Free Notes From the Backseat by Jody Gehrman

and looked at me like a man just waking from a long, morphine-induced dream. He clearly had no idea what I’d just said, so I repeated it. Finally, he nodded.
    â€œSure. We’ll be back in a few. Go ahead and lock all the doors.”
    I thought about this for a second. “Would that really help with the top down?”
    Like I said, the light was fading, but I could see him blushing just the same. He glanced at Dannika, as if expecting her to sneer at him, but she was still playing corpse-at-the-wheel.
    â€œJust—exercise caution. I’ll be back as soon as I can.”
    When he got in his car, he actually turned on the siren before speeding down the road. I watched the spinning light disappear around the bend. It was sad, knowing that siren was for Dannika who, even as a mentally feeble deaf girl, inspired grown men to do and say stupid things. I felt like the infinitely less attractive sidekick in a romantic comedy—the one who gets the funny lines but never gets the guy.
    â€œWhat was that all about?” I sounded overly irritated, even to myself.
    Dannika sighed and let go of the wheel at last. “I’m sorry. I lost it.”
    â€œYou played dead.”
    â€œBecause if I didn’t I was going to say something really, really stupid.” She wiped her forehead and unzipped her sweatshirt halfway. It was getting steadily colder and there she was, sweating.
    â€œWhy?”
    She looked exasperated. “What do you mean, why? ”
    â€œI mean, what was the big deal? He wasn’t even giving us a ticket.”
    She looked around, a cagey gleam in her eye. “He’s coming back, isn’t he?”
    â€œWhat’s in the trunk?”
    She turned to me, wide-eyed with panic. “You think he’ll search the car?”
    â€œMaybe you should just tell me what’s going on.”
    She popped the trunk and opened her door. “I’m getting rid of it.”
    â€œGetting rid of what?”
    I got out and followed her back to the trunk. She was unzipping her backpack, pawing past brightly colored cottons and hiking boots. “It’s really none of your business.”
    â€œOkay, fine,” I said, throwing up my hands.
    â€œIt’s blow.”
    â€œWhat?” I spun around.
    â€œCoke? Cocaine?”
    â€œOh my God, really? In there?” I stared at the backpack she was still rifling through, feeling horrified.
    â€œIf I can just fucking find it,” she muttered.
    â€œYou’re a yogi! You can’t be a cokehead.”
    She finally produced a Ziploc baggie filled with white powder. “Want to do a couple lines?”
    â€œDannika!”
    â€œIt’s really good stuff.” She held up the baggie and gazed at the powder with hungry affection.
    â€œYou’ve got to get rid of it.”
    She caressed the plastic. “Right this second?”
    â€œYes, this second.”
    â€œI’ll just hide it,” she said, stuffing it into the bodice of her tank top.
    â€œAre you insane?”
    â€œI paid good money for this,” she whined.
    â€œLook, no offense, but if your performance a minute ago is any indicator, you’re not that great under pressure. I’d hate to see how you’d act with a few grams of coke in your bra.”
    She pulled it back out. “Shit,” she said. “What do I do?”
    â€œI’m going to say three words, and I want you to listen to me very carefully.” I employed the tone I reserve for intimidating unruly toddlers in my store. “Cop. Coming. Back.”
    In a panic, she tore the bag open and let the powder fly. At that moment the wind must have shifted, or maybe she was just too terrified to factor its direction, and the next thing we knew everything—the backseat of the Mercury, the surfboards, the trunk, our clothes and even our faces—was covered with a fine dusting of coke.
    â€œFuck,” we said in unison.
    It was the first time