Roadkill
Cam
“Party’s over, folks! Dump the cups! You don’t have to go home, but you can’t stay here!”
I’m not all that disappointed, if I’m being honest. I’ve been to a million of Rebecca Johnson’s Saturday night bangers, and they’re all pretty much the same.
“You can stay, obviously,” Rebecca tells Mel, my girlfriend. She smiles politely at me and adds, “Sorry, Cam. My parents’ plans changed, and now they’ll be here first thing tomorrow. Otherwise, you’d be welcome.”
Like I said, I don’t really mind. Mel, though, looks disappointed. She takes me by the hand and guides me out of earshot of the hordes of other high school seniors around us. “Are you okay to drive?”
I nod. I had a few beers when I got here, but that was hours ago. “All good.”
“Maybe I should go with you. Your parents wouldn’t mind, right?”
My dad wouldn’t—that’s for sure. He loves Mel far more than he’d ever love me, and he’d be more disappointed to think I might not be sexually active than to think that I was. My mom wouldn’t exactly be thrilled, but she’s never stood up to my dad before, so I doubt she’d start tonight.
The truth is, great and pretty and sweet as Mel is, I still prefer to be alone. Not all the time, mind you, but we spent the entire day together, and I’m ready for some solitude.
“Next weekend,” I promise her. “Practice just really did a number on me this week. That okay?”
I’m referring to football practice, if you were wondering. I’m the varsity QB. I’m not really that good; it’s just that no one at our hoity-toity prep school, Hollis, is any better.
“Okay,” says Mel, who, of course, is head cheerleader. My life is pretty predictable these days. “I’ll see you Monday, then.” And she kisses me goodbye.
I feel a little too much relief as I stroll to my Porsche and hop in. It’s been six months since we started dating; I should really cut the cord if I’m still feeling relieved every time I walk away from her. Mel deserves better than that, and frankly, she could do better; she could have any guy she wanted.
Cursing my own assholeish tendencies, I start my car and pull out of the driveway. It’s late—nearly two o’clock in the morning—and though Rebecca Johnson’s place isn’t far from mine, the route is poorly lit and mostly consists of one long, creepy country road. Rucker is a small town, and not all of it is glamorous. Rebecca and I both live in good parts of town, but you have to cross through the bad parts to get from one to the other.
When I first notice the figure in the road, I think it’s a deer. It’s common to come across roadkill on these back roads; I’m just lucky I’m not the one who hit it.
It’s not a deer, though, I realize as I slow down and pull off to the shoulder. It’s a… girl.
I slam on the brakes, throw my car into park, and jump out, barely taking the time to check for oncoming traffic (thankfully, there isn’t any—most of the kids at the party walked or biked there). I stoop down, scanning the unconscious figure with rising panic. Is she dead? She’s covered in blood; that much is certain.
“Hey,” I say stupidly, reaching out to touch her face. It’s a weird, creepy, idiotic thing to think at a time like this, but I can’t help noticing that she’s pretty. Really pretty.
Her face flinches when I touch it—just enough to tell me she’s alive. My hand flies to my phone, and I power-dial 911, but—you guessed it—no service.
Cursing, I look around to weigh my options. There are really only three that I can think of: leave her to die, go try to find help and risk her dying while I’m gone, or put her in my car and take her to the hospital myself.
“I have to get you into my car,” I tell her, jumping up to open the back seat door. “Can you hear me? Do you understand what I’m saying?”
She moans something indecipherable, turning her face toward the pavement. She doesn’t want to go with me; that much is clear.
“I know it’s scary,” I tell her, returning to her side and reaching out a tentative hand to touch her arms. She flinches again. “I’m not going to hurt you. I’m going to take you to the hospital so they can treat you. You’ve lost a lot of blood, and you need help. Do you understand?”
She moans again, but this time the moan turns into a cough, and there’s so much blood in that cough, I decide that the time to be gentlemanly is over. I wrap my arms beneath her, scoop her up bridal-style, and hoist her into the back seat. She tries to struggle, and even makes some meek noises of protest, but winds up falling silent again by the time I take my own seat and start the car.
“I need you to stay awake,” I tell the girl as I pull out onto the road. “Can you do that for me? Can you try and tell me your name?”
Nothing.
I scan her reflection in the rear-view as I step on the gas. She’s about my age, if I had to guess. Her dark hair is long and matted, and there’s dark, heavy, smeared makeup around her closed, swollen eyes. A tattoo peeks up the back of her neck, but I can't tell what it is. Her thin wrists are covered in thick leather arm bands, and her torn, frayed shirt is a vintage band tour tee. The Velvet Underground.
It’s almost like someone plucked the image of my dream girl out of my head, ran her over with a car, and left her for me to find.
“I like your shirt,” I tell her lamely as I drive on. We’re getting close, but I have to keep her awake. “Pale Blue Eyes was always my favorite, but Femme Fatale has the best lyrics. I always wanted to meet a girl like that. Not the ‘tease’ part, I mean, just… a girl who could play me. ‘Before you start, you’re already beat.’ The girls at Hollis aren’t like that.”
What am I even saying? Am I really subjecting this poor, dying girl to the ramblings of a stupid, rich boy who is apparently looking to have his heart broken?
She makes another sound at that—a different one. Less of a moan; more of an actual… word.
“Sun...day.”
“No,” I say. “Well—yeah, technically I guess it’s Sunday. But I’d still call this Saturday night.”
“Sun...day… morning.”
“Well, again, technically yes, but…” I trail off as I pull into the emergency lane at the hospital. She isn’t referring to the time of day or the day of the week, I realize. She’s referring to the Velvet Underground song, Sunday Morning.
I put the car in park and turn to face her with wide, excited eyes. She’s conscious—lucid enough to tell me her favorite song. Her eyes are even opening.
Pale and blue. Just like the song.
“You’re going to be okay,” I tell her softly.
I can only pray that it’s the truth.
