Page 137 of Grounded
He tips his hat to us and proceeds to eat shit as he stumbles in some nearby bushes. Amelia claps her hand over her mouth to stifle her laughter.
As soon as the kids in the street are a blur in the rearview mirror, I peel out of the neighborhood.
Mostofthedrivealong the coast is spent with our windows down and the music on high volume. It's difficult to hear over the loud engine, which is why our eardrums are rattling. But it's a comfortable stillness, void of conversation.
When a song by Paramore comes up on my shuffle, Amelia squeals.
"You like Paramore?" she asks.
"Yeah, I like their old stuff." I roll up my window so I can hear her voice more clearly.
"We have more in common than I realized," she reveals.
"Because we like some of the same music?"
"Among other things."
"Like?" I am forcing her to point out why we might be able to pull off more than a friendship.
"We're both witty and have a great sense of humor."
"That's accurate. Go on."
"We have similar interests." She sticks her hand out her window and weaves it through the air. "TV shows, coffee, sneaking out of parties because the crowds are bothering us."
"We also have incredible chemistry."
I see the moment it dawns on her how, even if we deliberately push each other's buttons, we could make this work. And I catch the flash of disapproval soon after.
"You're driving so fast."
"I'm going the speed limit. Just feels fast in this car."
"You're passing everyone," she counters, like I'm going 90mph in a 35mph zone. "Can you slow down a little bit?"
I proceed to drop the speed to 10mph once I see no one in my rearview mirror. My effort to make her laugh causing an opposite reaction.
"Theo, I'm serious. Stop messing around."
There's no grab bar in this old car, and she's clutching her knees like she's on an off the rails rollercoaster.
"Okay, I'm sorry."
What is with her? Is she picking a fight with me because that's the only way we know how to get along, as ironic as that sounds. Is she realizing how compatible we are and freaking out?
It takes her ten minutes to release the death grip on her legs. Her fingers splay out, and her body relaxes. "Are you okay?"
"I'm fine, why?"
"You seem…tense."
"I'm fine," she repeats.
This isn't the kind of silence that's agreeable. I roll down my window and hope the air filtering in is also filtering out the jitters that are torturing Amelia.
"What was one of your mom's favorite movies?"
As expected, her body sinks back into the seat and she props her feet on the dash with a comfortable ease.
