Free The People Next Door by Christopher Ransom
Authors: Christopher Ransom
reassurances Mick supplied for himself as he dressed for work, pulling his jeans over his bandaged knees.
16
Amy was crossing town on the Foothills Parkway in her Passat wagon when she saw the white hood in her side mirror and realized
Jason Wells and Eric Pritchard were following her home from school. Half a mile ahead, the stoplight at Valmont turned red.
The Honda gained as she let off the gas. If she coasted a while, maybe the light would change and she could speed up again
without having to stop and look at them. What more did they want? Hadn’t they done enough? She tried to pretend it was a coincidence,
then flushed with shame, then felt like crying, but refused to give them the satisfaction. And how far were they going to
take this? Were they going to follow her all the way home? If so, then what?
The light turned green. She pushed the Passat up to sixty and zoomed through the intersection. The Honda fell off a bit, but
within half a mile had returned, racing up on her ass and swerving into the left lane. She tried to get a look at them as
the car looped around her, but the windows were not so much tinted as opaqued. She dropped the Passat down to fifty and the
Honda took the lead. This Civic had the same giant gray louver fin. Itwas them, no question. She gripped the wheel and slowed to forty as the Honda left her far behind.
They aren’t really dangerous, she told herself. Get a hold of yourself. We’ve got too much to do to spend the rest of the
day in a funk. She listened to her voicemail – Lowry, the coordinator from This Takes the Cake, about the design Amy had submitted.
Deep Sea Wonderland in blue chocolate with white fudge frosting, preliminary bid: $320. It would be ready in time for the
party, but Lowry had a few questions about the creatures and logistics. Did she want sea lions or walruses? In plastic figurines
or sculpted frosting? I dunno, Lowry. I just don’t know.
She merged with the Diagonal Highway tiredly, the long summer afternoon as oppressive as her To-Do list. She had yet to decide
about the balloons, go to the party store for cups and napkins, follow up on the email chain of questions flowing back from
the e-card reminders she had blasted out, and hit Grand Rabbits for more plush take-homes. Plus the groceries, but it was
too early for that, the big day still ten days away.
Cancel the party, a voice inside her warned. It was getting out of control before Mick’s accident. Now you have to worry about
him too. It’s not too late.
But it
was
too late. Things had been set in motion. The RSVPs were trickling in and if they scaled down now, it would only worry Briela
about her father and the strength of the family in general.
She reached Jay Road, turned right, and half a mile later her mailbox came into view. She turned into thelong driveway and parked in front of the garage on the house’s east side. She sat motionless as the A/C bled out and the heat
baked in.
Go on, look again. Confront it, deal with it.
She looked in the rearview mirror and the vicious graffiti on the wagon’s rear window jangled back at her in reverse, horror-movie-style
red letters.
STIT GOHTRAW
She had left the high school annex today in the same mood as she had left the first three sessions: in a hurry, feeling dirty,
wishing she had taken a part-time job as a cashier at Best Buy, anything but this. She had not looked at any of the students
milling around in the parking lot-cum-smoking area. She could not understand why they lingered when they resented having to
be there for summer school in the first place, and she couldn’t bear another glimpse into their bitter, listless, pimply faces.
She had kept her eyes on the ground until the Passat’s Mojave metallic rear end entered her field of vision, looked up, and
it hit her like a thrown cup of urine.
WARTHOG TITS
She knew immediately that Eric Pritchard and Jason Wells were the culprits. The skinny,
16
Amy was crossing town on the Foothills Parkway in her Passat wagon when she saw the white hood in her side mirror and realized
Jason Wells and Eric Pritchard were following her home from school. Half a mile ahead, the stoplight at Valmont turned red.
The Honda gained as she let off the gas. If she coasted a while, maybe the light would change and she could speed up again
without having to stop and look at them. What more did they want? Hadn’t they done enough? She tried to pretend it was a coincidence,
then flushed with shame, then felt like crying, but refused to give them the satisfaction. And how far were they going to
take this? Were they going to follow her all the way home? If so, then what?
The light turned green. She pushed the Passat up to sixty and zoomed through the intersection. The Honda fell off a bit, but
within half a mile had returned, racing up on her ass and swerving into the left lane. She tried to get a look at them as
the car looped around her, but the windows were not so much tinted as opaqued. She dropped the Passat down to fifty and the
Honda took the lead. This Civic had the same giant gray louver fin. Itwas them, no question. She gripped the wheel and slowed to forty as the Honda left her far behind.
They aren’t really dangerous, she told herself. Get a hold of yourself. We’ve got too much to do to spend the rest of the
day in a funk. She listened to her voicemail – Lowry, the coordinator from This Takes the Cake, about the design Amy had submitted.
Deep Sea Wonderland in blue chocolate with white fudge frosting, preliminary bid: $320. It would be ready in time for the
party, but Lowry had a few questions about the creatures and logistics. Did she want sea lions or walruses? In plastic figurines
or sculpted frosting? I dunno, Lowry. I just don’t know.
She merged with the Diagonal Highway tiredly, the long summer afternoon as oppressive as her To-Do list. She had yet to decide
about the balloons, go to the party store for cups and napkins, follow up on the email chain of questions flowing back from
the e-card reminders she had blasted out, and hit Grand Rabbits for more plush take-homes. Plus the groceries, but it was
too early for that, the big day still ten days away.
Cancel the party, a voice inside her warned. It was getting out of control before Mick’s accident. Now you have to worry about
him too. It’s not too late.
But it
was
too late. Things had been set in motion. The RSVPs were trickling in and if they scaled down now, it would only worry Briela
about her father and the strength of the family in general.
She reached Jay Road, turned right, and half a mile later her mailbox came into view. She turned into thelong driveway and parked in front of the garage on the house’s east side. She sat motionless as the A/C bled out and the heat
baked in.
Go on, look again. Confront it, deal with it.
She looked in the rearview mirror and the vicious graffiti on the wagon’s rear window jangled back at her in reverse, horror-movie-style
red letters.
STIT GOHTRAW
She had left the high school annex today in the same mood as she had left the first three sessions: in a hurry, feeling dirty,
wishing she had taken a part-time job as a cashier at Best Buy, anything but this. She had not looked at any of the students
milling around in the parking lot-cum-smoking area. She could not understand why they lingered when they resented having to
be there for summer school in the first place, and she couldn’t bear another glimpse into their bitter, listless, pimply faces.
She had kept her eyes on the ground until the Passat’s Mojave metallic rear end entered her field of vision, looked up, and
it hit her like a thrown cup of urine.
WARTHOG TITS
She knew immediately that Eric Pritchard and Jason Wells were the culprits. The skinny,