In Which I Fail To Stick To One Story Again

Jonas won't be happy. I focus on the crunch of gravel under my feet crunch crunch crunch and let my mind fade out of existance. Twenty more miles until Cleveland. Miles to go before I sleep. I smile. 

Headlights flare in the dark. I turn my face before they blind me completely. For a moment no stop I wonder what they think of me don't don't a girl dressed in black on the side of the road at three in the morning. I wonder what they would do if I waved. 

I don't want to know what they'd do if I waved. I don't want to think anything at all. The car drives away. There's no one left to wonder at a lost girl on a dark night.

I fade out again. Crunch crunch crunch. I could almost dance to my own footsteps. The screeching of tires splits my darkness. I tilt my head to watch a pickup truck going the same direction as me jerk to a stop. A passenger door is flung open. A boy leans over from the driver's seat, blond hair illuminated by a light on his rearview mirror.

"Need a lift?" he says, as if this is the most natural thing in the world. 

He has wicked eyes. Dark eyes. Eyes a girl could lose herself in. I consider the way he smiles, like he has a secret, like his other hand is holding a gun. A nice girl would not get into this boy's passenger seat. A nice girl might even run.

I am not a nice girl. I am a girl who sews knives into her sleeves. I am a girl who is not afraid of guns. I am a girl who needs a lift.  I get in.

"What's your name?" he asks as I buckle my seatbelt.

I savor the way he says your name as if a name could be mine. "Sarah," I say. It's a name I might like to be mine. A steady name. A sure name. The kind of name you might write on notebooks and locker assignments. That's Sarah, someone might say, everyone likes Sarah.

"Trevor," he says.

I almost tell him that he's picked the wrong name. I would've picked something more sly for him, something with a wink, maybe Tyler or Jake. Trevor lacks subtelty. Trevor is a truck driver's name.

"Do you pick up stray girls often?" I ask. I try out twisting a strand of strawberry hair around my finger. I am trying to flirt, but not sure it's working. Flirting is something girls in movies do. Flirting is not for girls no stop who spend their Friday nights washing blood out of their best jeans.

"Depends," Trevor of the badly picked name says. "How often do you walk on the side of the road?"

I think he is flirting back. I try out a smile. "Only on nights when you're driving by." Only on nights when I get made and have to ditch my ride in Sarintino.

"If we go in any more circles they'll have to name a racetrack after us." 

Was that a joke? What if I laugh and it wasn't? I try out a low chuckle. Trevor smiles at me. My heart does something inexplicable. 

"Where you headed?" he asks.

This should have been the first question, the most important question, the question a boy would ask if he intended on taking a girl to her actual destination.

"Akron."

"Boring place for a pretty girl."

I shrug. 

We are stranded in silence. I curl my palm around the hilt of my knife. I'll need to steal the truck. I'll need to pick a place where I can easily dispose of the body. 

"Do you know what I think?" he says.

I forgot he's still alive.

"I think you have a secret." His face does something that might be described as beaming, if one was inclined to light metaphors.

I press my side against the door, judge our velocity and acceleration. I'll need to grab the steering wheel fast. The roads are lined with ditches, not an ideal set up for accidental swerving. But I am quick enough.

"And what would the secret be?" In point five seconds I'm going to drive this knife through your throat.

His eyes reflect the starlight. "I'm faster than you."

No. My arm is up, is swinging in a downward arch. I need force for the impact to be clean. He lets go of the steering wheel, or maybe he never held it. He is fast, too fast. His hand is around my wrist, his knees are steering us forward. My weight is too far into the swing, I'm sliding off the seat.

I think, for an instant, that he might be better than me.

I'm expecting the Glock in his other hand. I take back control of my fall. My wrist yanks back on his hand. I slam sideways into the seat. The bullet whispers past my midriff. Glass explodes behind me.

Better, I'm better.

My knee connects with his gun hand. He lets out a hiss. He holds onto the gun. He still has my wrist. He twists and pain shoots up my arm. Don't think about it, don't think. I lunge forward and bury my teeth in his throat. Finally, he screams. Finally, he drops the gun, primitive instincts kicking in as he pushes against me get it off get it off. 

The car is swerving, no time to think about the car.

I twist a fist in his hair. He falls back against the door. My knife is at his throat. His eyes flash starlight. With his foot off the gas the car slows to a roll.

"Got my secret wrong," I say.

He laughs. As if death could ever be funny. "That wasn't the secret."

I push my knife down. A little part of me that would badly like to be a girl named Sarah wants to let the wrongly named Trevor walk off into the night. And that is why I know I can't. Don't think, don't think. Girls like me don't have any use for starlight.