Enchilada Ed

33

Ed punched the ceiling of his Malibu. That was what his mom would call distracted driving. Ed couldn't help it. He felt like punching something. He wasn't angry, per say. At least, he wasn't angry with Audra. Something had gone wrong, something that Audra didn't want to talk about, or that Audra had said she didn't want to talk about, and he had done absolutely nothing to see if he could help her in some other way. She might still not have talked to him about it, but maybe she wouldn't be so sad right now. They still might not have gone to prom together, but maybe she wouldn't be so sad. They had been friends, he thought. He liked talking to her. He liked listening to the way she put her sentences together. He liked hearing about France, and her father, and her violin, and her cacti, and Dolly Parton. And none of that had changed. They had been friends. They still might be friends. It seemed to Ed that whatever Audra was dealing with had to be worse than the everyday humiliation of being rejected to a prom. It had to have been. And he had all but abandoned her. You don't abandon your friends just because something goes wrong.

I'm a dick, Ed thought. He punched the ceiling again. His knuckles hit something hard beneath the ceiling's padding. Oh for crying out loud, the Malibu didn't deserve that. He pulled up to a red light and massaged his hand. Hell, I didn't deserve that. His eyes fell on the empty passenger seat beside him. Or maybe I did.

Ed thought about driving home and never leaving his house again as an act of contrition. But what good would self-imposed exile do anyone? Mindless self-indulgence. Maybe the best thing would be to apologize. He couldn't text her. An apology-via-text could be misinterpreted as sarcasm. If he snapchatted her, his apology might seem to trivialize what happened. Ed didn't even know what happened.

Ed didn't know why he started driving to Emily's house.

***

Ed parked on Emily's driveway. He couldn't feel his feet as he walked to the front step, and he couldn't feel his fingers as he rang the doorbell.

Emily answered the door.

"Edward," she cocked her head, "what are you doing here?"

"I want to apologize."

"For what?"

"I don't know," Ed began, "I saw- accidentally- Audra crying at Mrs. Abel's office today, and I heard something about a fire-"

"She told you about the arson, then," Emily walked out onto the front step and closed the door behind her.

"Arson," Ed's eyes widened, "No, I mean, I accidentally heard something about a fire- that's it-"

"Oh," the left corner of Emily's mouth dipped low into her cheek as if she realized she had made a big mistake or spoken out of turn, "Well, I got stuff to do-" She reached for the doorknob, but Ed grabbed it first.

"What was arsoned?" He demanded.

"You a tough guy now?" Emily looked at Ed's extended arm, "Milk officer to KGB?"

"Can't you just tell me?" Ed pleaded.

"No," Emily pried Ed's hand off the doorknob, "I can't. I made a promise I wouldn't talk about it and I keep my promises. You know that."

The door opened and Emily shut her mouth. Audra stood wordlessly in the doorframe. Ed thought she looked an origami crane or piece of lace- like she was thisclose to crumbling.

"I'm not telling him anything," Emily said, "He just came here to apologize and I was trying to figure out what he wanted to apologize for-"

"It's fine," Audra said softly.