as dark as her friend Missy's, but she has secrets. She doesn't recycle. She reads her friend Missy's diary and lies about it. She has several email accounts with different names, which concerns me, but not as much as the next thing: she honks at people in traffic. She honks when they drive too slowly for her liking, or when they don't use their turn signal.
Now, I'm all for encouraging other drivers to be aware of their mistakes, but goodness knows two wrongs sure don't make a right. People who honk in non-emergency situations should have their hands removed. Or, less drastically, their horns, I suppose.
The music in the vision changes—apparently this vision has a soundtrack!—and now I'm watching her have an intimate moment with a guy, cowgirl style. He's enjoying himself when BAM! She punches him in the face.
I'm laughing when I come out of the vision and back into the real world next to the crackling bonfire. James is talking to the other girl, Missy, but his attention is on her friend. The corners of his mouth turn down when he glances at her hands, both now resting on my knee.
“Will I be rich, or famous, or both?” she asks.
“I didn't see very far ahead, but I'm sure if you find something you're exceedingly good at, and practice really hard, you'll get somewhere.”
She cocks her head and narrows her eyes. “What exactly did you see?”
I gently scoop up one of her hands and hold it in mine. Her touch is cool, amphibian-like. “You need to be more calm when you're driving. In the future, you will use your car horn during a non-emergency situation, and your honking causes a terrible, terrible freeway pileup. Several people are killed, including children.”
She gasps.
“And some ponies are killed,” I say.
“Ponies?” Her eyes are so wide, with miles of white all around the irises.
“Kind of a circus-related thing. But that's not the point. You must never honk again, unless it absolutely is an emergency. Promise?”
“I do,” she says. “I promise.”
James breaks our moment, saying, “Missy, don't waste your marshmallow meat by burning the crap out of it.”
“I like it this way.” She waves the flaming marshmallow around her face for a moment before blowing it out.
James hands the marshmallow bag to the black-haired girl, causing her to let go of my hand. He seems fidgety and annoyed, even though coming out to have a bonfire and test my trick was entirely his idea.
“Meaty marshmallows,” he says to no one in particular.
My back feels chilly now. Sometimes the visions make me sweat, and my damp back is cooling off rapidly. I'm suddenly exhausted and irritated by my best friend. He dumps a pile of wood onto our already-hot fire.
“Hey, jamtart, save some wood for later,” I say, but he tosses the rest on. I can't help myself, but when James gets crabby like this, I want to poke at him.
“Ask the vegan how he likes his escargots ,” I tell the girls.
He wheels around, the side of his face orange and yellow from the fire. Now it's his turn to make the seriously gesture.
“Escargot,” says Missy. “You mean slugs?”
“Snails,” says the black-haired girl. “I thought you were vegan. You eat snails?”
James stirs the fire, sending a torrent of sparks skyward. Tonight, the moon is closer to full, and I remember last night, when Austin and I joked about reaching out to pinch a piece of moon.
“Ha, ha, hilarious, Zan,” James says without a trace of humor. He stops menacing the fire and comes to sit on the log on the other side of me, so we're all facing the lake. The boats and noisy watercraft are gone for the day, leaving only the quacking ducks and calm waters.
The night envelops, the warm glow of the fire isolating the four of us within a bubble of warmth. The girls urge me to tell them about the escargots , and with begrudging permission from James, I do.
* * *
Here is the story of James and the snails:
After a nasty bout of stomach flu, my best friend James
Now, I'm all for encouraging other drivers to be aware of their mistakes, but goodness knows two wrongs sure don't make a right. People who honk in non-emergency situations should have their hands removed. Or, less drastically, their horns, I suppose.
The music in the vision changes—apparently this vision has a soundtrack!—and now I'm watching her have an intimate moment with a guy, cowgirl style. He's enjoying himself when BAM! She punches him in the face.
I'm laughing when I come out of the vision and back into the real world next to the crackling bonfire. James is talking to the other girl, Missy, but his attention is on her friend. The corners of his mouth turn down when he glances at her hands, both now resting on my knee.
“Will I be rich, or famous, or both?” she asks.
“I didn't see very far ahead, but I'm sure if you find something you're exceedingly good at, and practice really hard, you'll get somewhere.”
She cocks her head and narrows her eyes. “What exactly did you see?”
I gently scoop up one of her hands and hold it in mine. Her touch is cool, amphibian-like. “You need to be more calm when you're driving. In the future, you will use your car horn during a non-emergency situation, and your honking causes a terrible, terrible freeway pileup. Several people are killed, including children.”
She gasps.
“And some ponies are killed,” I say.
“Ponies?” Her eyes are so wide, with miles of white all around the irises.
“Kind of a circus-related thing. But that's not the point. You must never honk again, unless it absolutely is an emergency. Promise?”
“I do,” she says. “I promise.”
James breaks our moment, saying, “Missy, don't waste your marshmallow meat by burning the crap out of it.”
“I like it this way.” She waves the flaming marshmallow around her face for a moment before blowing it out.
James hands the marshmallow bag to the black-haired girl, causing her to let go of my hand. He seems fidgety and annoyed, even though coming out to have a bonfire and test my trick was entirely his idea.
“Meaty marshmallows,” he says to no one in particular.
My back feels chilly now. Sometimes the visions make me sweat, and my damp back is cooling off rapidly. I'm suddenly exhausted and irritated by my best friend. He dumps a pile of wood onto our already-hot fire.
“Hey, jamtart, save some wood for later,” I say, but he tosses the rest on. I can't help myself, but when James gets crabby like this, I want to poke at him.
“Ask the vegan how he likes his escargots ,” I tell the girls.
He wheels around, the side of his face orange and yellow from the fire. Now it's his turn to make the seriously gesture.
“Escargot,” says Missy. “You mean slugs?”
“Snails,” says the black-haired girl. “I thought you were vegan. You eat snails?”
James stirs the fire, sending a torrent of sparks skyward. Tonight, the moon is closer to full, and I remember last night, when Austin and I joked about reaching out to pinch a piece of moon.
“Ha, ha, hilarious, Zan,” James says without a trace of humor. He stops menacing the fire and comes to sit on the log on the other side of me, so we're all facing the lake. The boats and noisy watercraft are gone for the day, leaving only the quacking ducks and calm waters.
The night envelops, the warm glow of the fire isolating the four of us within a bubble of warmth. The girls urge me to tell them about the escargots , and with begrudging permission from James, I do.
* * *
Here is the story of James and the snails:
After a nasty bout of stomach flu, my best friend James
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