We’ve cut school and are headbanging in the front seat of your first car, a mustard-yellow, box-on-wheels volvo you secretly pity-love because it’s so fucking ugly. The light has just changed to green and you’re too busy scream-singing with Barenaked Ladies about Brian Wilson to notice. The car behind us honks. You jerk your old volvo into motion without missing a headbeat.
Best friends forever—sisters from another mister—is a blood oath we both take seriously. I’m sure I’ll be the one to die first and break it. But it’s you whose life is already half over.
You left your hair curly back then, and it bobs bundled up in a purple velvet alligator clip as you sing. You’re still wearing the high-waters you thought were cool freshman year, with a black tank top that displays your new kickboxing arms. Purple eyeliner to match the clip.
You’re totally absorbed in the world of the song, perfectly on rhythm and slightly off pitch, subtle Southern twang elongating the vowels just a half-beat over, hands tapping the top of the steering wheel. I raise my hands and we shout again for the chorus. You dip your right hand up and down in deference to the reality that not even you can drive and full headbang at the same time for more than a few seconds.
After ten years, most of the cells in the human body have died and regenerated, somehow transmitting their former lives to their progeny. My cells have turned over almost three times since that midpoint in your life. The scene is an imprint, static creeping in from the edges and overtaking the center.
Was the volvo yellow? Yes. Were we singing to Barenaked Ladies? Maybe, probably. Did we cut school that day? Definitely possible, but I can’t remember. What were you wearing? How had you cut your hair? What did your voice sound like? I don’t know anymore.
You turn onto a back road and I can see the mountains in the distance, clear of fog. Here’s where I would pick up speed, reckless and impatient. I’m silently willing you to hit the gas, hurtle us into the future. You don’t. You slow down and let your arm hang out the window in the flickering sun.
The radio moves on to another song.
Or maybe it doesn’t. Maybe today is Barenaked Ladies day on whatever alt rock station is playing, because the song ends and begins again and we just keep singing.
Misti Duvall is a writer and law professor in Boston, where she writes fiction, essays, and sometimes poetry. Find her online at mistiduvall.com.
