Chapter Twenty-Seven

Thursday, January 20th

Creative writing club meeting

“Does everybody understand?” Dr. Draper asks the increasingly smaller number of us attending creative writing club. Gabby’s not here due to an away basketball game. It’s down to Kirk, Josh, Charlotte, Candy, three of the roses and razor blade freshman girl poets and me.

Before anybody has a chance to confirm with her that we understand we’ll now be reading our own works, Josh jumps right in with his latest opus called ‘Tenderness on the Block’. It’s the story of a smart, sensitive-type boy who loves palindromes. While palindromes are perfectly balanced words, the MC can’t seem to find his perfect girl. The story involves a SSB—smart, sensitive-type boy—and his smart-mouth cousin—the wacky sidekick, aka WSK—who both fall in love with same beautiful, mysterious girl, or BMG.

As with all of Josh’s stories for the paper and in this club, it is well written and universally adored. Even though I can think of some constructive things to say, I don’t bother. With him and Charlotte, no matter what I’d say, it would smell, taste and sound like sour grapes.

I pretend to listen as one of the emo girls pours out her agony stanzas like she’s the first person ever to feel pain. My head hurts under the deluge of abstract nouns gushing from her black lipsticked mouth. When there’s very little time left in the meeting, I finally raise my hand.

“Carson, you have a short story to read?” Dr. Draper asks.

“This is the last Autumn’s Fall story.” I open up the folder I’m clutching in my shaking right hand. “All these stories are connected, really more of a novel than a collection of stories.”

“That’s an excellent idea,” she says. “So you’re submitting all four we’ve seen?”

“Maybe,” I answer. “The new one is too long to read aloud.”

Josh doesn’t react to my subtle shot, nor does he take one of my stories. Charlotte grabs one, however, then quickly scans it before she says, “I knew it. I knew these were your stories.”

“How?”

“Because they’re so good,” she says. Josh doesn’t react. That would be beneath him.

“I wouldn’t go that far,” Kirk says.

“That’s not helpful,” Dr. Draper says. “If you have comments to make Carson’s story better, fine, but don’t just snipe. That’s as bad as writing a review and not signing your name.”

“I just think it’s all too emotional,” Kirk continues. “Nobody would care about a girl like this. She’s a slut, a liar and a substance abuser. She deserves a jail term, not our sympathy.”

“Kirk, what you don’t know about the world is a lot,” I tell him.

“The good thing about Carson’s story,” Dr. Draper interjects, “is that he made some of you care about this character. I remember Miss Gibson being quite taken with your story.”

“Well, that’s because it uses mostly little words,” Kirk cracks. Nobody laughs except him. The razor blade girls are too busy swooning over Josh and resenting Charlotte.

“Just like not all critics and editors are failed writers,” I crack back as I point to Kirk.

“Real funny, Banks. Maybe you should spend more time writing your stories for the paper than writing jokes.” He’s got me. I’m covering Gabby with more kisses than ink.

“We’re here to talk about writing, not launch into personal attacks,” Dr. Draper says.

“But if you attack my writing, you’re attacking me,” I say.

“No, that’s what you don’t get, Carson,” Kirk says, up in my face and on my case. “You may not realize it ‘cause I crack on you, but you’re an okay guy. I just don’t think these stories are good. You should stick with writing for the newspaper. Learn to accept your limitations.”

I give Kirk a hard stare before exiting quickly so I can see Gabby play and feel better.

* * * *

My emotions push my foot hard on the accelerator as I head out on Owen Road. My hands are wrapped around the steering wheel as if it were Kirk’s neck. I’m too angry to be scared or careful. As freezing rain pelts down, I’m not driving too fast or too slow, and things are not right as the Malibu skids off the expressway and smacks into the snow-packed shoulder.

I don’t hit hard enough for the airbag to go off. Instead I manage to lodge my two front tires in the frozen snow hugging the shoulder of the expressway. Whatever faith in God I thought I’d lost, I regained as the car was heading off the road. I prayed harder in those eight seconds than I have in eighteen years. I try to get unstuck, but the car is in too deep. My life is metaphor rich. I sit for minutes that seem like hours, until I hear a tap on the windshield.

“You okay?” I hear someone shout in time with a louder tap.

I get myself together, trying to look like a man, not some stupid, reckless accident-prone kid, which is what I am regardless of what my driver’s license says. A driver’s license I won’t need since I’m sure Dad will take it and end my driving days after this incident. I roll down the window. On the other side is a state trooper. I’m so scared I inhale half my lungs.

“License, insurance and registration please,” she says.

It takes a second to get the documents, a second or two longer for my hands to stop shaking.

“You’ve been drinking?”

“No, Officer,” I say, like I was competing for some obedience award.

“What happened?” she asks as she examines the documents. She’s not really listening to the story, more interested in how I’m telling it. I hope my nervousness doesn’t make me sound like I’m drunk or high. If being scared were a crime, she’d cuff me right now. When I finish, she doesn’t ask me to get out of the car, but goes back to her cruiser.

The icy rain stops while I wait. I’m stuck spinning on the big wheel of ‘what if’. What if I’d left the meeting ten minutes earlier, then would this slick spot have been on the road? What if Myrtle hadn’t run outside just as Daisy was driving by in Gatsby’s car?

“Put it in reverse,” she says when she returns to the car. I do, but the front tire’s lodged in the snow, while the back tires spin on the slick pavement.

“I’d better get some help or wait until the spring thaw,” I crack. She doesn’t react.

“You can’t leave your car here. It’s too dangerous. You’ll need a tow truck.”

She doesn’t ask me why a smile appears on my face “Call All Star Towing in Fenton. I know the owner.” As she makes the call, I wonder what the punishment is for lying to a state trooper.

* * * *

The officer stays with me until a red, white and blue tow truck arrives. A tall African American man gets out of the truck. He speaks with the officer, then comes toward my car. He wears a Detroit Lions wool cap, thick black gloves and an aura of authority.

The tow guy walks past my door, looks at the car then finally comes toward me.

“You have insurance?” he asks with a deep voice. I nod like a puppy dog.

“Does it cover towing? If not, fifty dollars cash.” He seems in a hurry.

“I don’t have any money.” I sigh.

“Welcome to Fenton,” he says, then smiles. Gabby’s smile. “If you don’t have any—”

“I go to high school with your daughter,” I say, quickly, so I don’t stumble.

“My daughter?” He looks confused, not confrontational.

“Gabrielle Gibson, right?”

“How do you know that?”

“I’ve seen you at her games. I write about girls’ sports for the Fenton school paper.”

“What’s your name?”

“Carson Banks.”

“You wrote those articles about her being all-state in three sports, right?”

“That was me, sir.”

“I owe you,” he says, smiling Gabby’s smile again. “Every time after we submit an application for college, I mail the athletic director a copy of that story, so keep writing.”

“I will keep writing,” I say. “You know, I was going to her game when this happened.”

“So was I,” he says. “Except you’re not the only accident, so I gotta keep working.”

“If I get out of this and see her, I’ll let her know I ran into you. Well, ran off the road.”

“You’re funny, kid,” he says, then laughs. Gabby’s laugh.

“Can I watch you hook it up?” I ask. As I walk with him toward his truck, I tell him about my dad repairing machines and always making me watch whenever he does it. I’m having a bonding moment with a man whose daughter I love, and he doesn’t have a clue.

He gets the car unstuck and pointed back in the right direction. I need to get moving to not miss Gabby’s game. I need to stay to not miss this opportunity.

“What are her plans after high school?” I ask, acting innocent. “Going right to the pros?”

“She wants to go to college in California, so we’re working on scholarships,” he says.

“She doesn’t want to stay in Michigan?” I probe deeper. “Nothing to keep her here?”

“Like what?” he says, very sharp.

I look at the ground, hiding my smirk. “Like what if she had a boyfriend or something?”

“She doesn’t have time for nonsense like that,” he says. I look up and his friendly smile has turned into a clenched jaw. I don’t think anyone’s looked at me as hard as he’s doing now.

He thanks me again for writing about Gabby as I climb back into my car, which I now wish was that DeLorean from those old movies where ‘what if’ and the past could be changed.