Wicked Restless

I step out front and spend a half an hour throwing rocks from Sasha’s driveway into the thick forest abutting her property—listening to each rock fall through the cracked branches and onto the bed of dried brush and leaves. The first snow hasn’t happened yet, but it’s coming. I can see my breath.

My breath.

I cup my hands and smell as best I can. I’m sure I stink of whiskey. Or maybe not. I only had a couple shots hours ago, though, and I feel fine. Maybe a little bit of a headache, but fine otherwise.

I climb into my car and turn the engine on, letting the heat seep into my sweatshirt and reach my skin. My knuckles are red from being cold, so I hold my hands over the vent for a few minutes, letting my bones thaw.

When I glance to the empty seat next to me, I think of Emma. Shutting my eyes, I let my head fall back against the seat and imagine her there. I’m interrupted by the sound of my car door flying open, and I’m startled when House climbs in, laughing hysterically and talking a million-words-a-minute.

“Fucker, get out of my car,” I push at him.

“Yo…yo…no, listen,” he says, speaking through laughter. He’s drunk. And stoned. I’ve seen him like this a hundred times, and it’s always a pain in the ass. “I’m hungry. Like, really hungry. Take me to get a burger, dude. Come on.”

“Go make a sandwich, and get the fuck out of my car,” I say, gripping the wheel, intent on not taking House anywhere.

“Awwww, come on man. Here, here…I’ll give you some shit,” he says, pulling a sad-ass bag of weed from his pocket, giggling as he fumbles with it.

“Dude!” I roll my eyes.

“Fucker. You suck,” he says, reaching over the console and smacking my face hard enough that it stings and I’m sure it’s pink.

I lunge at him, but he’s too fast, and is already out of the car walking back toward the house. I am pretty sure I’m okay not getting invited to another one of these parties.

With a deep breath, I look back at the wheel and then to the once-again empty seat, trying to get back to the place I was—imagining Emma there. When it doesn’t work, I push the car into drive and do the next best thing, heading to her house.

I expect the same empty driveway, the lack of cars in the street, the single light shining through the upstairs window. But when I pull around the corner, everything about the Burke house is full and lived in. I’m fumbling with my seatbelt before I even stop the car; I shove the gear into park, and turn the engine off the second I pull behind the small car along the street.

I get to the middle of the brick walkway when I realize I have no clue what I’m doing. It’s almost midnight, and I’m sure everyone in the house is asleep, and I barely know Emma—let alone her family, but she’s in there.

Knowing I can’t knock on the door, I step backward along the walkway and look up to the brightly lit windows over the front door. I make my way to the other side of the street, my eyes straining to figure out what room I’m looking at. I can see two ceiling fans spinning, and the tops of some bookcases, and I’m sure I’m looking at a loft space.

Jogging back across the street, I slow when I come to the corner of the house, and I walk cautiously over the wood chips and mulch along the trail in the side yard. There’s another light on near the rear of her home, so I move to that area, stepping back just enough to let me see pink drapes along either side of a small bay window and then a knee.

Her knee.

I know it’s her leg. I’ve stared at it in PE shorts and pretended to grip it with my hand in my car. I’ve memorized the fantasy of that leg, and I would know it anywhere. She’s sitting in her window, and I’m overcome with a sense of urgency to talk to her.

Looking around the ground in front of me, I bend to pick up a few wood chips then toss them at the base of her window. They’re not heavy enough, and they fall back to the ground after a few feet. I move a little farther away from her window, and finally find some stones nestled in the tufts of dead grass around her lawn. I toss my first one gently, not wanting to make too loud of a noise, but it barely grazes the side of the house. I wait, and her leg doesn’t move.

Fuck.

I hold my arm up and take a deep breath before launching my second attempt. This one pings directly off her window, and her leg jumps back fast. I scared her. Shit! I scared her. I hold my breath, waiting for her face to appear. But it doesn’t. She’s not looking for the noise. I panic and look for another rock, finding a small one and throwing it quickly without much aim. It ricochets off the side of the house, but close enough to her window that she has to know.