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A car going too fast.
Bright sunlight.
Terrible timing.
The woman hits the pavement like a rubber ball, bouncing a few times then rolling before coming to a full stop in the brush. What goes up, must come down.
The scene is awful. I don’t think I’ve ever seen a human leg twisted that way. If I were her, and I had a weaker stomach, I might have lost my lunch too. But, no. I have to be strong. Vomit is evidence, and there’s no sense in leaving any of that behind.
Upon closer inspection, the way the woman is splayed out in the dirt, in the weeds, in the thick of it, is really quite beautiful. She isn't conscious. Speed was a factor. Regardless, in her condition, it’s doubtful she’ll make it long anyhow. Aside, from the obvious broken bones, most of her damage will be internal. So as in life, as it is in death.
I want to feel bad for her. But I don’t. She ruined what was meant to be a beautiful day. It’s really too bad people use bicycles in places meant for cars. There’s too much room for error, and clearly one person has the advantage. Thankfully for me, it wasn’t the cyclist. Wish I could say the same for the car.
CHAPTER NINE
SADIE
A lot happened between Ann and I after I did her a solid by hiding the appetizers in my car. I guess you could say things moved quickly. From that evening on, Ann began texting me incessantly.
I didn't mind. It’s so much easier to cultivate a relationship when you have time to curate the perfect response. You hardly even have to be yourself. You just write what you think the other person wants to hear.
But, if she wasn’t texting, she was calling. She’d hang up, think of something else, and call right back. Sometimes I didn’t answer just so she’d text instead and I could savor her words like they belonged to me. Because, to my mind, they did. I was learning her language. I was learning to speak like she spoke. I made her feel understood. That’s how we became what you call fast friends.
But not too fast. I didn’t see her mow the caterer over with her car with my own two eyes, but I know she did it. She was smart about it. A quiet farm-to-market road. Bright sunny day. Zero witnesses. Cyclists are hit all the time, I overheard her say to a neighbor.
Turns out, Ann’s caterer was an avid cyclist. The odds were against her, Ann said. Four deaths in Driftwood, just this year alone. The woman was in the wrong place at the wrong time, Ann said. Sure, she made poor decisions that led to her fate. She was lucky, Ann told me. She died doing what she loved. Not all of us get that kind of good fortune. The sad part, I concluded, was she probably didn’t even get the message.
But I did.
For several days after the accident, Ann kept to herself. At the time, I chalked it up to the impending holidays. Later, I’d learn this was her style. After hosting one of her parties, she liked to take a step back. She’d go really big and then she’d sit back and let her prey come to her.
Thankfully, I was busy. Ann had surprised me by pulling some major strings. Thanks to her, I got a job as a substitute at the local high school. Most of the regular subs like to take time off to prepare for the holidays, and teachers are prone to want to do the same, she told me before I had the chance to mention that I hate children. Teenagers especially.
Unfortunately, my bank account couldn’t care less.
At this point, work equals keeping my head above water. I either kill what I eat or I don’t eat. Had it not been for Ann’s recommendation, I don’t think the school would have called, so I can’t help but feel grateful. Given my history, I’m not even sure how she pulled it off, other than the administration is known to enjoy her parties too. Well, there’s that—and there’s her growing fame.
It pays to be an internet celebrity. An influencer, they call them, and let me tell you, I for one am glad for that. Influence is important, Ann says.
She isn’t wrong about that. Clearly, she’s aware of what’s happening in the world. She understands the system and she’s prepared. I know I need to be too. You used to be able to escape your past buried in high school yearbooks or local papers, but today in the digital age, you are judged from cradle to grave. Big Tech sifts, sorts, and sells all your data to the highest bidder whether that be business or governments. In China, social scoring is used for pretty much everything. Citizens are issued social credit scores based on how trustworthy or credible they are perceived to be. Their behaviors are tracked and traced, and they’re ranked on these things by algorithms. Like the domino effect, it trickles down until they just start shutting down your life, one keystroke at a time. A few wrong moves and your access to things like public transportation is denied and your bank account is revoked. This system is coming to the States—I can feel it. It’s already happening online. It’s like boiling a frog or whatever. Even now, if you’re a model, or an actress, or a musician, unless you have a certain number of social media followers, it’s nearly impossible to get a gig.
Long story long, my credibility is lacking. Ann was kind enough to let me borrow hers. Obviously, this can’t last forever, which is unfortunate. The thing that happened last year doesn’t help. While the incident didn’t involve children, Driftwood is a small town, and people talk. Needless to say, my social credit took a hit.
Now, the time has come to rebuild. I only wish someone had told me that making friends as an adult isn’t any easier than it is as a kid. It’s worse. You have all of those hardened beliefs and insecurities to contend with. And those at the top? They like to stay there.
At least I have a job. The people there don’t have a choice about being my friend. We’re destined to spend time together. Even if substituting is pretty much the last thing on the planet I had in mind when it came to employment, I’ll make it work. Besides, this isn’t the city. There aren’t a ton of options for work out here. Driving into Austin wouldn’t kill me, but the anxiety might.
Thankfully, subbing does come with at least one perk aside from the paycheck—tiny as it may be—it gives me the opportunity to observe the Bankses’ children. Being in
such close proximity, you learn a lot. Already, I know Amelia is like her mom, dazzling. Neil is also like his mother, dark and brooding, but also quiet and reverent. It is interesting to see how these things can exist in one person simultaneously. I’m beginning to wonder if they might exist in me too.
Ann says in her book that life is about the journey. I realize that this gig, this friendship, is an opportunity for a fresh start. If I’m careful, if I play my cards right, it can be a new beginning for me.
Sure, I have reservations. Especially when I consider Ann plowing down that woman on her bike. Strangely, I can empathize with her frustration at the level of incompetence over the appetizers. Little things are important when your reputation is on the line. Believe me, I know. And in any case, now it feels like we have a secret.
That’s not to say I think the punishment fit the crime.
I’m not a monster.
