 |
 Title: Backseats and Cherry Pie 1/1 Spike taught us both to drive and at least for a little while I was able to handle it better than her and it felt really good that I beat her even if it was in something as stupid as turning on my headlights. We'd stop at these dumpy looking motels that all managed to have HBO but toilets that don't really work and I'd stare at the ceiling and make shapes out of the giant brown water spots while trying to ignore all the cigarette burns in the comforters. Sometimes Spike added some more just for fun. He'd always let me play with the vibro-beds even though we both knew it was for more vulgar activities than seeing how long it took the quarters I placed on top of the sheets to fall to the floor. I'd read through the phone book and try to see if there were any other Summers in whatever city we were in and make sure that all the motel Bibles had come from the Gideons, although I had no idea what Gideons were. The mornings or afternoons or evenings or whenever it was that we were finally ready to get back in the car and on the road again that Buffy came out wearing her bathing suit and her trusty matching sarong were the days that we'd have to try to find a laundromat. She'd drive, her hair blowing and Spike constantly trying to untie the back of her bikini whenever she moved her hands away from the strings, sunglasses perched on her nose looking for a FLUFF'N'FOLD. We'd load everything up into the machines, regardless of color. All of the clothes were kind of dingy from Spike's black T-shirts and most of the former whites were now pinks. He'd always fake mortification when Buffy threw in our dyed bras and panties and he'd buy me a soda to drink while I sat on the dryer. Most of the trip seemed to be out in the middle of nowhere, East Bumblefuck if I ever saw it. We'd drive pass those endless rows of corn that completely encompassed miles of highway, and he'd get this little smirk on his face that Buffy would try to ignore. I'd just kind of laugh, because I know he was thinking of Cornbread himself. If we found a drive-in, Spike made us stop, saying there weren't enough of these things left around, and we'd eat greasy popcorn and try to count the number of couples making out in the backseat. If the two of them went at it, I doubled whatever my total for the movie was and made them buy me chocolate bars. We saw a lake one night a little way away from the highway, the moon reflected off its surface and the lonely dock floating in the middle and we stopped there for awhile. I dove in even though the water was freezing and refused to come out despite my chattering teeth and blue lips. They stayed on the shore and I heard her tell him that he felt just like the sand, velvety and cold and I knew we'd be getting two rooms at the next motel instead of sharing like we usually did. Whenever Spike would let Buffy drive she'd pull over at a diner at like four in the morning and some lady named Betty or Carol with her white sneakers and thick pantyhose would bring us platters of fries and cherry pie. Spike would always smear some of the filling all over his mouth while Buffy playfully slapped his arm telling him to stop messing around that he was going to scare someone. She'd put some 50's song on the little jukebox at the table and dance with him around the red and chrome stools while the truckers in their flannel shirts and baseball hats looked on. I liked diner nights. In the beginning I sent postcards back home, to someone in the gang. I did in the end too, but the middle was just for us. I missed everyone after that first few days, when the thrill of pulling out of the driveway and just being gone had worn off. I wanted my bed and to stop playing the damn alphabet game looking for letters on street signs and the sides of trucks. I didn't want to eat burgers anymore or try to find a decent song on the radio or watch my sister and Spike pretend that everything was normal and that people just disappear at midnight all the time with no explanation. After a few weeks I think we all kind of realized that we couldn't do this forever. That they were still as messed up as they were at home and that I was always going to feel kind of left out until this wonderful period of adolescence had passed. So I started writing postcards again the morning he had a black eye because I felt we were drawing close to the final days. He said that it was nothing, just had fallen down after he had a few too many from the minibar, but there were no minibars in the dives we found and all I could remember was right before we left how absolutely horrible his face had looked. He never said that it had been my sister and she never mentioned it to me either, but I just kind of knew. I realized during those last miles back to Sunnydale that I would miss eating popsicles in the back seat until my lips were bright red for days, watching Spike rub aloe over the sunburn my sister got on only one half of her body from driving too long without any lotion on, and playing cards while we sat at countertops and they drank coffee and I'd have vanilla shakes. It had been fun while it lasted. But I probably should have noticed a little sooner that things rarely last for long. We pulled into the driveway much quieter than we had left and in the middle of the afternoon. The grass had grown and a stack of yellowed newspapers littered the walkway. Buffy walked from the car and kissed Spike lightly, grabbing the laundry basket we'd been using to hold all of our stuff throughout the trip from the backseat. She said they'd talk, when she was ready and he just kind of nodded. I hugged him and waved as my sister more or less dragged me towards the front door. Sometimes while I'm sleeping I can still hear what it sounds like for rain to fall on the windshield or feel the breeze when we'd drive with the windows down after dusk. I feel the upholstery on my back and the stale smell of cigarettes fills my nose every now and again. And I want to hurt her for taking all of that away. She did let Spike back, a couple of times actually, but we never took off again. We don't talk about it either. I don't think they want to admit how really stupid it was and how now I have to go to summer school and she had some real explaining to do to her friends and the mortgage company. I know she thinks about it though. I can hear her humming those old songs and there are always boxes of frozen cherry pie in the freezer now. Sometimes they go out to the car and just sit there on the street and I think about the drive-ins and how they're probably just making out in the backseat. So I give myself a chocolate bar from the pantry. |
