REBEKAH SKOCHINSKI
REBEKAH SKOCHINSKI // 42
GODSPEED E
than rides to work every morning on his ten-speed. It’s chilly, so he’s got a fuzzy woolen lumber jacket on over his once-black Judas Priest T-shirt. It billows behind him like a sail. I gave Ethan that jacket. We called them bush jackets growing up. Everyone’s got at least two of them hanging in their back porch. Mine was a hand-medown from Uncle Vic so it’s extra worn in. No matter how many times it’s been washed, I can still smell the wood chips. Ethan wasn’t supposed to keep it, though. It really irks me that he’s still got it, that he’s wearing it around like a prize. Since moving to town to live with Grandma, I’ve had insomnia. There’s too much light, too much noise, too much shit going on. So I walk to McDonald’s, sit near the window with a coffee and the paper. There’s never any good news. I first saw Ethan about a month ago. Hadn’t seen him for a couple of years, since that summer, which is practically impossible in a town where everyone knows everyone. Eventually we’re all just piled up on one another like a deck of cards. He looks exactly the same. Same scowl. Same beaklike cheekbones. Same intensity plus insecurity shielding his eyes. I wonder if he’d think I look the same, too. I used to think he was interesting. Mysterious even. A puzzle that would click together if you could just get all the pieces to line up.
“Y
ou don’t talk like any girl I know,” Ethan said, pulling his shoulders up to his ears like he was trying to absorb the words back into his body. We were standing on the CN Rail tracks. It was the end of October, when the damp air eats at your bones, when frost clings to the grass and leaves, spreading over the asphalt with its sparkly crust. Before the sun burned it off, we power skated across the rails in our beat-up Converses, the treads long sanded smooth. Tested how far we could go before falling off. It’s what we did for fun. Then we lit up a joint. Our hands in fingerless gloves, our jackets gaping open.
“How many girls do you know?” I asked. Ethan was a soft city kid so I was giving him the gears the way I did with all the kids sent to summer Bible camp to learn good country values. Once the summer is up and routine is king, they stop coming. Ethan stuck around. Even found a piece-of-crap car to drive because the city bus stops at Twin City Crossroads and that’s still a helluva ways from First Baptist. “I don’t know many,” he said, his lower lip jutting out slightly like he’d done something bad and was sucking up. Or like he was following the rules but wanted you to know he wasn’t happy about it. The same way he’d sweep in late for church service. “Does your car have a name?” I asked. The stink of car exhaust stuck to him like a leech. His car was obviously running rich. I could have told him that, but then he’d be looking to me for the solution and I didn’t need to be anyone’s problem solver. Already had one of those at home. My cross to bear. Yada yada. Not the first person to have a deadbeat for a mom, not the last. I’m not asking for pity; I don’t know what I’m asking for. “You mean, like, what kind is it?” “No, it’s obviously a Chevy of some sort,” I said, tucking my arms under my pits. My fingertips were starting to ache. Arthritis. At 16. There oughta be a law. “The guys out here name their cars, usually something female. It’s kind of a stupid thing, but it’s the thing nonetheless.” “Oh.” “Yeah.” “I guess she needs a name then,” he said flipping the joint in his fingers. “Any ideas?” “I think you need to be the one who comes up with the name.” “I think I’m going to call you Stickler.” “Look, you don’t have to.” “No, I want to. It’s just, I don’t know many girls.” Bingo. Ethan never took off his leather jacket, even when it was a hundred degrees. And he smoked a pipe. The guy was seriously trying to get laid.