In the Shadow of the Queen

I hear Sam’s music long before he comes tearing around the corner in his 356 Speedster. My stomach, doing flip-flops, stops mid-flop, as he zips past my house pulling into the neighbor’s driveway. I remind myself to breathe. Grabbing the magazine at my feet, I flip to my horoscope and feign interest. Careful not to give myself away, I peep over the top of the magazine. Looking in his rearview, he tousles his sandy hair, grabs the low-raked windshield and the camel-colored bucket seat, and swings his lean body out of the cabriolet. As he turns towards me, I pop the Seventeen back over my eyes. He rounds the front of the car and pauses to buff the Porsche’s emblem. It glistens and twinkles in the summer sun, almost as much as his golden tan.

“Hey Elle,” he waves. “I’ll call you later babe.” I throw my middle finger in the air and crank ‘The Boys of Summer’ tune playing on my boom box. He shrugs, sauntering up to her door.

“Damn her,” I curse under my breath. My ears begin tingling, heat crawling up my face. He has blown me off twice this week, cancelling our standing M&M (Main Street and movie) binge, to whisk her off to God knows where.  

What does he see in her? I am his best friend. I introduced them. Why am I am getting the shaft? I try to focus on my horoscope, hoping the growing tension in my head will subside. It says the change in my love life that I am hoping for, is right at my fingertips. My heart starts pumping. I throw the magazine on the ground and grab the baby oil, smoothing it up to my bikini line.  

Violette Salisbury. Her name sounds as if someone combined Barnie with a slab of beef. All she needs is a side of mash potatoes and we have a full meal. 

“She’s named after the famous French ballerina Violette Verdy,” Sam told me one afternoon. Sounds dramatic to me.

Violette Salisbury and her mother moved to Kings Mountain a few weeks ago, from Los Angeles – the Valley she called it – after her parents’ divorce. She told me her Dad was some big shot movie producer in Burbank, whose hands had the uncanny problem of wandering up in his production assistant’s skirts. Her mother had more than enough of her husband’s indiscretions, and the Silicone Valley, to last her a lifetime. Learning her childhood “summer cottage” on Moss Lake was on the market, she made long-distance plans to purchase it. Sight unseen she bought the property and high tailed it back east, Violette in tow, to lick her wounds in the comfort of her Alma Mater. This landed the Salisbury team of two, and their foofy Pomeranian duo, to flank my house to the east sharing a common sidewalk.

My Timex beeps, jolting me out of the thoughts in my head and signaling me to start baking my backside. The two lovebirds exit Violette’s house. Violette is giggling and chewing on a piece of her flaxen hair. Our eyes meet.

“Oh my God Elle!” She says running over to me. “Like, thank you so, so much for introducing me to Sam. He like just asked me to go with him to Denny Hagedorn’s big bash. I was so totally worried about moving to this podunk city at the end of the school year. I thought, like I wouldn’t make any friends and would just have the most boring summer vacation ever. You totally fixed that.”

My jaw dropped. Sam, my Sam, was taking her to the biggest social event of the school year. The Sam that hid beneath the willow trees creating mythical lands and creatures with me, best buddies since we were nine years old. The Sam that set rabbit traps in the cotton fields, plunged from the rope swing and sunned on the banks of Moss Lake with me summer after summer. He had gone with me to Denny Hagedorn’s big year-end bash since Denny had moved to Kings Mountain in the sixth grade. 

My heart was a freight train going downhill. I wanted to burst into tears but refused to do to do that in front of Violette Salisbury. My nostrils flaring, I managed a smile matching hers. After all, I was in drama club.

“That’s terrific Violette. I’m sure I’ll see you there.” I said. “We’ll have to hit the shops in downtown Charlotte to look for dresses before the party,” I lied. 

“Perfect,” she purred. “Ok, well, were off. So, like, I’ll talk to you soon?” She rocked back and forth on her heels, making her golden mane swing back and forth, causing me to hate her more.

“Mm hmmm.” I was tempted to stick my foot out as she walked by, but I knew that would create issues between Sam and I. As it is now, he seemed oblivious to my pain.

“Cool,” she said. She walked to where Sam was waiting in the car before turning and calling out over her shoulder, “I can’t wait.”

Next, Sam did something that blew my mind. He got out of his precious Speedster, walked around to the opposite side, and opened her door. Never, I mean never, had I seen him do that. That is when I knew: My days of sun and Sam would be over from this point forward.

I bolt upright in bed. My heart is pounding as if it is going to leap out of my chest. My breathing is erratic. My cotton jersey sheets cling to my sweat soaked skin. I start laughing making my sides clench into tight balls of iron. It was all a dream. 

The clock flashes eleven. The sun is waxing its mid-morning peak. I throw on my bikini and run to the kitchen to devour a bowl of Special K.

Grabbing the phone on my way to the door, I dial. “Dude! Are you up yet? Get over here. You and I have a date with the rays and bottle of baby oil. Ugh, and I had the worst dream ever. I’ll tell you all about it when you get here.” I say. “Hurry up.”

In the yard, I plop down on my towel and crank my tunes. The Eagles, Hotel California, is playing on the radio. The lyrics make me laugh. As I am sloshing on my baby oil, I look up to see a shiny Mercedes Benz turns the corner. A forty-foot Atlas Van Lines truck follows. The Mercedes pulls over allowing the truck to pass. The truck driver downshifts to a stop at the neighboring house and backs into the driveway. The blood drains from my face as a young, buxom, honeysuckle blond and her mother exit the Mercedes.

Running into the house, my mouth tasting of vomit, I hurl myself on my bed and start crying.

speedster