The Girl Who Wore Jordans

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Twenty-Nine

      “So, where did you say we were going again?” I questioned, staring out at the dark, desolate image that met irises. Though it was only about eleven at night, the road was about as busy as a minor league baseball game; there were close to no cars out.

      “I didn’t,” Dylan said, his eyes not moving from their glued spot on the road.

      “Would you like to enlighten me?” I suggested, the mysterious aspect of things not quite one I liked at the moment. Maybe if I had downed a bottle of whiskey the trip would’ve been more tolerable, but no, I was completely sober— too sober.

      “Not especially,” he turned down my rather enticing offer.

      “You shouldn’t even be driving,” I grumbled, “you had at least a red Solo cup full of alcohol. I believe that’s illegal.”

      “And I believe that I happen to be the one driving the car, so, unless you’d like me to kick you out of the car on the side of the road, please stop talking,” he threatened, making a sharp U-turn, the inertia of which caused me to slam my side into the door of the car.

      Inertia always confused me. As concepts in physics went, it was by far the most perplexing to grasp for me. Speed, I understood. Acceleration, easy enough. Even velocity was able to make sense in my mind. There was something about inertia that never stuck. Pretty much, it was the resistance of an object to change when moving or resting. There was something about that definition that troubled me. Overall, I liked science and physics, but inertia was one of those things that just confused me; kind of like love, or relationships.

      “Just like the U.S. government, I have a no negotiating policy; I don’t respond to threats,” I stated, defying his words by opening my mouth and talking as I pleased.

      “You’re something else, you know that, Lizzie?” he let out a concise laugh.

      “Actually, I’m not ‘something’, I’m a person,” I shook my head, as I regained my composure in the aged seat of Dylan’s truck. “Hey, Dylan,” I said, thinking back to a humorous encounter I had had during my short stay at the party, “what’s your truck’s name?”

      “Excuse me?” he said, abruptly pressing on the brakes of the vehicle so I flew forward marginally.

      “What’s your truck’s name?” I repeated, a small grin playing at my lips as I remembered Lauren’s most recent association with an inanimate object. Urnie, the urn— well, ice bucket. I really hoped that that wasn’t how I acted when “under the influence”…

      “That’s what I thought you said,” his foot pressed against the accelerator once again.

      “So, what is it?” I inquired, having a recollection that some boys named their cars or motorcycles from some, unexplainable reason. It probably came from the same inspiration that caused Lauren name her new favorite container of ice.

      “I’m not five, Lizzie, I don’t name every fucking thing,” he scoffed.

      “So, it doesn’t have a name yet?” I concluded.

      “It’s a car, not a fucking human,” he said as if I wasn’t aware.

      “Can I name it?”

      “Knock yourself out,” he granted me the oh-so important permission to coin a name for the automobile in which we were currently riding.

      “Okay, so I was thinking something having to do with the color,” I mused, the invisible cogs in my mind commencing to turn about. “What about Cherry?”