Celestia

1

The clock on the dashboard radio flashes 11:09 in neon blue. The night is cold and black outside the windows of the car. All there is to be seen are the two yellow stripes running parallel along the asphalt in the glare of the headlights. Rock music has been playing continuously in the background at a low volume. I listen to the overly lengthy guitar solo, but I don't recognize the song. It's my boyfriend's kind of music. As I stare pointlessly out the passenger window, goosebumps crawl up my arms underneath my shirt sleeves. I pull the ends over my hands and ball the material up in my fists- a habit I've had since I was a kid. It's why my sleeves always end up stretched out.

I glance at the air controls and see that the heat is on the lowest setting. 

"Why'd you turn the heat down? No wonder it's so cold." I turn the dial up to four and hold my hands in front of the vents to soak in the warmth.

"Because I was hot," Sawyer answers from the driver's seat, his eyes steady on the road.

Both of us have been silent for the past twenty minutes, lost in our own thoughts. We're headed nowhere in particular. Just away. I'd be fine with never coming back. Sawyer, on the other hand, he's got a lot going for himself. He's one of the best players on the football team and he builds houses with his dad. He's smart. He just doesn't always use his better sense. As for why he stays with me, I still don't understand. I'm lucky I have him though. He's all I have.

Right now, I have him driving me a half hour out of town because my mother, Rachel, and I got into it again. It usually starts with a small disagreement, then words are exchanged, the house blows up, and one of us leaves. It's her house, so it's usually me. I know she'd kick me out if she could. Thing is, I'm sixteen and don't have any other place to go, unless she ships me to Georgia to live with my grandmother. I think the only reason she doesn't is because it would be bad for her public image.

"So what was it this time, anyway?" Sawyer asks, breaking another moment of silence.

"Wow. I thought you weren't going to ask this time."

"I'm sure any normal person would want to know why they're spending their Saturday night driving out to B.F.E. for you."

I sigh, reluctant to answer, then admit, "She flushed my cigarettes and told me to do something with my life."

Sawyer let out a laugh. "Ha!"

I glare at him. "That's funny?"

"Hey, you know she's right."

"Yeah. I know."

"You know a lot of things," he retorts.

"I don't know why you don't break up with me. I'm no good for you."

"Same reason you don't break up with me. You've got your issues, Autumn, but I love your troubled ass. Besides, I think you're the only one that actually understands my personality."

My issues -  I grew up shut away in my room or with my face buried in the television trying to drown out the fighting. My parents divorced when I was thirteen and I haven't seen or heard from my dad since. Mom resorted to drinking tendencies that she tries to hide in a secret wall compartment in the back of her closet even though she knows I know. My life is a bunch of depression and nothing, and my grades are failing because I just don't give a damn about school anymore; those issues.

If I could do anything I wanted, I would take off and I wouldn't stop until I found the ocean. Then I'd sit on the beach for a good, long while and watch the seagulls, or whatever, fly in circles above the water. I imagine the stars shine brighter there, but I wouldn't know. I'm here.

I answer, "I love you too."

"Okay, I want you to do something for me then."

"Say the word," I shrug. Wash his car? Supply the liquor to the next post-game bonfire out at Schneider's Pond? Stick up the Seven-Eleven?

"Listen to your mom. Stop smoking and skipping class. Get your life together. You can make something of yourself if you'd try, Autumn."

I roll my eyes. He sounds like an old man. I know he means well, but this is a guy that lives for football and blue raspberry slushies.

"For you....maybe," I reply with a hint of a smile that he can't see.

"Oh. Maybe. That's what I'm going to say next week when you ask me to pick you up and drive you around so you can get away from your mom."

"Hey, I can't achieve the impossible."

"Good thing I'm not asking you to, then."

This is our relationship. We're real with each other. Honest. We occasionally do stupid things together, but it's mostly Sawyer trying to coach me down the right path and me giving him gray hairs at seventeen. I did, however, give him the best advice of his life a few months ago: I told him to lose the 'stache.

Sometimes, I feel like we're a case of 'opposites attract,' but when it comes down to it, we're not so different. We're both just playing the cards we were given in life and trying to find our place in this world.

Right now, he has one hand on the wheel and the other one is dangling from where his arm is propped on the console. I grab it and give it a loving squeeze. "I really don't know what I'd do without you," I say. And that's the last thing I say.

A pair of large, bright headlights come out of nowhere around the corner, complete with the sound of a semi's horn. Time moves in slow motion. I feel my eyes grow to the size of saucers and I open my mouth to scream, but I'm not sure if anything comes out. My eyes are glued to the headlights and the large, square grill. I feel the impending doom and helpless acceptance. Brakes from the semi squeal. Sawyer swerves to the right, but not quick enough.