The Time Until (6 page)

Present Day

The second day of being bed-ridden is starting out
a lot better than the first day, if you count a visit from the police as
a lot better
.
 
As soon as they walk through the door to my
room, I start going through all the things I’ve done in my life to warrant a
visit from the cops.
 
Though I know
they’re most likely here because of the accident, I can’t help the guilty
conscious.

“We just want to ask a few questions about the
accident,” one of them tells me as soon as they get comfortable.
 
I nod.

“Okay,” he starts, “how fast were you going?” I
think back to the accident and flashes of Sam bloodied and slumped over fill my
head.
 
I shake them from my mind and try
to focus on answering the question.

“I’m not sure,” I answer. “The light had just
turned green, so I couldn’t have been going too fast.” The officer jots down my
answer on his pad and nods.

“Did you see the truck before you were hit?” I remember
the blood and panic.
 
Another mental
shake and focus, I remember looking at Sam briefly and seeing the truck over
her shoulder.

I nod my head ‘yes’.

“What did you do?” the officer asks, though it
doesn’t sound like an accusation.
 
I
focus on that moment and try to remember what happened.

“It happened so fast.
 
I didn’t even have time to register that a
truck had run the light before we were hit.” He writes in his pad some
more.
 
I start to get lost in my thoughts.
 
Should I have reacted faster?
 
Would slamming on my brakes have lessened the
damage?
 
Would Sam be better off if I
had?
 
Would she be worse?
 
Should I have taken another road that
night?
 
I should have taken my first
choice instead of trying to take the long way around in a vain attempt to spend
more time with her.

Look at us now.
 
Definitely not worth it.

“Had you been drinking that night?” Police
officers have a way of asking a question that makes you feel like you’re guilty
of whatever they’re asking about, even if you aren’t.

“No, sir, I’m only 20.” The officer raises an
eyebrow as if to say, “don’t patronize me.”
 
I let out a giant sigh.

“Look, I occasionally go to a frat party or two
and have a couple of drinks, but I don’t drink normally.” The officer writes in
his pad again.

“Drugs?”

“No.” I say through gritted teeth.
 
I’m getting irritated with these
questions.
 
It’s like they want to blame
me for the guy hitting us.

“I’m the one who got hit, you know?” I ask
angrily.
 
The officer raises his eyebrow
in confusion.

“We know that,” he answers, “we’re just trying to
be thorough in our investigation.”

I pause for a minute thinking about where my rage
is coming from.
 
I’m not angry with the
officers for asking the questions they are asking.
 
I’m angry with the driver of the truck.

What happened
to him?

Taking a chance, I ask, “What happened to the
other driver?”

The officers look at each other for a second and
then tell me, “He’s been detained until his arraignment.”

“Since no one was killed in the accident and he wasn’t
under the influence,” he continues, “he’s been charged with vehicular assault.”
The officer pauses and seems to think about the rest.

I have no idea what that means.
 
Assault sounds really bad though.
 
He has to be going away for a very long time,
right?
 
What do they mean he wasn’t
drinking?
 
What the hell was he doing
then?
 
How the fuck do you run a red
light without stopping, and hit another car without putting on the brakes,
WITHOUT DRINKING?

“What the hell happened?” I hiss.

“Apparently, he fell asleep at the wheel.”

Fell asleep at the wheel?
 
What the hell?!

HE FELL ASLEEP?!

I really want to scream right now.
 
That son of a bitch fell asleep and crashed
through my future.
 
Worst of all, he put
Sam into a coma!
 
How the hell am I
supposed to process that?
 
If he was
drunk, I could at least know that there was honest to god reason for his
stupidity, but he just fell asleep.
 
He
couldn’t be bothered to stop for a little while and nap before finishing his
drive home and now my x-rays look like Wolverine’s and Sam’s dreaming a
constant dream.

“Are we done now?” I ask as nicely as I can
through clenched teeth.

“Yes, thank you,” the officers tell me as they
start for the door.

“If we think of anything else, we’ll contact you.”
I nod, not wanting to speak because my rage will make it difficult to be nice
to them.
 
They close the door behind them
and I scream.

I scream as loud as I can into my pillow, hot
tears streaming down my face.

I really need to see Sam right now.

“Knock, knock.” Wrapping his knuckles on the door
at the same time, the words are just an unnecessary addition.
 
My irritation from this morning is still
festering and I try to keep it out of my voice.

“Come on in, Quentin,” I call out to him; I’ve
been expecting him.
 
He walks in with
someone following close behind, the last person I expect to see with him.
 
Arianna Legacy — surprisingly, not a stripper
name — never really got along with Quentin and it only takes one look at them
together to know why.

Quentin is the picture perfect, preppy, rich
boy.
 
Wearing anything but pastel polo
shirts and slacks would be the same as being a bum.
 
His loafers shine in the fluorescent lighting
of my hospital room.
 
His unmovable dirty
blonde hair is parted on the side.
 
As if
his look wasn’t completely perfect as is, he has his sweater tied around his
neck making a preppy cape on his back.

Arianna is so far his opposite it’s jarring.
 
She has long dark brown hair with strands of
bright red and cobalt blue.
 
Her face is
punctuated with a barbell through her eyebrow and a single stud through one
nostril.
 
She’s wearing a lot of black
eye-shadow and an outline of deep purple eyeliner.
 
A silver, chained choker is around her neck,
which accentuates her black clothing.
 
A
black, ripped t-shirt covers a long-sleeved grey shirt with holes in the
sleeves for her thumbs.
 
Skin-tight black
jeans hug her hips and a single chain attached in the front by a pant loop
keeps her wallet in her back pocket.
 
She’s also wearing combat boots, black of course.

They are the complete opposite of each other.

And they’re holding hands. I feel some of my
irritation start to fade as I think back to when these two first met.

9 Years Ago (Age 11):
 
January

“Hey Ethan, you seen the new girl yet?” I ask as
I enter the group on the playground.
 
We
have our own table we sit at during recess and lunch – it was hard fought.
 
Ethan asked a group of girls if we could have
it and they said sure without a fight.
 
We’re still not sure how he did it.

“Yeah, she’s in my class,” Ethan answers.
 
Sam is sitting to my right and she casually
grabs my hand.
 
We’ve stopped entwining
our fingers like we used to.
 
Her hand on
top of mine, it’s a simple hold of comfort, nothing more.

Sam’s not as clingy as she used to be after her
mother died, but she still has a need to touch and hold on occasion.
 
The group has grown used to our displays of
affection and has long grown past the need to point them out with jokes and
catcalls.

Though, for the first few weeks, I wore a
permanent shade of red.

“So what’s her story?” Sam asks excitedly. “The
middle of the year is a little late to be transferring schools.” Ethan opens
his mouth to say something when Quentin to his left jumps into the
conversation.

“She’s a bitch.” My eyes hit an all-time record
for wide.
 
Quentin cannot cuss.
 
It’s not a matter of won’t, or chooses not
to, no he is incapable of cussing.

Or at least he used to be.

I once watched him spend 20 minutes stuttering
and coughing as he tried to say ‘damn.’
 
Not even goddamn, just damn.
 
His
face was turning red from the effort.
 
It
was very painful to watch.

But the word that just left his mouth is so
much worse than damn and he said it without even a stutter.

“Who the hell are you and tell me you’re here
to stay.” Ethan proves once again that he’s the vocal one of the group.
 
I’m still trying to pick my jaw off the
floor.
 
Sam, of course, is laughing.
 
I have to laugh too. It’s actually funny how
nonchalant Quentin is being about his major leap forward into teenager life.

Not that any of us are actually teenagers,
we’re only 11.

“What?” Quentin asks still completely oblivious
to the reason of our surprise.

“You just cussed.
 
Without stuttering or passing out,” Ethan
tells him.
 
Quentin shrugs his shoulders.