Page 33 of Fight Or Flight

Eric

Isurvived three days without getting too close to Brooklyn. I set my alarm to make sure I woke up and showered a half hour before everyone else in the house. I got breakfast on my way to school and avoided dinner with the family by picking up extra hours at Kate’s. Before retiring to the basement, I pack a cooler with snacks too. I even skipped smores and when my crazy father told me to paint the fence while simultaneously waxing his car, I grabbed a paintbrush and a rag and ran outside—no questions asked and let’s be real for a minute, I probably should’ve asked why he had me switching from waxing to painting. At one point I got so confused I painted his car and waxed the fence.

The point is, I did it all for nothing because I’m sitting in the passenger seat of Joss’ car watching as Brooklyn’s knuckles go white from clutching the steering wheel. It should also be noted that she hasn’t actually started the engine. That’s right, we’re still parked outside the house, not moving, and I’m being attacked by the scent of her perfume or maybe it’s her shampoo. I don’t know, but whatever it is smells delicious.

I should’ve listened to Danny and called Jade, but the idea of a repeat isn’t as appealing as one would think. It’s actually worrisome if you think about it. I’m seventeen. I should be itching to stick my dick in any and every girl, but every time I look at another girl, my mind wanders back to Brooklyn. Just yesterday Lisa Reynolds slipped me a note in Bio class telling me to meet her in the back of the lunchroom after fifth period and what did I do—I fled the class like my ass was on fire. It’s like I’m broken or something, and I have the raven-haired beauty sitting beside me to thank.

“I might not have a license and all, but I think you have to start the car and put it in drive for us to move,” I observe.

She nods but doesn’t start the car. Since we’ve already established I’m an expert at making mistakes, I make another and cover her hand with mine. She turns her head abruptly at my touch and our eyes lock as I slowly loosen her grip on the steering wheel.

“What’s wrong?” I ask.

“I think I’m in shock,” she admits. “In five minutes, I learned two karate moves and with the help of your dad, my mom gifted me her car.”

As much as I have avoided my new bestie, I’ve also kept tabs on her. Contrary to popular belief you don’t always have to be present to participate and so long as I give Anthony his daily rate of ten dollars, he gives me the scoop on what’s going on with Brooklyn. Aside from our midnight rendezvous, the girl hasn’t truly left her mom’s side since she was discharged from the hospital.

“You know karate?” I quip.

When in doubt, pull the humor card.

It works for my dad.

But Brooklyn doesn’t laugh, she doesn’t even crack a smile. I can cross comedian off the list of possible side hustles.

“Wax on, wax off,” she mutters, making the circular motion with one of her hands.

She’s pretty good and coincidentally, I’m an expert in waxing on and off too—we really make quite the pair.

It’s a shame we’re friends.

“You’re a pro,” I tease. “Start the car, Brooklyn.”

“Right,” she says. “I should do that.”

I nod and she tears her eyes away from me. She zeroes in on the start button next to the steering wheel and slams her index finger against it. The engine purrs to life and her hand slowly finds the gear shift. With a quick glance over her shoulder, she puts the car into drive and slams her foot against the gas pedal. We take off like we’re gunning for first place in the Indy 500 until she slams her foot against the brake and turns to me.

“Where am I going?”

They must be lenient with who they pass and fail in Connecticut because she’s a terrible driver. At this rate, I’m going to get whiplash before we get to the pizzeria. Oh well, it’s not so much of a hardship so long as I get to spend time with her.

The last three nights have sucked royally, which is crazy when you think about it. I don’t know how I allowed Brooklyn to get so completely under my skin that I crave her, but here I am. Fucking last night I almost crept into her bedroom with a package of cookies. We were out of Oreos but Chips Ahoy would do the trick.

“Earth to Eric,” she calls.

“Sorry,” I mumble. What the fuck were we talking about? Oh, right. Her lack of driving skills. The fact that she has a license and I don’t, blows my mind. “When did you get your license?”

She blinks slowly before narrowing her eyes at me.

“Six months ago.”

“And you passed on the first try?”

“Um…yeah…why?”

“No reason,” I reply and point my finger straight ahead. “Make a left at the light,” I instruct, bracing my free hand on the dashboard. Holding on for dear life, I watch her switch pedals. This time she surprises me with a much smoother take off and I relax a little. She even puts her turn signal on before making the left—impressive. “You’re going to take this to Bloomingdale Road and then you’re gonna make another left.”

“Okay, am I going the speed limit?”

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