Be You

By Seth Hepner

You and a girl drive down the highway in an old Chevy pickup.  The truck is orange, burnt orange, like the Arizona grass alongside the road.  It has a bench seat long enough for the girl to stretch out on.  She rests her head on the door handle, and lays her feet across your lap.  Her chipped red toe nail polish allows you to see her cracked toe nails.  She’s wearing a skirt with printed flowers on it.  The flowers are yellow and orange.

She pulls her feet back, and rolls her tank top up under her breasts.  They are perky.  Not real big, but perky.  You love them.  You love the way her nipples taste.  Last night they were salty like the ocean you’re driving to now.  Her bent knees point toward the sky.  The truck has a sun roof.  The sky looks like a gray blanket. 

You’re a typical eighteen-year-old.  You know it.  She knows it.  But there’s something about you.  Something she sees and you’re trying to find. 

She spreads her legs.  She isn’t wearing panties.  You can see what every young man wants to see.  The windows are down, and her blonde hair blows a bit.  It’s long, thin, and a bit greasy in the front.  She quickly closes her legs.

“What did you do that for?” you ask.

“The air’s chilly.”

“It’s nine thousand degrees.  How can you be cold?”

“I don’t know,” she closes her eyes.  She likes doing that:  giving you short answers, then closing her eyes.  She thinks that gives you a hint.  It doesn’t.  You don’t like being ignored. 

“Why don’t you open them again?” you ask.

“Open what?”

“You know what I’m talking about.” 

 “You need to watch the road,” she says.   

You don’t like being told what to do.  You don’t want to watch the road.  You want to watch her sun bathe with nothing on.  Her skirt rides up her legs, and her breasts are nearly visible.  But that’s not enough.  You want it all. 

She adjusts herself so her toes point toward your chest.  She wiggles the toes on her left foot in your crotch.  Her toenails scratch your jean shorts as she tries to pinch with her toes.  You like the pinching. 

“Smile,” she says.

You look her way.  Her legs are spread a bit.  Just for a second, though.

“Why do you tease me?”

“Because I can.”

Your body tingles.  You want to pull over and show her what the teasing does.  Just a couple more hours to the ocean. 

“Where are we going?” she asks. 

You’re sure she knows, even though it’s a surprise. 

“Please tell me.  I can’t wait anymore.”

She can wait, and she will.  She has to because you won’t tell.  Secrets are secrets.  Surprises are surprises. 

“My parents are going to kill us,” she says.

You let out a “T” sound.  You know the sound you make.  The one with the tongue behind the teeth when something ridiculous is said. 

You don’t care.  They had it coming.  Teenagers need privacy.  You’re sure her mother would’ve done the same thing at your age.

“What’s that sound for?” she asks.  “You know it’s true.” 

You shrug your shoulders.  You like the suspense.  Silent suspense. 

“Why aren’t you talking?”

“Why do you tease me?” you ask.

“I don’t.  You like it anyway.”  She’s wrong.  You like it but you don’t. 

The road ahead is straight for miles.  A green road sign reads: Calexico 88 MI in white text. 

“Are we almost there?” she asks.

“No.  California’s big.  The water is a ways away.”

“What water?”

You blew the surprise.  But she didn’t catch it.  She can be ditzy at times, but you don’t mind.

“Don’t worry about it,” you say.

She closes her eyes.  You love mind games.  So does she.  You beep the horn as you cross the border.  The Pacific gets closer.  She opens her eyes then rolls them at you.  Border beeping must be getting old to her.

“Why do you do that at every state?”

“What?”

She closes her eyes.  You’re kind of glad.  She asks too many questions.  You lean your head back because the straightness of the road makes it difficult to pay attention.  You look through the sun roof.  The sky changes color before your eyes.  Shades of black hover and it starts to sprinkle.  She’s dozed off.  A raindrop drips on her leg and she pulls her knees back up and tightens them together.  The drop must have been cold. 

The drive starts to get to you.  It’s barely raining.  Not enough for the wipers.  You watch another drop drip on her.  The drop hits her knee, and the water runs down her leg.  You watch it run, and then take a quick look at the road, and then swipe the drop away before it goes too far.  The road winds a bit for the first time in hours.  Her head falls off the rest.  She wakes up.

“I must’ve dozed off for a minute,” she says.

“Must’ve.”

“Did I miss anything?”

“Just some rain drops running down your leg.” 

She pulls her skirt down. 

“Don’t worry.  They didn’t run far.  I wiped them away,” you say.

You sneeze.  Then hold your right hand up toward her. 

“What?” she says.

“Don’t say it.”

“Bless you,” she says.

“Why?  Why was that necessary?”

“I just like saying it.  That’s all.  It’s the polite thing to do.”

“You don’t have to be polite around me.  Be you.”

“That’s me.  I’m polite.”

“Fine.  Don’t say that to me, though.”

“Why?”

“Because people who say bless you are hypocrites, and it reminds me of something.  Something I don’t like to think about.”

“Tell me.”

“I can’t.”  You don’t want to tell her.  She’d never believe you.

“What does it remind you of?  Give me a hint.”

“No, that’ll give it away.”

“That simple, huh?  I can’t say ‘bless you’ for a reason that can be given away with a hint.”

“Stop it.”

“Stop what?”

“Talking about it.  Let’s listen to the radio or something.”  You turn the knob on the tape deck, and realize listening to the radio while traveling is a pain in the ass.  Your favorite stations are completely different, and all of the top 100 stations now play AC/DC.  It’s too confusing.  So you hit the scan button. 

“You drive.  I’ll pick the station,” she says.

The station changes every five seconds until she punches the scan button with her thumb.  The radio stops on a woman’s voice preaching about forgiveness and other bullshit. 

“That voice sounds like my mom,” she says.

“Your mom?”

“Yeah, don’t you think so?”

You shrug your shoulders.  That’s the first time she’s mentioned her mother specifically since leaving.  The voice on the radio does sound like her mother’s, but no more so than her own voice.  She is her mother.  Just in a sexy sixteen-year-old body, instead of a sexy forty-year-old one.  The voice on the radio continues.  She turns it up. 

“Turn that shit off,” you say.

“No, I want to hear it.  Maybe you should listen to it, too.”

“What? What makes you say that?”

“No reason.” 

She’s irritating you.  Why do you need someone else to tell you how to live?  The radio sermon comes to an end.  You know it when the voice says, “Let us pray.  Our Father, who art in heaven, hallowed be thy name.  Thy Kingdom come . . .”

“That’s it.  I’m turning this shit off.”  You reach over and hit the power button.

“What did you do that for?”

“Cause I wanted to.  That’s why.” 

The silence returns.  The ocean gets closer.  You sneeze again.

“God bless you,” she says.

“What?”

“God bless you.”

“Why did you say that?”

“Cause you sneezed, silly.  Why else?”

“No, no.  Why did you say ‘God bless you’ this time?  You didn’t before.”

“I don’t know.  That’s how my mom says it to people.  I guess I was just thinking about her.  That’s all. She always says sneezing is the devil coming out of you.”

“Oh.”  You already knew that.  Her mom says God bless you at least twenty times during youth group.  It drives you crazy.  As if her mom has any reason to think she can ask God to do anything.  With the way she looks at you.

“She’s really going to freak out tomorrow, you know,” she says.

“Why tomorrow more than today?”

“Because we won’t be home for church or youth group.”

“How do you know we won’t be home?  You don’t even know where we’re going.”

“Because we’ve been driving too long to go back tonight.  How much farther?  I don’t think we should drive too much further away from home.”

“Don’t worry about it.  We’ll get there when we get there.”  She’s right.  You won’t be home for church.  But, that’s a good thing.  Any Sunday you can get out of entering that church is a great one.  You just go to make her happy.  And you don’t want any confrontations with her mom. 

“Are you sure about this?  Are we going to be back for church or not?”

“I don’t know.  We’ll see.”

“You know my parents may never let me see you again if I don’t come home tonight.”

“Stop worrying.  This is our day.  Just trust me.”

“Ok.  But I won’t lie and say I’m not a little worried.”

“Fine.  I’ll turn this truck around right now, and take you back to Mommy and Daddy.”

“No, I don’t want to go back.  I’m sorry.  I just don’t want them to be mad.  I’m a worrier.  You know that.”

“Well stop being one or you’re going to ruin this trip.”

“So, where are we going?  You going to tell me yet?”

“Nope.”

“Whatever.  I hope we’re almost there.  I have to pee.”  On the side of the road you see a sign slightly greener than her mother’s eyes that says Imperial Beach 52 MI in white letters.

“Yeah, we’re getting close.  Sit tight.”

“I wonder what Mom will discuss tomorrow during her lesson.”

“I’m sure it won’t be anything special.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

You shrug your shoulders.  Youth group never changes.  Her mom always tries to relate some real life situation with The Bible.  “You know what I mean.  The only time her discussions are interesting is if there aren’t any kids in the room.”

“What?”

“Oh, come on, the only time she’ll discuss anything mature is when there are no kids around.”

“So what.  What do you expect her to do?  Talk about sex in front of a bunch of eleven-year-olds?”

“I don’t know.  That’s why I wish our church was bigger.  Big enough for a nursery and two youth group rooms.  It’s not fair we have to be with a bunch of young kids.  Don’t you remember that Sunday when there were only a few of us at youth group and your mom’s lesson was about Kings 1:1-4?”

“No.  I don’t.  What’s that one about again?”

“I know you remember.  You know the one about King David and the virgin.”

“What was so mature about that lesson?”

“The Bible doesn’t come out and say it, but you know King David put it to that girl.”

“What?  You’re crazy.”

“No I’m not.  We’ll read it again when we get home.”

 “Ok, whatever.  I like the kids,” she says.  “Something about my mom talking about sex freaks me out.”

“What do you mean it freaks you out?”

“I don’t know.  I guess I don’t like the way she looks at certain people when she’s talking about sex.  That’s what freaks me out.”

“Who does she look at?  I’ve never noticed.”

“Do you think my mom’s pretty?”

“What kind of question’s that?”

“I don’t know.  I’m just curious.  That’s all.”

“Well, I have to think she’s somewhat attractive, right?”

“Why?”

“Because she reminds me of you.”

“Seeing my mom reminds you of me.”

“Of course.  You have some of the same features.”

“Oh Jesus.  You’re talking about our boobs aren’t you?”

“Hey, you’re the one who brought this up.  Don’t get mad at me.  Boobs aren’t the only similarity.  You both have blonde hair, you both have green eyes, although yours are a bit lighter, and both of you’re always complaining about being cold.”

“I guess I do have to let you slide on this one.  It just seems like she’s always looking at you when she talks about sex.”

“Yeah, I guess I kind of get what you’re saying.”  You know exactly what she’s saying.

Be You

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