Discovering Licapta

1 (pt. ii)

IT DOESN'T OCCUR to me until I'm seated shotgun in the boy's scratched up black sedan that we won't be able to move until the cops finish investigating. The street is completely blocked up to the nearest intersection, where traffic enforcement has quarantined the street.

I'm about to voice my concern when the boy seated in the driver's seat thrusts the car into reverse. "Hold on," he warns me casually, wrapping his arm around my backrest and twisting around to look out the rear window.

Before I can register what's happening, we're moving. The car jerks as we lurch onto the sidewalk, and I grasp onto the worn seat beneath me, fingernails digging into the soft leather as I'm thrown backward.

I think about asking what the hell he's doing, but if there's one thing I've learned, it's that you don't question those who have your life in their hands. You don't distract them, you just have to trust them. Because, really, there's not much else you can do.

Instead, I choose this moment to ask his name.

"Eh— I'm a little busy at the moment," Mario Andretti states as he maneuvers the car forward, half on the sidewalk, half on the road.

I'm still holding onto my seat for dear life, convinced that at any moment the car is going to flip over or we're going to crash into a lamppost or something. Or that we'll be arrested. The good news is that the path created for the cops to get through is on the opposite side of the street, so it'd be very difficult for them to catch up to us. Since I'm pretty sure we're breaking the law and at least a few traffic violations.

A siren screams, and we accelerate forward, causing a group of pedestrians gathered on the sidewalk to leap into the street. I hear a couple of them shout curse words at us as we race by them and toward the intersection up ahead. We're almost there when I spot a traffic control officer stepping in front of our car, blowing the whistle in his mouth and holding his hand out, fingers spread out.

The boy sitting to my left stays silent, shaking his head. The engine roars as he steps on the accelerator, and I'm scared speechless. We're going to hit the patrol officer. We're going to hit him and then—

At what feels like the last possible second, the capped man runs out from the centre of the intersection, and we race forward, turning a sharp left at the green light.

"Émile," the boy states, voice calm and completely unshaken. The way he says it sounds sort of like Ey-meel.

I turn to look at him, and I'm not sure what he sees on my face, but his thin eyebrows twitch slightly as he glances over at me. "My name," he clarifies.

"H—how did you know he was going to run? What if... you could've...."

"I had a good feeling. Besides," Émile explains, glancing quickly into the side mirror, "I had enough time to swerve out of the way if he decided to be stupid."

"Someone's confident," I mumble.

I bring my gaze back to the road as Émile brakes slowly and the car rolls to a halt at the red light. Looking over my shoulder, I'm relieved to find we are not being chased by the cops.

"Your name?"

I swing back around to find Émile studying me, a small smirk across his face.

"Gemma," I say.

Émile's smirk grows as he returns his attention to the road, easing on the accelerator.

"What?" I demand.

"That name sounds ornamental."

"So?"

Émile shrugs. "You just seem so normal."

"Normal," I repeat. "How can you tell?"

"Your clothes aren't designer. Your hair"— he glances over at me, gesturing funnily with his free hand— "is pretty, not overdone."

I think of my hair. It's rather plain and monotonous, every strand the same shade of chestnut brown, the ends blunt and falling just past my shoulders. It's nothing special, but it's manageable, and I like it.

"I feel like I should be offended."

Émile laughs as he merges onto the freeway. "I didn't mean that in a bad way. It was just an observation."

Now that the excitement of the train accident has died down and I'm no longer running on adrenaline, I notice the uniqueness of Émile's speech. The syllables he speaks blend together and some of the consonants sort of slur together, but his words are distinct entities. It sounds like Émile has remainders of what was once a French accent, and I begin to wonder if he's originally from around here.

We drive in silence for a few moments, and I look out the window as we drive by factory after factory and onto the freeway. Overhead, clouds are beginning to roll in, making the world one big slab of grey.

From what I read while working at the bookstore, the outskirts of Vancouver weren't always this grim and grey. But after a pandemic took the world by surprise a few decades ago, North America merged into one nation, and the government moved toward building a self-sustaining economy. Many buildings across the continent- now one country- were converted into factories. And, as the history books claimed, we were better off because of it.

"Where are you going?" Émile asks after a few minutes of silence.

"South," I say, and he shoots me an unimpressed look. I manage a small laugh and lean my head against the window, the glass cool against my temple. "I don't really know," I say. "Just need to get... away. What about you?"

"South."

I roll my eyes at him. "It's not funny when you steal someone else's sarcasm, you know."

My remark earns a smirk from Émile. "No?"

"Em," I warn.

Émile crinkles his nose, his smile disappearing. "Don't call me that."

"What?" I tease, sitting up straight. "You don't like being called Ém?"

"I don't like nicknames."

"Seriously?" I ask. "Not all nicknames are bad."

"I just don't like being called Em."

"Okay Emmy."

Émile shakes his head as we switch lanes, passing by a box truck barely going the speed limit.

Sensing his annoyance, I give it up. Tucking a couple loose strands of hair behind my ear, I turn to look at Émile. "South then?"

"South," he confirms.