Maybe I’m overreacting, but I can’t shake this queasy feeling in my stomach every time I picture myself behind the wheel. Like there should be ominous music playing in the background. Or if my life were being written by some cosmic author, this is when they’d be cackling with ill-conceived glee at laying down breadcrumbs of foreshadowing for some major event in the near future, filing them under the wordsconflictandraising the stakes.
Evangeline eases out of my grip, a fake-innocent smile playing at her lips. “Ah yes, but you see, it’s your turn.” She says that last bit in a sing-song voice.
My jaw slackens. I’ve never not liked my words being thrown back in my face more.
She rubs her chin dramatically. “I seem to recall a time when I asked you to help me out with a certain matter of a critter stuck in the book return receptacle. Do you remember what you told me?”
“That it was your turn,” I grind out, then throw my hands up in frustration. “But this is different!”
Her tattooed eyebrows rise ever so slowly. “I could’ve needed a rabies shot. You might need a tetanus shot. I think we’re even.”
I seal my lips against the mild curse pushing to be released. Not a bad word; more like a hex. Not voodoo doll stuff, though.We live in the South, but New Orleans south is another brand altogether.
I just sometimes wish for a tepid inconvenience to be brought down upon another person’s head. Like,Mayyou never have matching Tupperware containers and lids.I don’t want real harm to befall anyone I’m mildly annoyed with, but the idea that they could be somewhat inconvenienced cools my negative feelings toward them in the moment.
I do not, however, wish these curses on my friends. Ever. And Evangeline is one of my best friends.
Mayor Breckenbridge, though ... Oh yeah, he definitely deserves a curse.
My lips turn up at the sides.Mayor Breckenbridge,may youonly ever find one square of toilet paper left onthe roll for the rest of your life.
“Why does she look like she’s hatching an evil plan?” Martha stage-whispers out of the side of her mouth.
Evangeline lifts a hand to shield her eyes from the sun, squinting. “Is it revenge evil or overthrow-the-government evil?”
“Um.” Martha frowns. “Both?”
Evangeline lowers her hand and flicks me lightly on the forehead. “I love ya, Hayley, but I don’t have money to bail you out of jail, so just don’t, okay?”
“I wasn’t scheming anything nefarious, thank you very much. It’s nice to see what y’all truly think of me.”
“I truly think you’re a force to be reckoned with.” Evangeline loops her arm through mine.
“Peach-pie-sweet but with a hefty splash of spicy bourbon added to the recipe.” Martha links her arm with mine on the other side.
Once more, the three of us face down Cletus and the threat he poses.
I take in a deep, bracing lungful of air and let it out slowly.“I guess Cletus and I should get better acquainted. Maybe we can come to some kind of agreement for our working relationship.” I force cheerfulness into my voice. “He won’t break down on the side of the road and leave me stranded, and I won’t forget to put on the parking brake and secretly hope he rolls off the side of a mountain.”
“That’s the spirit?” Martha’s voice pitches high at the end. “Okay, ladies, I’m off to get ready for preschool story time.” She unhooks her arm and gracefully glides toward the library’s entrance like some kind of literary book fairy. It’s no wonder all the kids who come in love her.
Evangeline moves to stand in front of me. Her eyes have lost their teasing glint, and she’s looking at me seriously. The early morning sun is hanging in the sky just behind her head, casting her in a slightly shadowed silhouette. “Tell me the truth. Are you really scared to drive that thing? Because if you are, you don’t have to do it. I mean, you were right. I know how to drive a stick shift now too, and neither one of us needs to get a CDL. It’s not exactly on my bucket list to wrestle a heap of metal masquerading as a bookmobile around narrow country roads or anything, but you shouldn’t be afraid of coming to work just because of Mayor Breckenbridge’s, uh, generosity.”
I snort at her liberal use of the word. Mayor Breckenbridge wasn’t thinking of anyone but himself if he’d planned all along to bestow this rust bucket on us. But it’s not fair to ask Evangeline to shoulder the responsibility either, especially since she’s technically head librarian and already has a full plate. Saying it was my turn was a diplomatic way of her assigning me the task. Besides, I may be more than a little nervous at the idea of driving Cletus farther than ten feet, but Evangeline has faced enough fears and been brave beyond measure this year. She’s earned herself a nice, long reprieve.
I let my gaze roam over the beautifully artistic tattoo inkingher bald scalp, taking in the lacework lines, colorful bouquet of flowers, and the striking image of a rising phoenix. A few months ago, she’d been hiding the fact she has alopecia, afraid her friends and the townspeople would see and treat her differently simply because she’d lost all of her hair to the autoimmune disease. She’d nearly given up on the idea that anyone would ever love her or find her beautiful just the way she is. Now she more often than not forgoes wearing any of her wigs, proudly displaying the new tattoo that Tai created for her. There’s no way I’m going to ask her to do this instead of doing it myself. Like she said, driving Cletus isn’t on her bucket list. But it is on mine.
I mean, the wordsDrive Cletusobviously aren’t written down physically on a piece of paper anywhere, but I can remedy that real quick since I add to my bucket list (if that’s what we’re going to call it) every day anyway. Literally.
Every day starts with a blank page in the little notebook I carry around with me, looking for something to jot down and check off, all under the same heading.Make It Count.
I can never pay back my debt, but I’m really hoping I can pay it forward.
2
I’m sitting in the driver’s seat, my hands gripping Cletus’s wheel, and nothing bad has happened. Granted the keys aren’t even in the ignition and we’re still in the library’s parking lot, but still. I’m counting it as a win.
“Maybe I’ve misjudged you, old boy,” I say as I stroke the leather stitching. “Maybe you’re more of a classic that’s just in need of a makeover. Not a true representation of what lies inside.”
