Chevrolet

A girl looks out her window, blonde ponytail swinging after her, landing at the nape of her neck.

There’s a Chevrolet parked beneath, 1950s.

Arms are raised to shield her eyes from the glare of the shiny metal, the same colour as her cherry lipstick.

She didn’t even know those kinds of cars still existed.

Another girl, one of many, stretches her arms from the back leather seats, a white tank top framed by blue lace edges, daisies dotting the white cotton. A flash of brown braids, really brown, not some shade that’s almost black or some other so light you cannot tell it apart from brass blonde hair.

‘Lola!’ she shouts, arms still raised, legs bent almost backwards to allow her to stand up a little. ‘Come down!’

‘Where are we going?’

‘Shopping!’ Another says, their designated driver for the afternoon, hands cupped around her mouth, covering a few freckles gifted by the sunny days.

Minutes later, she’s in the car, pressed between the daisy girl, Chloe, and Veronica, arm hanging on the back of her neck, hot skin against a sunburn from the day before. It hurts, but with the wind roaring in her ears and the radio blasting, she ignores it. 

Her sunglasses slide down her nose, cat-shaped. They pull into a parking spot; she pushes them back up.

There’s another car apart from them, despite it being a Saturday afternoon. Was the rest of the town’s population at the beach then? Off on a weekend trip somewhere else? She doesn’t register the vehicle, swinging her legs over Chloe, who won’t get out of the car-

‘Is that Steven? Is that his car?’ she hears her friend ask.

The floor is rubber, soft, it lets her legs tremble when she plants her feet down on the asphalt. It’s hot sand now, catching her sunglasses when she rips them off to see better.

A blue car, the colour of a pool, if you stare at your reflection, the curved doors distort it like you really are under the water.

‘Lola-’ one of the girls says, maybe Adeline.

She shakes her hand off and takes another step,

There’s a girl in his car, with him, she has dyed red hair, short, the ends curling all around like a halo.

She wears a lilac bra, green sequins, a little bow in the middle.

‘He’s an asshole, Lola.’

‘Lola, just ignore him, it’s not worth it.’

‘Lola, are you okay? Let’s just leave, let’s go and do something else.’

But she can’t let it go. She stalks towards the car; they haven’t noticed her. A million thoughts swimming around her head, the nape of her neck is coated in sweat and baby hairs. Her fingers itch, she bites her lip, raises a fist to knock, or rather pound on his window.

She blacks out. She can taste cherries.