Tap.
Tap, tap, tap.
Tap, tap, tap, tappity-tap… TAP.
That’s the sound of my index finger against the steering wheel of my jeep. Yeah, I tap my finger like a mad woman when I’m anxious, worried, or angry and right now I’m all three. Worried about what Erin’s gonna walk into. Anxious if I’m doing the right thing. Angry that anyone should be in this situation in the first place. I wanted to go with Erin—I really did. Watching her get out and walk toward her apartment… fuck. She looked like she was going to face a firing squad.
Okay, okay, that’s my super drama-queen side showing. But I hate it. I hate people facing these things alone. And, worse, I feel responsible—like I’m sending her into the lion’s den all by herself.
I know I’m not. Erin’s a big girl. No, she’s a grown woman with a whole decade on me. She knows what to do in this fucked-up situation. Better than I do.
Still, I itch and my finger taps. I can’t help it.
It’s not your fight, Vanna. My mom’s voice.
Thanks, Mom. And thank god you stopped calling me Vanna. Man, I hate that.
I don’t really like that she’s right, either, even though I know she is.
You can’t right all the world’s wrongs by yourself.
Yeah, right again, Mom. But how about a couple? Just, y’know, now and then?
I grip the steering wheel hard to stop the tapping and whistle out a long, slow breath. I said something like that to her the one time I got into big trouble in the 6th Grade. It was my first time in a regular school and I… let’s just say I didn’t fit in. One day at lunch, this bully—his name was Steve Caponio; weird how I still remember that—and two of his friends were picking on the other new kid at the school. I don’t remember his name, but he was skinny and wore glasses and had “science nerd” written all over him.
They’d cornered him at the back of the school’s athletics field and were pushing him and spitting on him. He wasn’t doing a thing to stop them, just standing there with his head down. Okay, maybe that was smart? He was outnumbered three to one and he couldn’t have taken on any one of them. They weren’t actually punching him or anything, so I guess he was just hoping they’d get bored and leave him alone?
I don’t know. All I know is that I wasn’t smart. I saw red. So I punched Steve. If you must know, I sucker punched him. From behind. In the head.
He dropped like a puppet with its strings cut, and when he hit the ground, maybe I started kicking him and screaming all the bad words I knew at him and his friends. And maybe his friends and the other kid just stood there, totally freaked—actually, I think they all backed away—while I screamed and kicked the ever-loving crap out of Steve Caponio, the biggest bully in our school.
Of course, teachers came running and broke us up and I was sent home and suspended until they could find another school for me to go to. That was mostly for my own good, they said, and they were probably right. Steve was a lot bigger than me and he had a lot of friends, and I’m sure they didn’t appreciate him getting beaten up by a girl. I doubt I did much damage because I wasn’t a strong kid, just a really angry one who caught him off guard. He probably just fell down from the shock and was too weirded out to get up. I never heard, obviously—they swept the whole thing under the rug to keep from looking bad. Mom sat me down and lectured me about how violence never solves anything and Dad didn’t say much because he didn’t like to get involved in that sort of thing and I got grounded for like… ever.
So I guess violence didn’t solve anything but it did get me into a new school that, even though it was a boarding school two hours away in another state, was a lot better and—better yet—had an awesome gymnastics program. My parents enrolled me to “positively redirect my energies” and I loved it. I also met my best friend, Amie—the first best friend I’d ever had—who was in gymnastics with me. None of which would’ve happened if I’d held my freak back when I saw three bullies abusing a kid who couldn’t defend himself.
Mixed messages, much?
My finger twitches on the steering wheel and I stiffen my whole body to keep from tapping again. Checking the time on the dash, I see it’s only been ten minutes. That’s hardly any time at all. It feels like so much longer, though. Like hours.
Is Erin okay? She’d leave and come back down if things got really bad, wouldn’t she? They’re probably talking. They could talk for hours. It seems like they have a lot to talk about.
Of course, if it was me, there wouldn’t be any talking. Not beyond “pack your shit.”
But it’s not me. It’s Erin and if Erin is anything, she’s sweet. She’s a peacemaker where I used to be more of a troublemaker. And they’re engaged. You don’t just throw that away over a fight.
Do you?
This is why I don’t do relationships—one of several reasons, actually. Because I would—throw it away, that is. I don’t have the kind of patience you need—not the patience I can tell Erin does. She’s a good person. She tries. She’s good and patient and thoughtful and totally hot…
I should’ve stopped at thoughtful. Being totally hot is not what this is about. This is about not leaving a woman, who might be vulnerable, stranded here with a raging psycho bitch.
You’re not Joan of Arc, Mother Teresa and Florence Nightingale rolled into one.
That’s true, I’m not.
Erin is capable. She can take care of herself.
I’m sure she can, but can’t we all use a little help at times?
That’s not the point. Walking into the middle of this won’t help. You don’t understand the situation.
Yeah… But I have to admit, a cell phone would be really handy right now.
Maybe so. But that’s not an option.
True. I’ll just have to wait.
Wait for how long?
I sigh and let go of the steering wheel, forcing myself to relax against the back of the seat.
For as long as it takes…