Seventeen, cruising down the pike, top rolled down in my Chrysler Sebring, Jeannie’s hair would be blowing in the wind if it wasn’t so short. She’d cut it two weeks ago. Above the neck.
“You hate it, don’t you?”
I did but I lied.
“Stunning.”
She’d never forgive me otherwise.
Rivalry week.
She pulled me aside after the game. Me, in my still Irish Mist-scented uniform. Only a bench-crease on my shorts. Her in jeans and a tank (her cheerleader costume long-since retired). 82-47 win over Southside.
“Billy asked me out.”
“Like ya going steady?” I mocked her. Felt bad but did it anyway.
“What should I say?”
She knew what she wanted me to say, but asked it anyway. And me? Gave her that Montgomery Clift-head tilt, bedroom eyes slightly raised.
“Does it matter.”
And I walked away.
Didn’t turn but pictured her slow-dancing her way back to the gym. Back to those other girls with their messy lives; midriff-baring, boyfriend-mangling.
Met up with my two dudes outside in the parking lot. A slow pull from a thermos. Hard burn then we were off before we knew it.
Fast cars floating down the highway. The Sebring red-lining to keep up with Tommy’s Dad’s Vette. Like I had a chance but Frankie and Paulie hooting and hollering, beer muscles building, too many shots of cheap Rum from the thermos.
Phone blowing up. Jeannie. What else?
Took one glance over, saw a few words: Let me; Love; Failure.
Wind whipping fast, the haze over the road drowning the rest of the cars, the two numbnuts yelling something about being a man, so I pounded the pedal, saw taillights close in, then felt nothing.
Jesse Binger is a fiction writer from New Jersey. His stories have appeared or are forthcoming in Bristol Noir, Close to the Bone, Yellow Mama, and Literary Garage. He is currently on submission with his debut novel. Find him on X: @JesseBinger or his author website: www.jessebinger.com.