Page 9 of Saints & Sailors

He eyed me before studying his mode of transportation. “Need a lift in?”

I declined his offer before going around to the passenger side and helping myself inside the truck.

Scott climbed in beside me, looking nervous as he set his key into the ignition. He scratched at his head, which only held a few gray strands in all its thick blackness. He must’ve been a lady killer, Scott, because even though he appeared tired, with his cologne and decent build, he was easy on the eyes. Rugged, some women would say.

Briefly I wondered if I had a stepmother to deal with.

“What, uh, do you like to listen to?” Scott nodded toward the radio for emphasis.

I considered saying screamo to be a brat, but decided against it and shrugged instead.

“My father,” Scott began as he started up the truck. “Your grandfather, is a big country fan, my mom too. I got into rock in my teen years, but every now and then I catch myself listening to the stuff Dad used to play. I was never appreciative when he was around. They, uh, live in Florida now, with my sister, your aunt, Irene.”

My mother and the Asshole both liked indie music, and my mother especially liked R&B and soul as well.

I didn’t tell Scott this.

Scott settled on a modern rock station before beginning the drive to his house.

“Ah, you probably don’t know this one,” Scott noted of the song that was playing. “They’re an oldie, but a goodie.”

I recognized Queen instantly. “Hell yeah. I love Queen.”

“A lot of the kids your age I’ve encountered aren’t too familiar with bands like this from the ’70s,” Scott commented, seeming impressed.

“One of my best friends, his parents are in their sixties, and he has a way older brother. His parents had him late or whatever, but his older brother’s record collection saved his life—it saved all of us. The music back then⁠—”

“Was the best,” Scott concluded. “Guess I won’t have to endure you listening to boy bands and the Top 40, huh?”

I cringed. “God no!”

This comment served to make Scott smile and laugh.

Along the way to his house, my mother texted me, asking if I made it safely. She’d texted me throughout my trip and I had barely responded. I typed in an answer to her latest question but hesitated to send it.

In the end, I deleted the message and slid my phone in my pocket.

Let Scott tell her I’d made it.

Exactly forty-five minutes later, Scott was driving by a sign that said Welcome to Meadow Grove. I took the time to be alert and take in my new home. The drive into town introduced all the businesses on either side of the street. Several different restaurants lined one block, another offered mom-and-pop shops from health foods, repairs, and even stationery goods. There was a movie theater with a large marquee listing that students with straights As got in free, and I had just spotted town hall when Scott made a turn, going toward the residences.

“A lot of kids hang downtown. There’s a lot to do,” Scott said. “In some ways, if you spin in a circle, you’ll have seen the whole town, but there are a lot of places to go and do things. Painting, hiking, kickboxing—there are a lot of fun activities.”

I negated to mention all of those activities weren’t my style.

One thing I really noted were the trees. There were so many of them lining the streets, and beyond the trees there were floral arrangements at every corner. All the greens, whites, reds, and yellows made me sick inside. The atmosphere was too cozy, jovial, and quiet for me.

In LA, everything was busy, alive with sound and people on the go. Admittedly, the people could be quite rude. If you bumped into a stranger on the street, they’d flip you the bird before going on their way. Here, I could tell one would spend a good five minutes going back and forth apologizing and taking the blame for the mishap.

Scott finally pulled into an area called Cherrywood Drive before taking another minute to find his house. All of the houses on the street were fairly close together, separated by fences or hedges. Back home, we had space. The only time you would see your neighbor would be when you were taking the garbage bin to the curb and you happened to bump into them.

One of Scott’s neighbors was out jogging, and another was walking their dog.

Scott waved to each as he got out of the truck.

“Everyone’s really friendly,” he told me.

It was like he was really trying to sell this town to me, but it wasn’t about to work.