Free Since You've Been Gone by Morgan Matson Page B

strange, stressful evening was coming to a close. I didn’t even wait for Frank toleave first, but stepped on the gas, just wanting to get home. I had almost made it to the top of the road, by the sign, when my car started to slow down. I pressed harder on the gas, but the car didn’t speed up, instead just rolling a few more feet and then sputtering to a stop. I shifted the car into park and cut the engine, then waited a few seconds and tried to start the car again. But the car didn’t start—the engine revved once, then died. Was it the battery? I looked in a panic at the dashboard, like this might tell me something, and my eyes landed on the gas gauge, still right at a half tank, and I realized what had happened. I was out of gas.
    I closed my eyes for a long moment, as though maybe I would wake up to find this had all been a terrible dream. But no. I opened them, saw headlights approaching behind me, and realized that things were only going to get worse.
    It was Frank’s truck. I tried to start the car once again, like maybe there was a special secret reserve tank that would be activated, but of course, nothing happened. I could hear Frank’s engine rumbling behind me, and I cranked down my window and stuck my hand out, motioning for him to go around. It was narrow here at the top of the road, but there was enough room to get out if you drove on the grass. And he was in a truck, so it wasn’t like it would be a problem for him or anything. When Frank didn’t move, I motioned him around again, wishing he would just leave so I could figure out what to do here. But a second later, his hazards switched on, flashing red everyfew seconds, and Frank got out of the driver’s side and headed toward my car.
    I looked away and bit my lip hard, feeling like I was about five seconds from bursting into tears. All I wanted to do was to go home. Why was that so impossible? And why was Frank Porter insisting on witnessing my humiliation? Suddenly, I was mad—furious—at Sloane. I didn’t want to be here. I didn’t want to be dealing with any of this. I was only here because she’d told me to go here. And if she’d hadn’t left, if she’d been where she was supposed to be, none of this would be happening.
    “Hey.” I looked over and saw that Frank was leaning down to speak to me through my open window, his face closer to mine than I’d been expecting. I drew back slightly, clutching my keys in a hand that I realized was shaking. “Are you okay?”
    “Fine,” I said, trying to make myself smile at him, wishing more than anything that he would just leave me alone. Frank looked at me for a moment, and I wondered if I had insulted him by trying to pretend that things were fine when they so clearly were not. I couldn’t help but wish that it had been anyone else behind me. Of course Frank Porter was going to come over and make sure I was okay, while I knew most people would have just gone around me without a second thought. “I mean,” I added after a moment in which Frank hadn’t moved, “I’m out of gas. But it’s okay. I can handle it.”
    “Really?” A car behind Frank’s honked its horn, loud, and Frank made the same go around motion that I’d given to him.The car screeched around us, followed by two others, and I felt myself start to get panicky, as I realized that I was completely blocking people’s way out. Frank turned back to me. “Why don’t I drive you to get some gas?”
    “Oh, that’s okay,” I said automatically. “I’ll be fine.” A second later, though, I realized I hadn’t thought through what I was going to do here. Call my parents, wake them up, and tell them to come get me because I was stranded at a party they didn’t know I had gone to? It was not a good option. I had a feeling they’d be more upset about being woken up—and having a subpar workday tomorrow—than about the party itself. Could I call a tow truck? But I didn’t know how much that would be, or if there was