22⎜The Road

           “So…” I offered up the single word, hoping that it would shatter the extreme awkwardness that had encompassed the ride thus far.

           Because the only other person in the car happened to possess the name “Ari Remon” and didn’t operate like those who inhabited the rest of the planet, she didn’t respond. Her eyes were glued to the road as she maneuvered our ginormous form of transportation. As people went, Ari wasn’t exactly the tallest individual in the world (neither was I for that matter, but I was at least taller than Ari). Houston Walker, on the other hand, was immense. Ari happened to be the one behind the wheel of one Houston Walker’s giant truck, so it was interesting to watch her drive the automobile belonging to someone twice the size of her.

           “You’re not one for small talk, are you?” I tried to joke. Again, she was silent. It wasn’t so much of a sullen silent as it was a determined and focused silent. She had a composed expression gracing her face, and appeared calm, though slightly entranced.

           Minutes passed by until another word was uttered, and thankfully it was by the driver and not me again. “Scott is an idiot,” was all she said. And that was it. Scott was an idiot. She had proclaimed it herself, so it must have been so. When Ari Remon made a statement, only a moron would challenge her.

           “And why is that?” I dared myself to ask the question.

           “You sound like a therapist,” she muttered, instead of answering what I had inquired. “I hate therapists. My mom was a therapist. Well, she preferred the term ‘psychologist,’ but the two words are really interchangeable.” She paused, though I didn’t speak, mutely urging her to go on. Ari didn’t reminisce much, so when she did it was a rare occasion that begged attention. Luckily for me, she continued. “Dr. Mel. She hated being called ‘Dr. Remon.’ Too formal for her taste. So was ‘Mom,’ for that matter, but I called her it, regardless. Mel. Mel and Eli…”

           And that was it. Ari’s monologue was over, and though she had been more talking for the sake of verbalizing her thoughts rather than to have an active conversation with me, I was still glad that I got the honor of listening. Everything sounded better when Ari said it. Rainy with a chance of Ari Remon. It was such an obscure adjective to describe Ari’s unique voice, but honestly, nothing else did justice to the beauty that was her voice. Rain. That was the only thing that came to mind when she spoke.

           Now, if I had been in rehab, I would’ve put my own morsel of personal life on the table after what Ari said, but I wasn’t in rehab, so I didn’t. Besides, what would I have said? “Well, my mom’s a housewife. She doesn’t really work and has a degree in interior design—but she’s not actually an interior designer, even though the floor plan of our house is pretty great.” Yeah, no thanks. I loved my mom. I really did. I called her whenever I had an issue, and she was probably the only person in the world that I felt completely comfortable talking to when in a state of extreme anxiety. But bringing up my own mother just because Ari had didn’t exactly seem appropriate or required at a time like this. So, I didn’t say anything, hoping that Ari would speak again. And she did.

           “Scott is an idiot because he’d rather have sex with a random girl than go with us to Eli’s condo,” Ari expressed fervently, eyes still on the road as she managed to get the words out, answering what I had asked minutes prior. “I can’t believe that he decided to ‘sleep in,’ instead of coming with us. Actually, I can believe it. It’s Scott. What should I expect? It’s not like I haven’t known him my whole life or anything. This is just who he is. Even when he was younger he would pull stints like this.”

           I merely nodded, again keeping quiet. This morning, we had packed up the truck with each of our bags. Ari had a simple backpack, while I had a duffle that could’ve fit a corpse, and a few other unnecessary pieces of luggage. I was told by Ari to pack lightly, so I did. Well, for me, at least. We met at Houston’s truck, waited about ten minutes for Scott, and then Ari finally got a call from a hung-over him, basically saying that he had a girl over, so wouldn’t be joining us. Ari was livid, and I mentally noted the whole lack-of-commitment pattern that Scott had worked hard to achieve. He was flaking on his best friend. Not exactly most ideal move in my mind, but it was Scott, so maybe he had a different perception than me of what “best friend” meant. All in all, Ari was not happy (not that that was abnormal), and the two of us were headed to her dad’s place together. Just the two of us. Fun.

           A few coarse moments passed by, and then I finally spoke, hoping to fill the void justly with my clichéd and over-asked question by children when in cars: “Uh, how much longer?” I gulped, unsure if it was a fit time for the inquiry.

           Ari didn’t respond, but I wasn’t exactly expecting her too. She was Ari Remon. Hearing her talk was like seeing a shooting star—rare and probably lucky. All she did was drum her fingers on the steering wheel, looking straight ahead at the road. It was a typical stretch of highway—just like could be found in any other place in America. There were a few palm trees, but that was really the only difference I could spot between the highways here, in California, and the ones back in New York. And then she took a sharp turn down a hidden side street.

           With the abrupt change in direction, I collided into the door of the truck, my seatbelt jerking me back into place. Again, she didn’t say anything about the sudden motion, but rather continued to drive, a large structure that coming into view that looked more like a campus of sorts, rather than a condominium park. There was a vast parking lot that stretched across the length of the building, and with another rapid curve, she pulled into the vacant expanse of tar, coming to a halt.

           Silently (as most things were done by Ari Remon), she unplugged the key from the ignition, and then opened the door, gracefully dismounting her small frame from the giant monstrosity of the truck with an ease of such unattainability. Then, she began to walk away from the truck and—more importantly—away from me. Not wanting to get shot, mugged, or murdered, I quickly got out of the vehicle, and then jogged over to where Ari had gone, falling in step with the perplexing girl.

           “Where are we?” I asked, following along, as she seemed to know exactly where we were going. We were headed towards the large building, a very school-y vibe hitting me like a wave of warm air. She didn’t respond. She just kept walking, and I kept following.

           We went through an odd archway that was placed in the middle of the structure, and met another section of coal asphalt. Ari continued to walk, and I continued to follow. Then, once we had gone past the road, and our feet were now coming in contact with breathing grass, a familiar vision of metal surfaced. It had a break in it, just like the arch. Ari walked past the entrance encased by a silvery color, and then her feet touched grass once again, and I realized where we were. I wasn’t sure of our exact location, but I had been to hundreds of places like this one so many times before. Once, I had even been to one of these sites with Ari Remon herself.

           “A football field,” I muttered, having the need to verbalize my deduction.

           For a third time, the girl with the gloomy eyes remained mute, neither confirming nor denying my conclusion. She just continued to walk, until she was in the middle of the sports field, and after absorbing everything around her for a fraction of a second, she dropped to the ground, her hands supporting her head as she stared up, into the unlit stadium lights and midday sky. As I had observed, there was something about the act of lying that appealed to Ari. It was a strange thing to be fond of, but it was Ari, so nothing (or everything) was strange about it.

           Cautiously, I followed where her footsteps had taken her, and loomed over her prone body, blocking the shining sun from coating her tanned skin even more than it already was. Then, I did a very un-Eric thing to do, and copied her actions, so that my back was also on the freshly cut field, though my head was supported by her stomach—our bodies forming a “T” shape. At first, I wasn’t sure if it was okay with her, but after a few minutes of her not complaining, I assumed it was fine, so didn’t move, allowing my head to bob with every breath that she took.

           I wasn’t really sure where we were, or why we were here, but I liked it. I liked being alone with Ari in an unknown place that also encompassed so much familiarity, with it being a football field and all. Then, something occurred that should’ve pressed my personal boundaries to the limit, but it didn’t, considering I was the one lying on her stomach, thus ultimately eliminating all boundaries that had ever been put in place: Ari began to trace my jaw.

           It was just a few simple brushes of her finger at first, light like a leaf in autumn. She continued to repeat the action, over and over and over again. All she was doing was running a single finger along the border of my jawline in a repetitive motion. It shouldn’t have been a big deal. But it was. In addition to lying on the ground on various occasions, another one of Ari’s many weird quirks was tracing. She would do it at the most random of times, and it only happened with someone close to her (i.e.: Scott, Kay, or Houston). The fact that she was now tracing my jawbone was more than just a trivial act of boredom.

           “Well, well! Look what we have here!” said a male voice that I didn’t recognize, trying to conjure up some form of intimidation. Ari’s finger stopped, lingering at the top of my jaw, beside the bottom of my ear. “Nice to see you again, Ari! Oh, and look who’s here! A college boy with a perfectly symmetrical face! If you were dumping me to go find a male model, you could’ve just told me, Ari!” I didn’t like his tone or his words.

           With little thought to my actions, I popped up, Ari’s finger sliding off my face as my head detached from her midsection. My eyes connected with a pair of blazing blue ones, attached to a guy about my age in a pair of nice jeans and a red collared shirt. On his feet was a pair of boat shoes. His outfit wasn’t that different than mine, though I was wearing a blue button-down, and looked way better. Obviously. Anyways, he had dark hair, rivaling a blackish color, and a built frame. I didn’t know who he was, but I didn’t like him.

           “Hi, I’m Eric,” I introduced myself, presenting my hand as a peace offering to break the barrier of extreme tension in the air. He begrudgingly walked a few feet over to where I was standing, and we shook, his grip absolutely lethal.

           “Brett Knightly,” the dude said, his gaze flickering over to Ari, who had decided to join the People Not Lying on the Ground Club, along with me and my new best friend, Brett Knightly.

           “Brett’s a first name and last name type of guy,” Ari informed me, magically materializing by my side. Her face was completely blank—just like it usually was. I couldn’t tell how I was supposed act towards the boy who had joined us, or what Ari thought of him. As an afterthought, the expressionless girl then added a brief, “Just like you.”

           “So, should I reintroduce myself with my full name and stats and everything?” I joked.

           In a wholly sincere manner, Ari answered with a, “Yes,” and then cracked a small sliver of a smirk.

           Complying with her half-serious request, I turned back to a still fuming Brett, and shot him my best “I’m-Eric-Freaking-Wilson-And-I’m-Better-Than-You” smile. He grimaced. “I guess I’m supposed to reintroduce myself,” I told Brett lightly. “I’m Eric Wilson. I’m from New York. Four years V-Squad quarterback. First string junior and senior years, both resulting in state championships. I go to Stanford. Contrary to popular belief, I’m not actually a model, but I’m flattered that you noticed my perfect face. Nice to meet you, Brett.” Yeah, I could pull the Quarterback Card when I wanted to. I didn’t tend to, but when it was absolutely necessary, it was a pretty useful play—like pulling rank in the army or something. Besides, Brett looked like the type of kid that would care about that type of shit.

           “Do you play for Stanford?” he then snarled.

           “Nah, I quit when I was on top,” I shrugged, giving the BS reason that I often told friends of my parents and the like.

           “Oh, really? Are you sure that your ego just didn’t blow your head up?”

           “Considering my head is still attached to my neck and looking as attractive as ever, yeah, I’m pretty damn sure.”

           “How’d you get into Stanford, then?”

           “Eh, at first it was a football thing, but then they remembered that I actually have a pretty great brain. Oh, and my face probably helped a bit, too.” Brett opened his mouth, but I wasn’t exactly in the mood to hear what he had to say, so verbalized something out of my own beautiful mouth before he had a chance to. “Now, the real question, dude, is who the hell are you, and can someone please tell me where the hell I am?”

           “You’re at Crest Hill Academy. Tuition cost more than a car, and I’m Brett Knightly, varsity quarterback here. I was also Ari’s boyfriend for quite a while until she dumped me for trash like you,” Brett said—well, more like growled, but it was ultimately the same thing. He was the ex-boyfriend. It certainly made a sizable amount of sense as to why he wasn’t exactly thrilled to see Ari. As for me, well, I had to assume that it was a testosterone thing and that he was threatened by my impeccable appearance.

           “I’m not actually trash,” I told him in the politest way that I could. “Don’t know if you’ve noticed, but I’m kind of a human being and all.”

           “Could’ve fooled me,” Brett breathed, rolling his eyes in disgust.

           “Brett, what are you doing here?” Ari finally spoke, her voice raw and trying desperately to shield off any form of detectable emotion.

           “I still go to school here, in case you’ve forgotten, so the real question is what are you doing here, Ari?”

           “I was looking for Eli,” she said in a very diplomatic type of way. I wasn’t entirely sure what possessed me to do it, but I glanced down at her hand for a moment, and saw that it was trembling. Not even mulling it over for another second, I grabbed her shaking anatomy attached to the end of her wrist, and meshed it with my own stationary one, so that the gaps between our fingers were filled, and our hands were joined. She was still quivering.

           “He’s not here.”

           “So I’ve noticed. Shouldn’t you be in a class right now?”

           “I had a free. Figured I’d take a walk around campus. Wasn’t really expecting to see you.”

           “Well, the feeling’s mutual.”

           “How’ve you, uh, been?”

           Ari squeezed down on my hand with the use of her own. “Are we really going to play it that way? Pretend we’re old friends—like everything’s okay?”

           “You’re right,” Brett laughed dryly, “I don’t really care, anyways.”

           “I heard you were moved up to varsity but put on third string.” Again, Ari tightened her grasp around my hand as she said the words.

           “Yeah, well, there are definitely repercussions for ‘hurting’ Eli’s little girl—even if she was the one who dumped me.”

           “But she wasn’t the one who caused you to overreact in such a harmful way,” Ari countered, clutching my hand for dear life now. I rubbed my thumb in a circular motion on the backside of her hand, hoping that it would aid in calming her, even if just a little.

           “True enough,” Brett complied, his demeanor dropping a single notch down in the vindictive department. “I’m not sorry for what I did, though. You deserved it.”

           “I beg to differ, and though I had assumed over the past few months that you had finally found closure, I guess I was wrong,” Ari said, her lips spreading into a thin line after she articulated what she needed to.

           “I’ll never be over you, Ari Remon,” Brett said, his eyes glued to Ari as he desperately tried to make eye contact, though she wouldn’t allow it. Ari was looking past Brett, and I suspected that she wasn’t really focusing on anything, but merely trying to avoid something (namely, Brett).

           “Well, that’s a shame to hear, Brett Knightly,” Ari returned. “Eli’s not here, so there’s not really any reason for me to stay any longer. I would say that it was nice seeing you again, but that would be a lie, and I’m not in the business of telling things that aren’t true.”

           “Don’t do that,” Brett said with a shake of his head.

           “Don’t do what?” Ari hesitantly questioned.

           “Don’t freaking try to use words and your way of talking to get you out of every single freaking situation!” he exclaimed, using gesticulations to add emphasis to his point. “You can’t do that, Ari!”

           With that, Ari began to walk away with me in tow, brushing right past Brett. She was doing it again—leaving without a goodbye. This time, though, it was a little harder than others. There was only one person she was trying to leave, causing the action to seem ruder than normal, and less Ari-like. Nevertheless, she continued on her silent-escape, not even allowing us to stop when Brett called her out.

           “Oh, and glad to know your exits strategies are still the same! Really loving the mystery, Ari!” Brett shouted over his shoulder, glaring as he watched Ari and I practically jog away from the high school football field. “Real mature!”

           Ari didn’t say anything in response to Brett’s protests, but rather kept going—past the patch of tar, and through the odd arch of the building that was almost like a tunnel. Brett didn’t follow us, but he didn’t need to. Something about him had struck something within Ari, and something about her just wasn’t as composed as usual. She was still impassive as ever, though shaken severely. I didn’t like seeing this side of Ari.

           We got back to the front parking lot, where Houston’s truck was situated. Before getting in, Ari’s hand slid from mine, and it was her turn to do an extremely un-Ari thing to do. As we stood on the tar, about to mount the vehicle before us, Ari’s lips connected with the side of my face. More specifically: my cheek. They stayed there for not more than a millisecond, though it felt so much longer. I wasn’t sure why she had done it, but I wasn’t sure about a lot of things that Ari Remon did.

           We both then got into the truck, and after strapping on the vinyl safety precautions, all that was said was a simple, “Thank you,” from Ari to me. She twisted the key into the slot, and within moments we were back on the road, headed somewhere or nowhere.