"I got you . . something. Uh . . . it's a book. Mum likes to read loads of them and . . . I--uh--I bought a few . . not for me. I thought I would give you one . . you know . . just--"

She looks away as her illuminated hand accepts the book from my clasp and rests it on her lap.

The sniffling Ms. Eden is dead since the calm passing of breath is popping inside the empty stillness of the car.

"It's a. . . Fitzgerald. . . I don't know if you would like it--"

I am trying not to look at her eyes mainly because it holds a large chance that the reddened pieces of the white part of her eyes, would shove me over the edge to the hazy vision of my own sadness.

I try to focus my attention onto the car's décor. Or what's left of it since the steering wheel leather has been chipped of, along with the smooth stuffing of the dashboard foam which had not being addressed as smooth for a reasonable amount of time.

There's a half plastered tape on the left edge of the windshield. I squint but my current position provides no angle as the sticker reads: Fear the---

The light is at an impossible arch. The message is obscure and full of suspense. To a thoughtful mind, the fear is now and pointed at anything since the last word has the potential to represent countless aspects of a human life.

"It's . . a Fitzgerald? Which . . . which volume?"

I cannot listen past the certain whisk in her low voice, muddled by the cloudiness of a partially blocked nose.

"What?"

I grunt, shamefully. She is speaking the same muddy language my mother speaks after she goes through the painful switch of her persona. But hers is missing the signal of support for her distant, unfamiliar dialect.

"I mean, is it a short . . story?"
"Oh . . yeah! It's a short story. A compilation of some of his . . work."

She slowly turns his head in my general direction. I look away hastily to miss her eyes and throw the line of sight over her forehead where the tussled up stands of hair are forming an unhealthy looking quaff.

I trail my gaze at the backseat windows where the snotty marks of soot are infecting the comfort of the musty glass and seeping a familiar smell of old mattresses.

At this posture, she has no moderately long back hair that reaches down to her shoulder blades.

She looks much like a very pretty boy rather than a woman.

"So, . . what is this for?"
"What do you mean?"

I enforce myself to act dense even though there are a few lines of my cautious handwriting at the second page of the book that starts near the publication date and ends before the Book House's address in London.

I am solicitously blocking my escape.

When I saw my own reflection at the clean glass pane of the Number 13 Bus, I decided that I should start to do some of the wrongs as to get the ball to roll. I chose Ms. Eden because I was headed to her with some questions and the possibility for building an equally helpful learning relationship.

In my imagination, she was supposed to read the book, in her own privacy and I would not be, under any circumstances, present in that picture.

I try to measure the distance of the poorly lit tarmac that leads to the mouth of the adjacent road.

I hold the potential to cross it under 2 minutes, at best but I don't.

My subconscious is sending me straight, confidence messages which are ordering me to stay. Despite of the conscious which is jumping from conclusions to conclusions to hurtful memories in the matter of seconds.

"I mean, what is this? What does this mean?"

She gestures the book like she is holding the baby.

I fearfully reestablish eye contact, to learn the fact that she is not crying.

Her eyes look tired but as dry as mum's homemade Italian bread.

"Well . . it looks like a book. I hope it is one and a . . good one. I . . don't really know much about Fitzgerald . . really."
"No, I mean, does it have any other meaning than being a book?"

Her brows are asking the questions.

I fidget my view around in search of an answer. I feel like Kenny during an Advanced Math's surprise test, trying to meet a pair of eyes which can let him lend some marks in his dire need. Usually, he'll avoid Harvey and fixate on Mel who might be or might not be a sociopath, but unquestionably talented at finding all the Xs and Ps.

My gaze centers around the chipped bonnet of the car, the damaged window wipers with broken ends before it settles on the dim lit headlight.

"I dunno . . . what you're asking . .It's just a book. I haven't put that much . . thought into it."

"Dear Ms. Eden."

Her voice chirps back to the scale of her upbeat tone after the loose sadness glides down her throat along with her saliva.

I don't have to attempt to look embarrassed since in the past few days, I have become well acquainted with that disposition.

"Please . . .no!"

It's a weak retort. On purpose.

"I hope you will understand and take it lightly when I say that I lied to you on some occasion. Even though we do not see each other in a regular basis, I would like to apologize for the lies that I have passed on to you.

I am sorry.

Please, accept this book as a token of my apology, as well as a gift for a better friendship in the future.

Sincerely,

Gotfrey Newell."

The momentary silence after she finishes is loud enough to feel the buzz of the trashed car's engine in the air.

I look as if I am not enjoying this but I am trying to hold the same façade of shame in my face.

"Wow." She voices as her lips curl around the edges before retracting back to her mouth.

"It's too formal. I'm sorry . . My dad makes me write letters whenever he's home so that I don't stay completely uncultured and useless."

I try to elongate the moment to dig the fact about lies as my cheeks bellow the puff of air in a manner of a smile.

The only thing in the Brown ransacked Volvo that is working is the cabin light and it is currently shining on a stone faced Ms. Eden.

"So . . what did you lie to me about? Is it about the--"
"I'm sorry . . I'm lied. It was the right thing to do. The lies weren't . . . they weren't intentional. I didn't mean them."

I can hear the slow song of an October wind rustling through the sidelined tea top plants on the edge of the parking lot like a bad omen.

The Volvo has simmered down to a stop and the riveting noise of dry, caustic nuts are expected but not there.

"You lied about wanting to be in the class, didn't you?"

The gravity of her accusation fails with her façade.

Her lower lip has opened up a gap to show her canines.

She is amused by a fact that was right once but not anymore.

"No . . I--" I mouth and realize how far away from being a master debater I am since losing confidence in delivering certain facts are becoming difficult.

With the added trouble of her presence.

"You think, this class is a joke, isn't it? Like everyone else?"

Her gaze flinches to check herself in the rear view mirror but glares onto me when she becomes aware that the rear view mirror is missing.

"You couldn't take it seriously?"

This is no longer an interrogation. This is a rant.

Unlike her, I save my strength so that when she is derived from the boosted steam of complaints, I can make my re entry to clear my name.

"Just like everyone else? I knew why they didn't come. Gracie made a BS excuse. There are no post school work. IN OCTOBER!"

Her anger is shooting out everywhere, like Clay's cheap fireworks in last December.

"And this--"

She tugs the tongue of the seatbelt. The belt fights with the help of friction as it swishes in her hand, gets caught up in the edge of her puffed jacket before it slurps back into its sheathe with her coat's collar in tow.

Ms. Eden has given up her battle with the impossible décor of the car as her hands draws back to herself, resting on her laps where the book is still drawing the formal light with my open handwriting.

The section of her belly foams out before dying in back to her waist again. I should not be worried about making eye contact at an uncomfortable rate because her eyes are closed, lips sutured and head still.

She looks as if she's waiting for the crash of the plane into the heart of punishing cold of Antarctica.

She has accepted her fate.

I feel the tension in my body building up by every pass of her breath as her midriff upsurges then hides its elevation, like a wave in a sea.

According to the handbook of social interactions, it is imperative to support someone in their period of vulnerability.

I catch an image of myself in the door's rear view mirror. I hope the reflector was not there since the glass shows the picture of Seinefield Coat and the humane skin of a skinny neck.

I look like a ghost.

"It's . . not what you think. I came here because I want to learn about it. About writing."

Her head tits forward as a show of ignorance toward my existence, revealing the rest of her hair which latches onto her neck.

She loses her reputation about looking like a pretty boy.

"And this is . . not a goodbye present or a farewell present or . . anything of that sorts. I don't know why you would get that idea. The explanation is pretty simple actually. My mum's a big fan of Tolstoy. I'm trying to get her to explore different writers . . I only wanted to buy one book for her but the shopkeeper insisted that I get this one too. He said this has a lot of romantic value to a tender mind. . . I don't know what that means. I'm only interested in Sociology."

Even though her psychological mantra is doing its very best to block me out of her mind, I can tell that her hymn is not strong enough since I can see her lips in tremble.

"And I lied about Duncan. About the drug addict."

I pause to check how far my progress has gone.

It is almost there but not quite because now she can see me since she has thrown herself from the roleplay of a plane crash victim.

I expected the shimmering sight of tears on the arrival of her light brown eyes but I am left disappointed.

I am happy that I am disappointed.

I don't want to be the reason of anyone's unnecessary tear fall.

"He's imaginary. It's not even a metaphor. It's the classic teenage wasteland story."

Ms. Eden has engaged in repeated blinking from understanding the fact that I have taken the charge of an adult in the scenario and quite quickly to her surprise.

"So, what was the real problem? Why were you looking for Mrs. Gideon then?"

She's on the offensive, realizing the sense of intimidation in the air and revolting it with her conjured grace.

"Mrs. Gideon's an old friend of my mum's. She was having some . . . publishing--writing difficulty so I wanted to ask her to see if she could help her out. It was for mum, not for me."

I know I have made a choice which will follow me around for the rest of the days of the interaction between Ms. Eden and I.

I want her to be around me and myself around her.

I have to dig an unmarked grave for the Spontaneous version of "Gotfrey Newell" who has trouble with finding affection, coy in scheming and nonchalantly aggravated in school, nowadays.

He's too overwhelming too accept.

"Your mum's . . a writer?"
"Editor at Newshouse. Retired but Still in Directive Play." I announce as if I am proud of it.

She produces a simper, forgetting about her role in the scene before her trial to wear a frown comes back again.

"I'll quit this job. . there's no point in it anyway."

This is a nudge. I'm too on edge to miss anything. She does not even need to look away to pepper her words with the appropriate melancholy.

"I'd support you by saying yes but I think I would pass on that. Given the fact that, then I'll miss the chance to learn anything. But I'll say yes, if you can teach me how to form sentences in your own time. Maybe we could meet up and exchange writings on a daily basis?"

She does not need to hide her smirks in constant swallows because my wide grin is shamelessly announcing the fact that I have won this social conundrum.

And she knows that I know.

Ms. Eden does not say anything more except the shook of her mental anguish with a few more timely breaths as her hands once again enlist in the battle of jutting the stubborn moth eaten leather belts.

My face is the color of blood porridge.

The entrance of the word Porridge does not make me wretch as the smile still holds purely strong posture.

From this comparison, I can understand that I am truly happy.

They key word is momentary but contemplating about the future is for finance officers and prophets.

I am glad that I am neither.

"Do I get a copy of what we're going to do . . . today? Home Invasion?"

I inquire as I prod my head from the lower stance to catch her through the window.

"Nope."

She answers without a flickering moment of hesitance.

She's a woman with boundaries.

I should feel the gloomy heat of being rejected but currently, that emotion is imaginary.

"Do you need a ride? Where do you even live?"
"Past Hindenburg, through Middle Market. And then some."
"Well, Frey, I'm heading the opposite. I could give you a lift to . . like 10?"

I stutter at the beginning of the sentence. I know how far number 10 goes and from realizing the scale of warmth in my chest, I cannot contain myself for 17 minutes before the "Spontaneous Frey Newell" jumps out of my skin and spreads his sensible emotions all around.

I cannot let all my hard work go to waste just for the jolt of adolescent hormones in play.

"No, thanks. I mean, thanks . . . but I can just hike to 10 and get on from there."

She wets her lips as she pulls the emerging face of surprise under the full beam cabin light.

"It's just . . . mum told me not to get in cars with strangers."

I wait for her to cackle and she does not miss the opportunity as the silent tarmac is blessed by the flailing frequency of one Ms. Eden's lips.

"Screw you!"

She chortles the notes of her laughter as her right hand works through the action of caressing her hair from her cheek to her side where the brown bob just stays in the tempting angle.

"So, when shall I come back again?"