FOUR | JULIE
Jett never does glance behind her, not even to double check the other's complete departure before she rounds the next corner. Proceeding two blocks, she walks purposely, with shoulders back and chin lifted and a persona of being untouchable, though no purpose exists. She turns the corner onto the left side street in search of some sort of amusement for the next few hours until her shift at the 40 Watt is to begin, Off The Record being closed on Tuesdays. If only she had proceeded one more over, she might have found it.
The car horn is familiar to the girl, far too familiar for her liking. Unable to suppress her curiosity, she slowly pushes the bowl of mac and cheese to the side, closes her laptop, and walks across the one-bedroom apartment, opening its only window to peer out onto the street below. Immediately, she understands why the car horn is too familiar for her liking.
"Hey! What are you doing to my car?"
The shout ricochets off the buildings on either side, rippling through the brick to the street level, though no one seems to acknowledge it. Not the passersby and especially not the young man bent over the her car, hood open wide for all to see its rusting bones.
It is a raggedy old thing, her car, a 1997 at the youngest, though she wasn't quite sure. Like a stray picked up on the side of the road, she loves the vehicle, though she knows just as much about it as any nineteen year old with less than no interest in cars could ever possibly know.
"Hey, asshole! I'm talking to you! Step away from Julie!" the girl shouts, a second failed attempt at encouraging the young man to abandon his task.
The car horn suddenly stops with a final beep, the hood abruptly closing with a hurried, yet soft slam. Only then does she notice the open driver door. The thief climbs into the seat, and within seconds, the familiar squeal of the engine followed by its protesting purr crawls up the building's side to reach her. She watches as her stranger-driven car reverses from the spot and progresses towards an unknown somewhere with the knowledge this is probably the last time she will see the vehicle.
She stands there in a state of shock, mouth falling agape in utter disbelief that the preoccurring events actually took place. Lost in the thought of wondering who would want her raggedy car in the first place, she struggles to process the loss further than wondering how she is to tell her father the grave news of his car, the one passed on to her, is now lost in the midday light to someone she did not know.
Sighing heavily with head held low, she closes the window, turning to face the rest of the apartment and resting her back against the wall. "Shit," she mumbles, dragging a hand through her hair.
The thought of calling the police flitters through her mind, but fleeting is all the thought can ever be. Of this, she is all too aware. Her name is too well known for any help to ensue. There's only one person she can ever count on to help her nowadays, and even that help is only reserved for special occasions. Still, she was carless and helpless, and it seemed the other was her only option.
Walking into the bedroom, she slips some sweats over her bare legs and Vans on her feet, barely bothering to tie them before she abandons the apartment, not bothering to lock the door because there is nothing worth stealing. Except her car, apparently.
Baffled, flabbergasted, incredulous, she walks down the same streets from where her car once rested. Old, yet youthful in its innocence, the poor car never stood a chance against the world, it seems. She simply hopes the same does not apply to her.
Carless and helpless, she is grateful the help which she seeks is only a few blocks away. On a normal occasion, she would still drive the miniscule distance, but alas, such is not possible in the present state. The walk is short, yet her breathing protests, and perspiration dots along her hairline, a ridiculous state for someone of her youth. The miles which she walks daily leave her eternally out of shape, especially when the Georgia sun beats down on her. Everyone on the streets appear the same as her, so she feels no shame as she walks towards the front door of the familiar record store, one which she frequents more than the manager desires.
The bell hanging from the internal trim rings throughout the store to indicate her arrival. Barely has she stepped foot into the store, the door slamming behind her, before her shouts ricochet off the ageing posters on the walls.
"Jett!" she calls towards no one yet someone in particular. "I need help!"
Stood in the back room, Jett sighs at the all too familiar voice, one she would never admit to be anything but belonging to a nuisance. Reluctantly, she enters the main of the store, walking to the front desk without bothering to look towards the newcomer.
"What did you do now, Christine?" she says, her voice dripping in annoyance.
Christine walks over to the desk, exclaiming still, "Someone stole Julie!"
"Who's Julie?" Jett asks before realization dawns on her, and immediately, she rolls her eyes. "Is that the damn car?"
"Yes, it's the car!" she continues in her refusal to lower her exclamations. "And someone took off with her while I was doing English homework!"
Jett is tempted to roll her eyes once more. "Were you really doing homework?"
At this, Christine hesitates. "No," she says, finally returning to her inside voice. "But that's besides the point."
"And what is the point exactly?"
"That someone just stole my car!" she exclaims once more.
Jett sighs, turning to walk away from the desk and the conversation. "I wouldn't worry to much about it. I'm sure once they realize how shit it is, they'll bring it back."
"Wow," Christine says. " Thanks, J."
"What do you want me to do, Chris?" Jett begins to walk up the stairs to her apartment. "File a police report? You know they won't help Tom's daughter."
"I know, okay," she admits, trying to disguise the solemn nature of the truth. "I just thought you might have better answers then I did."
"I hate to break it to you, Christine," Jett says, "But that car is most likely gone and scrapped for pieces by now."
"Thanks so much for your help, Jett," Christine says, not bothering to hide the defeat in her voice this time as she turns to walk back down the few steps she climbed and toward her apartment. "I'll see you later."
Jett opens her own apartment door, lifting one foot to step into it when she sighs heavily and glances over her shoulder. "Come on," she says, holding the door open wider.
Christine stops at the bottom of the staircase and looks up with hope in her eyes. "Really?"
"Don't make me regret this," Jett says, but the girl is already climbing the steps two at a time to enter the foreign, typically forbidden place that is her apartment.
"Whoa!" Christine exclaims as she steps into and looks around the apartment. "It's even more bare than I imagined it. Couldn't you at least hang a picture over your bed or something?"
"A picture of what exactly?" Jett says, walking into the kitchen.
"A blown up picture of me would be perfect!" Christine says, manuvering over to the end of the bed and holding her hands up in the shape of a frame as she imagines. "I can see it already. It would really pull the entire color scheme you got going on together."
"What color scheme?"
"Exactly!" Christine says. "It'll be the pop of color amongst the emptiness."
Jett rolls her eyes as she opens the fridge. Almost instantly, she closes it, though, it being more empty than her apartment. She reaches into a cupboard, finding only soft flour tortillas and crunchy peanut butter. With a shrug, she pulls it from the shelf and deems it a satisfactory lunch.
"Um, what are you eating?" Christine asks, walking over to lean against the island, the only partition in the entire apartment. She pulls out one of the bar stools and takes a seat, watching the other quite intently with curiosity.
"Peanut butter and tortilla roll-ups," Jett says, unfazed as she spreads the peanut butter on the tortilla, rolling it once bearing enough spread.
Christine sighs. "Seriously, J? Where's the protein?"
"There's more protein in peanut butter than mac and cheese." Jett spins the cap back on the jar and returns it to the cupboard.
"That still doesn't make whatever that is a proper lunch. Like, can you go to the grocery store for once in your life?"
Jett shrugs and takes a bite. "I'm trying to quit."
"Dammit, J." Christine rolls her eyes. "Fine, I'll drop some food off later."
"You don't need to do that," Jett begins to back track, searching for words to coerce the other to refrain from any assistance, her mind immediately rejecting the offer. She manages just fine on her own. She does not need someone, anyone, especially Christine, trying to help her. Not anymore than she has to at least.
"I'm not going to let you starve just because you're too fucking stubborn to do things society considers 'normal,'" Christine says.
"I'm not stu-" Jett stops herself. She learned a long time ago a little truth underlines every lie to make it believable. Both young women know less than no truth riddles this lie. She sighs, grasping at straws desperately for a change of subject. Finally, she settles upon, "So, what are you going to tell Tom about the car?"
Her features fall at the reminder of the morning's transgressions. She drags a hand through her hand, her fingers getting caught in several knots she struggles to undo before dropping her hands back in her lap, defeated on every level.
"What if, and this is just a thought," Christine says. "What if you told him for me?"
"Yes because hearing it from his least favorite person will lessen the blow," Jett rolls her eyes.
"Hey! Dad loves you!"
"Chris, I'm part of the reason he got arrested. He does not love me."
"That's all water under the bridge now," she insists. "Besides, you know he's never blamed you for what happened."
"That's what he says, but we all know I'm going to be the first person he comes after when he gets out."
"Then, you've got four more years to reconcile with him!"
Jett rolls her eyes with a slight shake of her head. "Which, when does the next shipment come in again?"
Christine sighs, knowing her insistence will always be ignored to uselessness. "The end of the month, like always."
"Are you sure? Because they were late that one time, and..."
"Trust me," Christine says, as serious as Jett has ever seen her. "That won't happen again. I won't let it."
Jett nods. Before either could say any more on the subject, Christine's phone dings loudly, filling the room completely.
"Do you really always have to keep the sound all the way up? Like for fucks sake, Christine."
"I don't wanna miss something important!" Christine says, pulling it from her back pocket. "Like this! My InstaCart is ready. And to think, if I had not heard my phone, I would be late picking up my mac and cheese!"
Jett rolls her eyes. "Whatever you say."
Christine starts to walk towards the door to exit when she turns back around, a wide grin on her lips.
"Can I take the fire escape?"
"Why the hell do you wanna take the fire escape?"
"Because I don't have one, and all the cool kids in the movies take them."
"But, Christine, you're not a cool kid."
"Well, I could be if I climbed down the fire escape."
Jett sighs. "Whatever, just go."
The wide grin grows tenfold as she sprints across the apartment and opens the window, calling over her shoulder, "Bye, big sis!"
"Step," Jett corrects. "Step-sis."
"Minor detail. See you later!" Before Jett could add any last minute remark, Christine is out the window and skedaddling down the fire escape. It's one of the few times she resembles her big step-sister; she never looks back.
26 february 2023, 10:31