Some Place Better Than Here

Chapter 18: We Gotta Get Outta This Place

18
We Gotta Get Out of This Place

==========DANNY==========

We just drove. We didn't say a single word to one another; we just drove as far as the city streets could take us, and then kept on going until we met the edge of town. The humidity was so thick and sultry that it was mentally depleting. Even the winds that came from driving with the top down failed to override the heat. It was an invasive kind of heat, leaving no prisoner alive. So we put the top back up and blasted the air conditioning. I kept a steady eye on the fuel gauge, that was clocking too close to empty for my liking, as I drove us down County Line 55 to Regional Variety & Gas.

Inside the little variety store, I paid for a full tank, and for the sake of entertainment, bought barefoot Mary a knock-off pair of Crocs. And in the spur of the moment of making the purchase, I tacked on a Slushie. For some reason. I really don't know why; I thought Mary would like a Slushie. Maybe? That was stupid.

When I stepped back outside—back into the sweltering heat that was so severe waves rippled from the concrete—I looked over at Mary sitting barefoot and still on the top of the trunk.

Walking up, dropping the knock-off Crocs next to her feet, I presented the Slushie to her. "Thought this might cheer you up."

Though her head was hung down, draping the blonde ends of her hair over her shoulders, the motion of her cheeks indicated a half-smile. Truthfully, I was expecting The Bitch Face, but she just took the cup, already sweaty with condensation, and started slurping. Against my will, my eyes turned to her feet, scuffed and red with blisters; swaying side-to-side off the bumper.

The gas station attendant eventually came out to assist us—per New Jersey State Law that every gas attendant must pump the gas. Perhaps it keeps people employed. I should lighten up. We exchanged nods. He asked me what kind. Regular. He snatched the nozzle off the hook and inserted it into the fill spout. The dollar's rapid climb made the gallons look pathetically slow. The nozzle chnk'd as a few silent seconds sat between all of us—me, Mary, and the pump guy.

Cicadas shrieked in the overgrown grass that sprouted from the ditches alongside the endless slab of highway. Cars whipped by in fragmented processions.

Eventually, I broke the silence. "What happened?"

"What do you mean?" Mary asked, looking at me.

"Why's it just you and your dad? Where's your mom?"

She didn't say anything. She just sat still, dangling her feet, poking at the Slushie with the straw. The fuel pump made a particular clunking sound indicating that it was done. The attendant slotted the nozzle back on the pump, smiled politely, and walked away.

Mary stirred her melting cup of ice for a while. "My dad never spoke about her. Well, unless he was piss drunk and bitching about everything." Using the straw, she started puncturing the Slushie. "I never knew her. All I have is this old picture that my dad never—or well, probably forgot—to throw out.

"All I know is that she came from a broken home and that her mom was a crazy psycho bitch. But, well, that is coming from Jim. So I don't know. Who knows?"

I looked up at the gloomy overcast sky, and my worries eased because it was starting to feel, and look like, an actual New Jersey summer's day. Humid and cloudy.

"Jim?" I asked, needing to clear the confusion.

"My dad."

While leaning on the side of my car, looking at her and waiting for her to say more, I noticed streaks of sweat under her armpits. Suddenly I became aware of my own sweaty shirt clinging to me, and took a look at my own sweat stains, feeling a little self-conscious.