Staring right at me, I thought she would start screaming, yelling at the top of her lungs.

Before you start in on me, I just want to set the record straight – I didn’t start this argument. No. Really. I didn’t. It wasn’t my fault. But then again, the guilty always have a way of saying it wasn’t their fault, don’t they?

But that’s not the case. At least not in this instance.

Marie and I were dating. Not officially, at least not in my book. Maybe she thought so, but how can you tell with teenage girls? I had no idea if she was interested in me or not. The only reason we started going out was I asked. I asked, and she, for whatever reason, said yes.

“Jared.” Her glare spoke louder than the harsh whisper of her announcing my name. I knew I had kicked over a bee’s hive. What I didn’t know was what would come from it. That part? That scared the daylights out of me. “How dare you say that? You don’t know what the circumstances are. And, even if you did, it wouldn’t be your place to say!” I was really uncomfortable at this point, even though I was sitting behind the wheel of her car, a Ford Ranger pickup truck. The truck was tiny, similar in build to my girlfriend. Wait. Can I call Marie that? Probably not a good idea. It could start another fight!

“Marie. I didn’t mean it,” I lied. I wanted her to know that her best friend was a thief and a liar. And I caught her in both at the same time! But, like most girls, she came to defend her friend first, ignoring the facts. “I believe she’s a good person.” Another lie. Sheesh. How many more would I spit out before Marie learned the truth? And when she did know of it, what would she say to me? I didn’t think that far ahead. I was a teenager, seventeen years old, and I thought I had the world figured out. I even thought I knew this girl. I didn’t.

“I’ve lived next door to Ashlynn for years. I knew her brother.”

Ashlynn’s brother died, a victim of a drunk driver. Dave was a trucker, a driver of those big oversized loads you see taking up a lane and a half on the freeway. An excellent driver with a spotless record, Dave obeyed all the traffic laws, even if he was in the middle of nowhere. It didn’t matter if Dave was driving his personal truck or the company rig. He made damn sure he followed the rules of the road, even if no one else did. The saddest thing about the accident was Dave came to a full and complete stop at the four-way. The other guy didn’t. He swerved out of his lane, t-boning Dave so hard that Dave flew out of the truck head-first through the rolled-up passenger window, snapping his neck when he hit that window. He couldn’t have survived that crash. Nothing would’ve saved him. Nothing except not being there in the first place. Ashlynn was five years younger than Dave. She looked up to her big brother, and, if I had to guess, that was the reason she started lying and stealing. I’d be willing to bet her thieving started right after Dave’s death. But try telling that, Marie. She wouldn’t have listened to me anyway.

“Fair enough,” I said. “You want me to take you home?”

She pouted in the passenger side of her truck. Crossing her arms, she tried to glare at me. But in a few seconds, her look softened, and her arms uncrossed. Marie sighed. “No. I don’t want to go home. Not just yet.” Grabbing my hand from the steering wheel, she squeezed. “Let’s go up to the point.” For all the teenagers in Dublin, the point was a twenty-minute drive up into the hills separating Dublin from Castro Valley. Back then, we didn’t have GPS to show us the way. You either knew the way, given to you by your older siblings or friends of friends, or you followed other people, learning the turns as you went. As it was, me and Marie knew the way. Thanks to Dave telling Ashlynn.

“You sure?” I asked. Most of the kids that hung out at the point were there for one of three reasons: getting high, getting drunk, or getting laid. None of those sounded like things Marie was into, but tonight felt different. Almost as if she was coming out of her shy shell. “It’s not either of us drink or smoke,” I said, thinking she’d catch on to what I was implying.

“Our friends will be up there,” she said, ignoring my last sentence.

“You mean your friends will be there.”

“Same difference,” Marie replied.

Starting the truck and shifting into first gear, I drove us out of the mall parking lot, heading to the point. I sighed and turned on the radio. Marie didn’t let go of my hand the entire drive. Every so often, she’d squeeze it. I guess she wanted me to remember that she was there. In her truck. Even though I was driving.

In California, early summer means more than warmer weather. It means longer days, more sunny days, and more outside activities. It was a little after 4 o’clock when Marie and I drove up to the point. In the hills, the sun was brighter, the weather a little warmer, and the view? Spectacular. Besides being out of sight from any parents or law enforcement, it’s probably why all the teens used it as the ‘spot’ to drink, drug, and have sex.  

Why Marie wanted to come up here was beyond me. If we were ‘official,’ which we were not, we’d come up here and fool around some. No one cared what you did in your own car. And everyone who knew where to come wasn’t about to break an unwritten rule: no attempt to peep through fogged windows. We all knew what was happening inside that, or those, cars. No need to be a creep about it! The funny thing is the rule wasn’t broken. Not until Marie and I showed up.

It was like Marie, and I were a magnet for melodrama. Everywhere we went, if her friends were there? Something would happen. Either a guy would say the wrong thing to her friends, and friends, offended by the ‘wrong’ thing, would start the drama. One of the many reasons I didn’t enjoy being around her friends. The other? They were fake. You know exactly what I mean. They say one thing, do another. If they say they won’t cheat on their boyfriends, they do. If they tell you you are their friend, they say something mean about you, indicating their distaste for you. And with Marie’s friends? This was the normal day-in-day-out behavior. Eleven years of school didn’t change anything. These girls were the same as they were in junior high. The junior high girls were worse than they were in elementary school. Hormones perhaps. Or maybe they were growing up watching their mothers behave the same way as the women around them. The cliquish behavior. The hostility toward anyone not agreeing with their thoughts or beliefs. For all I knew, it was a California thing. I can’t say, having moved from Seattle in 1979.

We pulled up to the parking area with several cars and a couple of trucks. As soon as we parked, Marie threw my hand away, almost like she tossed a piece of garbage into a dumpster. A high-pitched squeal came from her mouth, seeing Jody, Karina, and Jen sitting on the hood of Jen’s boyfriend’s car. A purple, yeah, like Prince-colored purple, 1970 Plymouth Baracuda. The three girls sat on the hood, leaving room for anyone else who was brave enough to cop a seat. The girls were safe because Jen was Travis’s girlfriend. Jen could do no wrong, at least in the opinion of Travis.

Travis was sitting inside the car, the driver’s side door open. The radio was playing Def Leppard’s song Animal, the three girls on the hood dancing with minimal movement from their spot on the hood. Mostly it was their heads moving. Travis was messing around with the equalization of his ‘Cuda’s radio, doing his best to remove the tinny sound.

Jen jumped off the hood the second she saw Marie running toward her. It reminded me of those old black-and-white movies where the two lovers see each other for the first time in forever. Only these two last saw each other at school – less than three hours ago!

Marie and Jen hugged, and the other girls slowly slid off the car. Travis, seeing me, looked up long enough to give me a snide look, then returned to messing with the equalizer.

“Ohmygod, Marie! You are so adorable!”

“Thank you, Jen. Check you out! Your style is so hot!”

“You like it? Mom bought it for me today.” The new Swatch on her wrist clashed against the other three she wore. Four watches adorned her left arm because there wasn’t enough room for all the bracelets she wore on her right arm. A few were jelly, others sparkled in the sunlight, the cubic zirconium all the rage. A single strand of pearls hung from Jen’s neck, accenting the ripped sweatshirt that was too hot for the late spring, early summer day. A single word, ESPRIT, was written in red block letters in a diagonal swatch across the sweatshirt. It was supposed to look like it was spraypainted on, the last two letters slightly fading. I could see her bra strap but to a girl like Jen? That wasn’t a big deal. Her Reeboks were white and pristine, contrasting against her pink socks with the lace and frills. Her skirt was acid-washed jean material, the GUESS logo embroidered on the left back pocket. The thing I never did understand, and I still don’t to this day, is the four belts she wore. It’s not as though they were worn through the belt loops on the skirt. No. They just hung there. Hung off her hips to look cool? I guess. Never made sense to me, but I’m not a girl. Besides the belts, only one thing didn’t make sense to me. Jen rarely, if ever, wore sunglasses. I mean, we lived in California. That was a thing. Sunglasses. And those kids that had parents who had money? They had top-shelf sunglasses, like genuine Ray-Bans, not the generic knockoff lookalikes.

“Hi, Jared,” Jen said as an afterthought. The other two girls looked bored with Jen’s conversation with Marie. Not really a surprise. Jody and Karina both came from wealthy families, like Jen. But Marie’s parents? Marie’s Mother was a real estate agent for Century-21, and her Dad worked as a jailer through the Alameda County Sheriff’s Office at Santa Rita Jail. Marie’s Mom didn’t have to work all that hard. Real estate in the area was so pricy that the commissions carried their family for months. On the other hand, her Dad dealt with gangs, racism, violence, and drugs daily. When he came home, he was only thinking about baseball or football. Marie’s Mom drank wine, but her Dad didn’t drink. Being around criminals all day might taint your ideas of drugs and alcohol. At least, that was my teenage guess.

“Hi, Jen.” I waved at her, even though I was almost standing beside her. Marie was still checking out her accessories. Jen was a bit of an English nerd, acing all our creative writing assignments. I enjoyed reading her stuff, knowing it came easy for her. I think Jen also appreciated my storytelling abilities, but I wasn’t sure. “Did you get your story finished?”

“Not yet, Jared. You?”

“Sort of. I’ve got an idea that I need to get on paper.”

“Me too. I’d love to read it when you finish it,” Jen said. Everything from her mouth sounded genuine, almost like a sale pitch. The inflections on each word were intentional, probably because her Mom was a motivational speaker. It explained the money and the absentee parent. Jen’s Dad worked for PAC-BELL, helping to transition all the engineers to merge with AT&T. It wasn’t a prestigious job, and not a glamourous one, but he managed to make a lot of money doing it. He was set to retire once the transition was complete, but Jen didn’t know.

“Sure.” The song ended, and Travis finally stopped fiddling with the equalizer and started paying attention to Jen. Especially since another boy was talking to her. Travis could deal with splitting his time between Jen and her friends. But if she talked to another boy? That irked him, the jealous side showing through.

“Read what, exactly?” Travis said, pushing me aside, standing behind Jen, and wrapping his arms around her.

“Oh, nothing, honey.” Jen turned just long enough to give Travis a soft kiss. “Just a story.”

“Writing? Yuck.” He looked over Jen’s shoulder at me. “You can have it. I hate writing.”

“Only ‘cause you can’t do it.” Jen smiled, kissing him again.

“I don’t need to know that creative writing crap anyway,” Travis told me. “I’m going to play professional baseball. I won’t need to be creative. I just need to hit the ball.” Part of me wanted to be a jackass and tell him that sports wouldn’t carry him for the rest of his life, but considering he was a bit bigger and stronger than me? I thought it’d be best not to start a fight with him.

“You tell him, baby,” Jen affirmed Travis, kissing him again. The kissing was starting to make me ill. Each time he said something, she made a point of kissing his lips. Why? Why you, no, how could you kiss someone who was chewing tobacco? Yuck! When he carried one, the smell of his spit cup was awful. I couldn’t imagine any girl kissing him. Then again, I couldn’t find the opportunity to kiss Marie, so I couldn’t say much.