more like a brother than just the son of the man my mother married.
“Come on. It’ll be fun,” Micah says. “This isn’t some high school party.”
“That is what scares me,” I say.
“The Isla McAdams I know isn’t scared of anything,” Micah says.
I laugh. “You have known me a week. Besides, I’m pretty much scared of any situation that requires me to be social. Just thinking about conversing with strangers is giving me anxiety.”
“Please,” he says.
“Fine. But I’m not drinking,” I say, thinking about my stepbrother. If drinking is what makes him act like that, I’m never drinking. Ever.
Not that I planned on it anyway.
“Me either. This college is too expensive to waste my brain cells,” he says. “Plus, I’m rather fond of my liver.”
I laugh.
He opens the door for me at the coffee shop, which makes me smile. I like Micah. He’s a gentleman. He’s got the whole southern charm thing down.
“What are you getting?” he asks. “Wait, no, let me guess. Vanilla latte made with soy milk and an extra shot of vanilla.”
“We get coffee together everyday. It’s not hard to memorize my order,” I say, rolling my eyes at him. “You’re the one who gets something different every day.”
When we get to the counter, the girl already knows what I want, proving that anybody could memorize my order. Micah tells her what he wants. He insists on paying this time. We usually take turns. I paid last time. After he pays, we step off to the side to wait.
“How do you really know a vanilla latte is your favorite if you never try the other flavors?” Micah asks. “You should step out of your comfort zone.”
“Yeah, but what if I get a different kind and don’t like it?”
“But what if you do like it?”
I shrug.
The girl sets our coffees on the counter. I grab the smaller one.
“At least try mine,” he says, holding out his cup.
I take a sip and it tastes bitter on my tongue. “That is disgusting. What is it?”
“Mocha,” he answers.
“That is seriously gross.”
“Still,” he says, taking a drink, “sometimes you need to step outside of your comfort zone. Live a little. Carpe diem. Yolo. And all those other cliché sayings.”
We take a seat in a booth. I sit across him.
“You’re starting to sound like my shrink,” I say.
“You have a shrink?” he asks.
If only you knew.
“I’m going to a football game and a party with you tomorrow,” I say, changing the subject. “Which, by the way, is way outside of my comfort zone. I can only try one new thing at a time. So, give me some credit here. I’m trying.”
“Okay, fine. But it is my mission to have you try every flavor of coffee they have here,” he says.
“Sure,” I say. “If it makes you feel better, I’ll take a drink of your weird coffee flavor everyday.”
“Thank you,” he says.
“But you have to go with me to the mall today.”
“The mall?”
I nod. “If I’m going to a football game and bonfire, I need new clothes.”
“I didn’t peg you for a girl who likes shopping,” he says.
“It’s not something I really enjoy, but if I don’t use my credit card for something other than gas, my mom gets mad at me,” I say. “I try to spend money at clothing stores to appease her.”
Plus, I like new clothes, even if I would never admit it out loud.
“You might be the only girl on the planet who gets in trouble for not spending your parents’ money,” he says.
“It’s my stepdad’s money, actually. Which is also part of the reason why I do it. With every swipe, he gets a little bit poorer,” I say. My grin fades. “That’s probably not true. That man makes money faster than even my mom can spend it. Which is saying a lot.”
“Then we better start now,” he says, standing up. “We taking your car or mine?”
…
Five minutes later, I am getting in my little pink car.
“Ugh, Isla,” Micah says, staring at my car.
“Yeah?”
“Did you know that your car is pink?”
“Yes. I am aware of that fact.”
I mean, it’s kind of hard to miss.
“I thought you hated the color pink,” he says, still staring at my car.
“I do.” I get in my car and start it. Hesitantly, Micah gets in the passenger side.
“I’m a bit embarrassed to be seen riding in a pink car,” he says, sliding down in the leather seats. I don’t blame him. Sometimes I wish I could hide when people look.
I laugh, and pop open the convertible top. I usually keep it up, but this occasion calls for it to be down.
“Seriously, Isla,” he hisses.
I just laugh and turn on my favorite Korean song.
“I’m riding in a pink car, listening to the the most girly song ever, on my way to the mall,” he says. “I can’t believe this is my life.”
I just sing along.
Eventually, Micah sits up.
“So, I’m guessing there is a story behind the car,” he says.
“Once upon a time, pink was my favorite color,” I admit.
“What happened to make you hate the color so much?”
I open my mouth, but nothing comes out. Nobody has ever asked me that question before. Not even my therapist. And, to be honest, I don’t really want to answer his question. Just thinking about it makes it harder to breathe. I grip onto the sterling wheel harder.
“Hey, are you all right?” he asks.
I nod, not taking my eyes off the road. I can’t look at him right now. I just need to focus on driving and breathing. Deep, even breaths. I don’t need to think about what happened that day. And I definitely don’t need to let Micah know what happened. Nope. Not ever.
“Turn in up here,” Micah says, pointing at a strip mall parking lot.
I do as he asks and pull into a parking lot. I let go of the steering wheel, glad to not be on the road anymore.
“Isla,” he says.
I try to talk, but I can’t.
I feel something wet fall down my cheek. I’m mortified that I’m crying in front of him.
“What’s wrong?” he asks, noticing my tears.
“I just… don’t want to talk about it. Ever,” I say.
He opens the passenger door and comes over to my side. He opens my door.
“Get out.”
“Umm…”
He holds out his hand to help me, so I get out. He walks me over to the passenger side and opens the door. I sit down and he closes the door. He then walks around to the driver’s side and gets in.
“If you tell anybody that I drove your car, I will hurt you,” he says, putting my car in drive.
I laugh, feeling all of the anxiety leave my body.
Micah Stevens is driving my pink car.
My day is made.
…
When I get home from shopping, I check my email. I haven’t checked it since Monday, which isn’t like me. I usually email Lonerguy279 at least once a day. He’s probably worried.
I have a couple emails. The first one was sent on Monday, not longer after I emailed him.
From: Lonerguy279
To: Pinkstar737
Subject: RE: RE: RE: RE: You’re the only girl who could EVER get me to listen to K-Pop.
Dear Pinkstar737,
You and this guy sound like you’re getting along good. Finding a friend who enjoys Korean rap is hard. Sounds like he is your long lost twin. Since he likes your crazy music, he gets my approval.
You should know that you’re not crazy. You’ve never told me about the incident, but whatever it was had to have been awful. You’re a normal person who had something bad happen to you. Don’t EVER let anybody tell you you’re not sane.
I knew somebody once who was crazy. Only he didn’t seem crazy. Until one day… he did. It was like the crazy was building up inside of him for years before he let it escape. But that’s not you.
I’m glad you have a friend. You deserve to finally be happy.
Sincerely,
Lonerguy279
There is another email sent on Thursday.
From: Lonerguy279
To: Pinkstar737
Subject: Alive?
Dear Pinkstar737,
Are you alive? I’ve never gone this long without talking to you and I’m a bit worried.
Sincerely,
Lonerguy279
I reply.
From: Pinkstar737
To: Lonerguy279
Subject: RE: Alive?
Dear Lonerguy279,
I’m sorry I haven’t replied. I’ve been busy with my new friend.
We went to the mall together today. We took my car. Ever seen a guy ride in a pink convertible? It was kind of hilarious. Until it wasn’t. My new friend asked me why I hate the color pink and I had a panic attack while I was driving. My friend then DROVE my pink car. It was then that I realized that he and I are destined to be friends for life. Especially since my panic attack didn’t scare him away.
I wish I could stop being so scared. I wish I could talk about what happened to me. No… what I wish is that it never would’ve happened. Everyday I ask myself why I got to live. Why did the guy pick ME specifically to live while he killed the others around me? I shouldn’t be here.
Sorry if this email is a little dark. Really, I’m okay. Tomorrow night, I’m even going to a football game and then a bonfire afterwards. So things are good. Great, even. My shrink was right. College really is what I needed.
Sincerely,
Pinkstar737
I shut my laptop and go to bed.
Tomorrow will be even better than today.