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“Marisa.”
Her head snaps up from the steering wheel. The cars behind us are honking like a whole fleet of geese.
I say, “Green light.” And I point, because Marisa looks lost and confused. I’m not sure how long she can keep driving like this. We’ve been driving for hours on our full tank of gas, and we definitely have money for more, but that’s not going to mean anything if she crashes us into a ditch.
Marisa drives forward. One of the cars behind us skirts ahead and the driver gives her the middle finger. She doesn’t seem to notice, so I return the gesture for her, slamming the horn and thrusting my finger as far forward as I can.
Marisa says, “Okay, Dany, sit back.”
I do as she says, even though I’m still angry.
Marisa manages to drive a few blocks before her head starts dipping again. I don’t know how it’s possible she got paler. She reminds me of a wilting flower.
“Marisa,” I say.
She doesn’t answer. I guess she’s struggling too much to stay awake.
It’s almost dinnertime now. Dark and cold and it started to snow, just a little. We didn’t take many breaks, except one at the highway rest stop where we used the washroom and ate our lunch as quickly as we could. Then we just drove and drove and drove. I’m sure we’re close to the border now. Marisa still hasn’t told me how she plans to cross it. Maybe we’ll just ram through it with our car. Would that work? I have no idea what kind of fences the border has.
The car swerves, and I hear Marisa gasp back awake.
“Marisa,” I say again.
“Dany, we’ve talked about this,” she says. “I’m not stopping until we reach the border.”
“We won’t reach the border if we get in a car crash.”
“We are not getting in a car crash.”
“You’re literally passing out on the wheel.”
“No, I’m not. I’m awake. I’m—”
“Stop!”
Marisa slams the breaks. The front of the car skids way past the crosswalk line, and the person in the headlight skitters back.
For a second we just stare at him. A teenager, eyes wide, his curly hair pressed low by his beanie. He stares back, clutching the straps of his backpack, his chest heaving.
He hurries across the street and vanishes.
I didn’t realize how worked up I am until now, when I go limp in my seat, sweat cold in my armpits and my head buzzing. Marisa sinks back slowly, her breaths short and quick, her fingers white around the steering wheel.
We both sit in the flashing yellow crosswalk light, staring straight ahead. The only sound comes from the windshield wipers, squelching across the glass to clear the flurry of snow.
I told you so is such an immature thing to say when we could have killed someone. But in my heart, I feel it: I told you so. I told you so.
Tears blur my eyes. I imagine the front of the car buckling as it hits the teenager, his body like a ragdoll as the force throws him back. He didn’t look that much older than me.
Marisa keeps driving. Five minutes later, she pulls into a twisty neighbourhood lined with massive trees. She’s listening to me. We’re stopping for the night.
The snow comes down harder, turning to slush when it hits the windshield. We have the heater on now, but we always turn it off when we go to sleep. I’m already shivering thinking of trying to sleep in this weather. Last night was already awful. And Marisa is sick. She needs somewhere warm. Somewhere to really, properly rest.
As we wind through the neighbourhood, searching for an inconspicuous spot to park, I watch the houses passing by. They’re decorated with string lights in all sorts of colours. Some even have extra ornaments out on their snowy lawns. Dainty reindeers and blown-up snowmen, jolly and round. It seems so happy and magical out there. It isn’t fair.
I spy a school across a large field. The streetlamps give enough light for me to tell it’s covered in construction scaffolding.
“Over there,” I tell Marisa.
We park a little away from the school and walk back to it. I have to keep Marisa’s arm around me so she doesn’t get blown away by the wind. We round over to the school’s front entrance, and I squint at the sign on the rusty construction fence.
The school is under whatever an “infrastructure upgrade” is. I doubt the furnace and electricity will be working, but on the other side of the fence are a few cargo-box-shaped construction offices. THOSE would have heating, I bet.
I look at the sign again. Good. It’s Friday night, and tomorrow is a stat holiday, so we have two whole days to rest up.
I’m about to spark through the chain holding the fence shut, but Marisa stops me. “In my wallet,” she says, and I grumble. She’s talking about her lockpicks. Leave no trace, cardinal rule number nine. Or ten? I don’t remember. It’s pretty far down the list.
Marisa clutches her arms close to her and shivers while I do the lockpicking. I’m not really that good at it, but eventually the lock clatters open, and I pull the fence aside enough for Marisa to fit through.
I pick the lock on the cargo box labeled “Main Office” too, and shove the door open. It looks like an office, alright. Two long skinny tables run down the middle of it, surrounded by uncomfortable-looking foldable chairs. There’s a big whiteboard and a lot of clipboards and a copying machine and even a small kitchen with a coffee pot.
I help Marisa into one of the chairs and shut the door. Even without the heating on, just being out of the wind and snow tricks me into thinking it’s warm.
“I’ll find some water,” I say, and go over to the kitchen. I find a few bottles of water, but no food. I guess the construction guys ate it all.
I peek through the shades at the school. There’s got to be food in the cafeteria.
“Here.” I open a bottle of water for Marisa and make sure she drinks it. “I’m going to go inside the school to look for food. Maybe they’ll have blankets and stuff, too.”
Marisa lowers the bottle and wipes her lips. Her eyes are closed. She’s probably dizzy. “Be careful,” she says. “We need a signal, if something goes wrong.”
“Nothing’s going to go wrong,” I say. “There’s nobody here.”
“Just in case.” She thinks for a second. Even that seems to be a lot of work for her. “Fire alarm,” she finally says. “If anything happens…”
“Got it.” I spot a little radiator by the whiteboard and turn it on. I had one of these in my townhouse room. They take forever to heat up. I move it closer to Marisa. “And if something goes wrong here, shoot your gun.”
That gets a weak laugh from her, but I’m serious. Why would she bother to think of a signal for me but not for herself? All our plans and cardinal rules include both of us. Just because she’s a grownup doesn’t mean she can’t be in trouble, too.
I tell her I’ll be right back, and brave the cold to get to the school. I start to pick the lock on the front door, but my fingers are too numb, so I just spark it open. Who cares, anyway? By the time the workers come back and notice, we’ll already be far, far away.
I step into the lobby. The inside of the school is covered in scaffolding, too, and the floor is protected with clear tarps and cardboard duct-taped together. I spot a first aid room beside the office and rummage through its cabinets until I find a stack of orange blankets. Perfect. They feel nice and soft and warm.
Next up: food.
I wander down the main hallway until I come to a big circular cafeteria, its tables all folded up and stored near the walls. The outer edge of the circle is lined with lockers. They’re almost taller than I am. I open one, expecting to see it stuffed with textbooks and binders and magazine cutouts of celebrities, but it’s empty.
Focus, Dany.
Across from the food stand are two vending machines. I spark them open and fill up my backpack with energy bars, chocolate, sports drinks, and a bottle of milky coffee. It’s not Marisa’s favourite flavour, but it’ll have to do.
I see a washroom sign jutting out by the cafeteria and check it for running water, so we might be able to get cleaned up in the gym showers. I twist the sink handle and hold my breath as the faucet gurgles, but a tap can only cough and gasp for so long before it’s clear there’s no water. I shut it off more violently than I mean to.
At least I got what I came for.
I start back towards the main hallway, my backpack so heavy it hurts my shoulders. Halfway across the empty cafeteria though, I stop and turn in a circle.
This is it. The place I’ve seen in so many movies. This is where kids form into cliques and eat their lunches and flick mashed potato at each other. Where elaborate promposals are made and musical numbers break out and food fights are battled. I’m here, and it’s empty and dark and cold, but I’m here.
I imagine sitting at a table with my friends, unpacking lunch that Marisa prepared for me. Sandwich and fruit and a cookie. That was what she packed for me every day in elementary school. Sometimes it’s ham and cheese with orange and chocolate chip. Sometimes it’s marmalade with apple and ginger snap. I would sit here and talk about trigonometry with my friends, complain about homework, whisper about who we think are cute.
This is the future I wanted.
It feels so…childish.
Marisa is sick. I’m cold to the bone. In two days, we’ll be running again.
I still want this future. I wish it were mine. My chest aches just thinking about it.
But I can’t have it.
And one day, I’ll have to be okay with it.
But for now, I let myself grieve.
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