Page 3 of Shy Girls Can't Date Rockstars
I just hope she’s nothing like the person Mom’s face suggested she was whenever her name came up. Because losing my parents was devastating enough. I don’t think I can survive being unwanted, too.
***
Sharp knocking forces my crusty eyes open. I hadn’t even realized I’d fallen asleep, but my phone beside my pillow says it’s 8:59 a.m.
Mrs. Rodriguez promised to be here at 9 a.m. sharp, and I hate that she’s not a liar.
After kneeling on my suitcases in order to zip them shut, I carry them downstairs.
When I open the front door, Mrs. Rodriguez gives me a sideways look. “Ready to go, Alice?”
Besides relieving myself and then putting on a fresh T-shirt and sweatpants, I didn’t do any personal grooming in the bathroom. My wild hair begs to break free of the loose bun I tossed it into. I lost my toothbrush in all the packing, but at least I have a stick of gum to chew.
Over my shoulder, I turn to look at the eerily empty living room. My stomach churns, and my eyes blur with tears I’m not ready to shed.
“Let’s go,” I whisper.
Mrs. Rodriguez loads my suitcases into her government-issued sedan while I lock the front door for the last time. The key feels heavy in my hand as I slip it under the flowerpot for the realtor, as we arranged.
“It’s about a ninety-minute drive to Victoria Falls,” Mrs. Rodriguez says as we pull away from the curb. “Beautiful country on that side of the mountains. So close, yet so very different from here.”
We pull out of the driveway, and I feel the twist of guilt at not saying goodbye to the Patels. I just can’t. They’ve been so good to me, and it’d be like losing the most important people to me all over again.
My neighborhood disappears in the car’s side mirror. The familiar streets where I learned to ride a bike. The corner market where Mom bought ingredients when she was in a pinch. The park where Dad tried to teach me to throw a frisbee, which I still can’t do. All of it getting smaller and smaller until it’s gone.
For the first thirty minutes, the drive is easy, watching farmland stretch on both sides of the highway, dotted with red barns and grazing cattle. Mrs. Rodriguez makes conversation about my new school, droning on about how Ashworth Academy has an excellent arts program. She even goes so far as to say, thiscould be a fresh start. I make appropriate response noises, but my mind keeps drifting to the last time I saw my parents alive.
They were loading the van in our driveway, arguing good-naturedly about whether they’d packed enough backup cake stands. Mom wore her lucky catering apron, the blue one with tiny whisk patterns Dad had given her for their anniversary. I was lying on the couch with a migraine that was more fictionalized than I let on. Mom kissed my forehead and told me they’d be back before I knew it.
“I should have gone with them,” I whisper without meaning to.
“What’s that, Alice?” Mrs. Rodriguez glances at me, gripping the steering wheel.
“Nothing. Just... thinking.”
As we climb higher into the mountains, the landscape transforms. Rolling hills give way to steep ridges covered in dense forest. The trees press close to the road, their branches creating a canopy overhead that blocks out most of the sky. It’s beautiful, but in a wild, untamed way that makes me feel small and exposed.
And then I see them.
Dark clouds gather on the horizon, thick and heavy with the promise of rain. My chest tightens immediately, and I grip the door handle so hard my knuckles turn white.
“Looks like we might hit some weather,” Mrs. Rodriguez says casually, as if she’s commenting on the scenery instead of my worst nightmare.
The clouds roll in faster than seems possible, casting everything in dark shadows of grey and navy. The first heavy raindrops splatter against the windshield, and I can’t breathe.
Can’t breathe. Can’t breathe. Can’t breathe.
“Pull over,” I gasp, but it comes out as a whisper.
The rain tumbles faster, drumming against the roof of the car like angry fists. Mrs. Rodriguez turns on the windshield wipers,and their rhythmic thumping matches the frantic beating of my heart. The mountain road curves sharply ahead, disappearing around a bend that I can’t see past.
Just like the road my parents took that day. The shortcut through the mountains was supposed to save time but cost them everything.
“Pull over!” I say louder, pressing my hands against my chest where it feels like my ribs are cracking.
Mrs. Rodriguez finally notices my distress and quickly pulls into a scenic overlook. “Alice? What’s wrong? Are you okay?”
I fumble with the door handle and stumble out into the rain, gasping for air that won’t fill my lungs. The panic attack hits with full force, tunneling my vision as I struggle to breathe. In through my nose, out through my mouth. That’s what the grief counselor taught me, but it’s not working.
