I spent the first week of summer so encapsulated by Zadie Smith, that I had become completely lost to the world. In fact, I did nothing but sit at home watching Jim Jarmusch films and eat Pop Tarts until my stash finally ran out and the grocery store was starting to look like a better prospect than watching that ex Sonic Youth star Richard Edson on my flat screen.
I checked my phone before leaving the house, there were hundreds of texts from my best friend, trying to lure me out of my house, into the sunshine…to pool parties and shopping trips to the mall as if we were in Valley Girl and Nicholas Cage was going to jump out at any minute and do some ninja moves if we didn’t giggle and toss our perfectly feathered hair.
My phone vibrated…Mara, where are you? The text read.
Are we ever really anywhere? I texted back. As I got in my car, it vibrated again.
Huh? She replied.I threw the phone into the backseat and pulled out. I was in need of sugary breakfast squares.
Ten minutes later after a quick jog in and out of the nearest 711, I was back in my driveway"Vicki?" I called out my window to the blonde head sitting on my porch.
"Come on, your not going back into your house." she said standing up from her seat on my porch and walking over to me.
"But…" I protested, jumping out of my car and l contemplated all of the escape routes into my house, but it was impossible, she was blocking the gate. Apparently I really didn’t have a choice in this matter. She dragged me to her car, my bag from 711 swinging wildly beside me. I got in her car and sat sulking as she walked around the other side.
"So, ya got anything good in there?" She asked teasingly as she tried to get a look at my plastic Thank You bag.
"Pop tarts. Want one?" I asked digging into a box and extracting the silver foil package and splitting it between the two of us. "Where are we going anyways?"
"You’ll see." Vicki said, taking the pop tart. Which was unusual seeing as she rarely ate junk food on her self-concious diet. I ate unabashadly like a pregnant woman or a whole football team, never gained a pound and laughed whenever Vicki tried counting almonds on a plate.
"This is a trap, isn’t it?" I waved my finger at her accusingly, then shoved more Pop Tart into my face like a ravenous beast on the hunt.
Vicki gave me a disgusted look, as if i was a gang of filth laden plebians.
"When was the last time you showered?" She sniffed.
"I dunno…," I shrugged. "I sprayed myself with some Febreeze before I left the house." She wrinkled her perfect little nose, something she had perfected back in the fourth grade to show distaste.
"Mara, Febreeze is for furniture," she said, "It’s not like its perfume or anything."
"Yeah, well," I argued, "It eliminates odors. At least that’s what the commercial said. Not like…I uh, watch Febreeze commercials." I had to stop myself. I wasn’t really into admitting that I’ve been sitting around my house for the past week watching cable and gushing over Tom Waits.
"Seriously," I said, "If I’m going to be kidnapped can I at least have some music?" Vicki reached for the stereo.
"I meant something good." I warned.
She laughed lightly and flipped her hair, a talented move considering she was driving down a busy street. She reached over and tossed aside all of her embarrassing Miley Cyrus and Fergie cd cases and extracted an unmistakable burned cd with painstakingly drawn figures in Sharpie ink. I smirked.
"This is so weird," Vicki commented as she heard the first song come on, "I listened to it once, but I don't get what this mix is all about. I've never heard this stuff before."
"I'm trying to instill a little culture into you, don't think about it, let it take control," I said, staring out the window. She shrugged, flipped her hair, and sighed against the fading light in the sky.