LITMIR.BIZ

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      No. It’s not possible. It has to be something else.

      Something up ahead shines into my eyes. Headlights! I wave my hands over my head, praying that the yellow sweatshirt I’m wearing is bright enough to make me visible to the driver.

      “Hey,” I shout. “Help!”

      The car slows down beside me, and I see that it’s a cherry-red, vintage Mustang. The sight of it brings back sickening memories. I’ve ridden in a car just like this before—the night of the homecoming dance last year, to be precise.

      My fears are confirmed when the driver rolls down the passenger-side window. Scotch Becker leans toward me. “What the hell are you doing out here, Vee?” He’s not alone. In the backseat, Samantha Phillips is sprawled drunkenly singing the school fight song, her eyes half-closed. The pungent scent of alcohol wafts from the car.

      “Need a ride?” Scotch asks, smirking.

      All of a sudden, I flash back to last year’s homecoming dance. Scotch has the same look on his face that he did when I awoke with my skirt around my waist—at least, until Rollins punched him.

      I back away from the car, feeling like I’m going to puke. I turn and stumble into the ditch. Little spots swim before my eyes. I hear a car door open, and I panic. On instinct, I start to run, slipping into the maze of corn. I’m only vaguely aware of the husks slicing into my bare feet. I don’t slow down.

      “Vee!” Scotch calls. “Vee, are you insane? I’m not going to hurt you!”

      I ignore the voice and keep going. All I know is that I’m stranded in the middle of nowhere with a boy who may or may not have tried to molest me last year. I’m bleeding and confused. I just want Scotch to go away.

      “Stop!” I hear Scotch panting. His footsteps slow, and then cease. “I won’t chase you. If you want to stay out here all night, fine. It’s your choice.”

      My feet are killing me. I quit running and listen to myself breathe. Long, jagged mouthfuls of air. I look up at the sky and wish on the North Star that he will just leave.

      “Crazy bitch,” I hear him mutter, and then more footsteps, moving farther away. Before long, his car starts up. Scotch revs his engine a few times and then takes off. Relieved, I sigh and head back toward the road. His taillights become smaller and eventually disappear.

      I start to walk toward town, forcing my feet to keep moving, even though each step is agony. I fix my gaze on the city lights ahead. My destination seems a million miles away, even though I know it can’t be more than five. Still, that’s an awfully long way to walk on bare feet in the middle of the night.

      A few minutes pass, and I hear a car somewhere behind me. I turn and watch the headlights come closer. Shielding my eyes, I try to decide whether I should try to flag the person down. Scotch was bad enough. What if the next driver is a serial killer?

      In the end, my feet win out, and I wave my arms to get the driver’s attention. The car slows and stops beside me. It’s a blue station wagon. There’s a woman with a bun and kind eyes behind the steering wheel. She reaches for a button, and the window goes down.

      “Do you need some help, sweetheart?” she asks.

      I hesitate.

      It seems like a terrible idea to get in a car with a stranger, but I’m pretty sure I could take this woman if it came down to it. She’s at least sixty years old and looks like she’d weigh about a hundred pounds soaking wet. And there’s just something about her that seems reassuring.

      “I was in an accident,” I explain. “Could you give me a ride into town?”

      “Of course,” she says, pressing another button. The doors unlock.

      I pull open the door and sit in the passenger seat. Warm air from the heater blasts my face and legs, and all of a sudden I feel sleepy. I raise my fingers to my face, which is all sticky. Gross.

      “Oh no. You’re bleeding,” the woman says. She reaches out hesitantly, as if to touch my forehead, but she stops before making contact.

      “It’s okay,” I say. “My father’s a doctor. He’ll be able to fix me up. Besides, I think it’s stopped bleeding.”

      She opens the glove compartment and takes out a package of Kleenex. “Why don’t you press some of these on your cut, just to be sure?”

      I grab a few tissues and hold them to my wound. “Thanks. I really appreciate you giving me a ride. What’s your name?”

      “Diane,” she says, returning the package to the glove compartment. After looking over her shoulder, she pulls the car back onto the road.

      “I’m Sylvia,” I say.

      She nods, keeping her eyes on the road.

      We ride in silence for a bit. I start to doze.

      Before long, we pull into my driveway. Every light in my house is blazing. As I get out of the car, the door opens and my father’s silhouette appears. He steps onto the porch in his slippers and robe. I know that I’m in deep trouble.

      “Thanks again,” I tell Diane.

      “Anytime,” she says.

      I shut the door, and she pulls out of the driveway.

      It is only then that I realize I never gave her directions to my house.

      ithout a word, my father holds the door open for me.

      “Where the hell have you been?”

      I stop and turn to face him. I haven’t seen him this angry since the time he found out Mattie went to an all-night kegger instead of going to a movie.

      “Do you know how worried I was? I called the police. They asked whether I wanted to report my car stolen. But—they wouldn’t go out and look for you until you’d been gone for twenty-four hours.”

      I think of how mangled my father’s car is and wince. “I’m sorry.”

      He crosses his arms. “I can’t wait until you have kids of your own and you wake up to go to the bathroom in the middle of the night and realize one of your kids has snuck out of the house. And taken your car. Jesus, Vee, you don’t even drive.”

      “Dad. I didn’t sneak out.”

      “Then what happened?” he demands.

      “Maybe we should sit down so I can explain,” I say. Sitting down might be a very good idea for this conversation.

      He eyes me warily, then follows me into the living room. I fall onto the comfy plaid couch, and he perches at the edge of his recliner.

      “Now. Tell me.”

      I take a deep breath, knowing how crazy my story is going to sound, even if I leave out any references to sliding.

      “I fell asleep in my room, listening to the radio. When I woke up, I was driving. I thought it was a dream. But then I realized it was your car, and it was all real. That’s when I . . . sort of lost control and crashed into a telephone pole.”

      “Oh. My. God.” My father lifts his hand to his mouth.

      “I’m really sorry, Dad. About the car, I mean. I don’t know what—”

      I stop talking when he rushes over and sweeps me into a hug.

      “Vee. My baby. Are you all right? Are you hurt? Let me see you.” He holds me at arm’s length and looks me over. “Your head.” He brushes my hair away from the gash and inspects

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