Free at last.
Beneath the lingering disappointment at their departure, a small part of me is undeniably glad my parents are gone again. I’m not sure I could’ve survived another dinner of stilted conversation, putting on a brave face as they questioned me about my AP examinations. I don’t know how many more breakfasts I could’ve spent deflecting their inquisition into the status of my speech.
Frankly, the burden of their disappointment made it difficult to swallow down my food.
I’ve always found it annoying how Hollywood movies push the bullshit idea that your parents are supposed to love you unconditionally. (Maybe that’s why I prefer to watch reality baking shows.) Blair and Vincent made it crystal clear from day one that their fondness for me would rise and fall in direct proportion to my achievements.
It’s a lesson I was glad to learn.
Love is not a fixed constant in the equation of life, even if we treat it like one. Expecting anyone to love you invariably is foolish. Emotions are at best vacillating, at worst volatile. And always, always, always conditional.
The summer sun beats down, warming my shoulders as I meander through town. I buy an iced macchiato at the Starbucks drive-thru, taking cooling sips at every stoplight. The picturesque June weather has brought with it the first tourists of the season. They wander in small family units, purchasing kitschy, nautical-themed knickknacks from overpriced boutiques. Couples hold hands as their children chase after ice-cream trucks, dollar bills outstretched. In the park, a caricature artist sketches portraits for passerby while a local guitarist busks for tips, his guitar case spread wide.
I drive for about twenty minutes, selecting streets at random, and eventually find myself on the far side of town, not far from Exeter. I pull into the parking lot. It’s empty now, but in a few hours it’ll be jammed with tailgaters, their faces painted green for the big game against Xaverian Brothers High School.
I park near the bleachers. I’ve already searched them once for my missing iPhone, but I figure it can’t hurt to check again. I was in a rush on Monday morning, with only a few minutes to spare before my Physics exam. I didn’t have the chance to be thorough. If my phone fell through the gap, there’s a good chance it’s still sitting there.
The world is dim below the ascending seats. Sun slants through the rows at odd angles as I step into the dark. I weave around metal suspension poles, keeping my eyes on the ground. Cigarette butts are scattered every so often, along with crushed beer cans — evidence of more than one post-game celebration. My sandals crunch on discarded peanut shells and pieces of litter as I walk the shadowy length.
It’s eerily quiet and cramped beneath the bleachers. Chain link fencing forms a cage at the back end, metal hangs close overhead.
Lucky I’m not claustrophobic.
Still, I increase my pace as the search continues, keen to return to the plentiful sunshine in the parking lot. The few belongings I stumble across don’t belong to me — a man’s empty wallet, a child’s pink stuffed bear, a baby’s dirty pacifier. Against the fence, a metallic glint momentarily gives me hope. Upon closer examination, it turns out to be nothing but a piece of aluminum foil.
I sigh, defeated.
No sign of my iPhone anywhere.
Doubling back, I retrace my steps toward the parking lot. The sun-drenched asphalt is a welcoming light at the end of a shadowy tunnel. I’m so relieved to be out of the dark, I don’t notice I’m not alone until I’m halfway to my car.
“Pretty sweet ride you’ve got there.”
Startled, I whirl around toward the voice. Two unfamiliar men are standing on the bleachers, staring down at me. I squint against the bright sky, trying to bring them into focus. It’s difficult to make out their faces in silhouette.
“Thanks,” I murmur, backpedalling a step. I’m not in any explicit danger, but for some reason my heart has kicked into high gear.
“Is it for sale?” The man asks. “Our boss has a pretty sweet collection of vintage cars. I’m sure he’d love to add a classic Cabriolet to his fleet.”
As he’s speaking, he starts walking down the bleachers. His companion follows in silence.
“No, sorry.” Shaking my head. “It’s not for sale.”
“Shame.” The man sighs. “If you like classic cars, you should take a look at our Bronco.” He points behind me. “She’s a beaut, huh?”
Not wanting to appear impolite, I dutifully glance over at the boxy black vehicle, parked beneath a tree on the other side of the parking lot.
“Cool,” I murmur, not knowing what else to say. “Looks vintage.”
“Built way back 1970 — long before you were born, huh? What are you, seventeen?”
I glance back just in time to see the men step off the bleachers, onto the asphalt. Without the sun shining into my eyes, I’m able to see their faces clearly for the first time. Nervous butterflies burst into life in the pit of my stomach. Between the copious tattoos, stacked muscles, and vaguely menacing demeanors, they’re not at all what I was expecting.
I’m probably being irrational, but there’s something unsettling about the way they’re watching me. Like two cats eyeing a field mouse, moments before the pounce. I back up another few steps, trying to keep a safe margin of space between us. The car is still a dozen paces away.
“Eighteen,” I blurt nervously. “Today, in fact.”
“Happy birthday.”