An Oklahoma Thing

The clock reads 10:49 when my phone buzzes. It’s him. Asking if I want to go for a drive.

I don’t, but what else is there to do?

I’ve been rotting in bed, mindlessly scrolling through social media for the past three hours. Refresh Instagram. Scroll. Switch to Facebook. Refresh. Scroll. Rinse and repeat.

It’s Friday night, but I didn’t get an invite to the party being hosted by the student council kids so there’s simply nothing else for me to do.

I text him a yes and he replies immediately. Be there in 10.

Ten minutes later he texts to tell me he’s parked down the street, so my parents won’t notice. I poke my head out of my room, yell Goodnight Mom. Goodnight Dad! Love you!

Love you, too! They yell back from the other side of the house, where their bedroom is located. I arrange my oversized body pillow under my duvet and fluff it to make it seem like I’m sleeping underneath. Not that I think my parents will check.

I turn off my lamp and make work of the window. A couple months ago, I unscrewed the bolts on the screen so I could pop it off and on without anyone noticing.

Unlocking the clasps, I slide the window open, pop out the screen, and climb out into the cold, winter night.

Although the walk is only a minute at best, it’s miserable. The typical Oklahoma wind threatens to sweep me away after first chilling me to the bone. It’s relentless, the wind. Always ten degrees colder than the temperature that shows on my weather app. Being that it’s mid-January, I’m surprised I even make it to his car.

As I open the door, he’s in the middle of frantically tossing things in the back from the passenger seat. Old receipts, disposable vape boxes, empty gum packages. He acts as if he didn’t know I was coming. I wait impatiently in the cold. He tells me sorry.

I hop in and he starts driving, revving the engine of his old Honda. We haven’t even turned off my street yet. I look at him in annoyance, like I didn’t just spend the last twenty minutes preparing and executing a stealthy exit. He tells me sorry again.

He and I have a complicated friendship. We’ve known each other for years now. Since middle school. My friends were friends with his friends and, somehow, we became friends. Then we weren’t friends because I found out he had a thing for me and I didn’t want to have a thing with him and he didn’t take it well. I wasn’t in a good mental space for a thing with him, or anyone for that matter. But, a year later, he told me he got over his thing, and we became friends again. Still, I’m not in a good mental space for much of anything. I tell him so, and he understands. He wants to help me. Sometimes he respects my feelings. Sometimes they infuriate him. He has a poor temper.

Where do you want to go? he asks me.

Anywhere.

Life isn’t great at home. Sure, it looks fine. A typical white suburban middle-class family. I get good grades, am captain of my high school’s varsity girls’ soccer team. I even hold a steady job at the local Mexican restaurant.

Something is wrong, though. I feel it burning inside me. Day after day I wake up empty. Sad. There’s no better way to describe it other than sad.

My parents gave birth to me young. Too young. When they were my age, they were plagued by a newborn baby girl who forced them to grow up all too quickly. Now, they are financially stable and starting new job positions that allow them to meet other people their age. They are living their own lives now. I’m happy for them.

Sure, it sucks to come home and make myself dinner every night. It also sucked when I got an A+ on my analysis paper over The Scarlet Letter and my parents weren’t around for me to show them. Recently, I decided I wanted to be a writer, which shouldn’t come as a shock since I read over fifty novels a year and have an avid presence on Twitter, sharing my thoughts and feelings. As expected, they weren’t surprised. They thought my future plans were ‘cool.’ I don’t understand how you like that stuff, my dad had said. But good job!

He gets me, though. This guy driving. It’s nice having him around sometimes.

He listens like I’m the only voice worth hearing. He looks at me as if I’m the only star in the sky. It’s nice to be relevant to someone. Even for a brief moment in time.

I wish I could let myself to have a thing with him.

We start driving on the outskirts of town. In southwest Oklahoma, there isn’t much to do except take a drive or hit up Whataburger. I already told him I wasn’t hungry, though.

He drives to an old field right outside of city limits. I used to love going to this field because it was the closest point from home where I could see the stars in all their glory. He knows this, and I think that’s why he brought me. He knows whenever I’m having a bad night. Most nights are bad nights.

He parks in front of an abandoned building, then reaches behind my seat to grab a musty smelling blanket that hasn’t left his car since freshman year. We get out of the car, and he lays the blanket out along the grass. We lie down in silence.

It’s still cold, but I’m getting used to the chill. Laying on the ground puts us away from the main onslaught of wind. It’s peaceful in a way.

A few months ago, a young girl from the neighboring town got into a car crash along the road we’re parked off of. Her faded blue memorial cross is nailed to the rotting telephone pole just a few feet away. I knew her. Kind of.

We played little league soccer together, so many years previous. Because we went to different schools, we stopped talking once we started middle school. It’s weird to be this young and have someone you used to interact with die. How was I supposed to feel?

I was sad, of course. Then curious. How could someone my age just die?

The news hit me so randomly, too. One day I was at work and my coworker came up to me and said, Hey, remember this girl? He showed me a picture of her. She died. Yup, hit and run.

I was sad and confused. Now, I feel envious. Which, I’ll admit, is unfair and a bit morbid.

Sometimes, I feel jealous that she was able to die, I tell the guy lying beside me, breaking the silence.

What do you mean? He props himself up on his elbow, looking down on me. I keep my gaze up towards the stars.

Sometimes, I wish it was me.

He doesn’t understand. Then, he gets what I mean and is immediately angry. Don’t ever say shit like that. What the hell is wrong with you?

He says more, but I stop listening. He gets like this a lot.

He says he wants to be my rock, my safe place. He wants to listen and help me because he knows I feel empty inside. He wants to pull me out of this so, maybe, I’ll see him for the person he thinks he is.

He doesn’t know I’ve seen him for who he truly is.

He’s mean. He’s hurtful. He likes to yell at me and get mad when I say things like this, when I speak my ugly thoughts. Whenever he sees the fresh scars on my wrist and thighs, he belittles me. Why won’t you just let me help you?!

 As if a relationship with him—which is what he wants—is what will magically pull me out of the dark hole I’ve dug myself in.

He claims he cares about me. He tells me he’ll always be here and that I can talk to him about everything. Maybe it’s my fault for using him as my personal diary. But he told me it was okay.

He’s still yelling at me, trying to get my attention but I can no longer make out the words he speaks. I’m underwater, sinking lower and lower until the stars go out of focus and water pours from my eyes.

I want to go home, I tell him.

He stops yelling and lets out a long, frustrated sigh. I pick myself up and walk back towards the car. He gets in, too, and slams the door behind him. He doesn’t start the car yet. We sit there for a few deafening minutes before he begins his monologue.

You do this all the time. I try over and over and over again to be there for you, to help you, and you won’t let me. It’s as if you would rather suffer and wither away when I am right here. He aggressively points to himself. I love you so fucking much and you won’t listen! You won’t let yourself see that I can make you happy! A tear travels down my cheek. I look straight ahead towards the rusted old building. I don’t say anything. 

He grabs my jaw with his thumb and middle finger and pulls my face towards him, an aggressive dominating move he recently learned. I can feel the rough callouses digging into my skin. I’m forced to stare into his eyes. They’re dark and angry, no longer the kind eyes that made me want to stay with him.

What can I do to help you?

Take me home, I say with a struggle since he’s still holding my jaw.

He releases my face with a scoff, turns the car on, and gives the steering wheel four good punches before speeding off toward my house.

It’s not until I’m back in my room and under my duvet, sobbing softly, that I realize we left the musty blanket in the field.