on.â
âIâm not gonna fuckin hold on. Weâre supposed to be halfway to Toronto but instead we been driving all over the city and I wanna know what the fuck for!â
âJust one last stop, Francie.â
âI swear to god, Slim, if weâre not on that highway â I swear to fuckin god.â
âIâll get you there, donât worry, babe.â And itâs got to be real bad, because pet names make Slim barf. As some kind of peace offering, he jams the tape back in the eight-track. The vocals kicking in, and Iâm stuck here two years too long , and Francie thinks ainât that the fuckin truth of it. In the summer this was a love song and now itâs a song about this day and yesterday and all the days before. Stuck, stuck, stuck. And then Bernardâs voice gets all crunched up as the deck mangles the tape. Francie wrenching it loose.
âYouâre gonna wreck it, Francie!â Slim trying to grab the tape from her, but she rolls down her window and tosses it. âFuckin psycho!â He pounds the wheel.
Heck forces one of his stupid pig laughs from the back seat.
âYou guys.â
In the mirror, she watches the magnetic tape unspooling behind them in a big oily ribbon, the tape clattering on the pavement. Francie laughing. Just Married.
Slim swings the car around behind Wembley Public, stopping in the trees down near the metal bridge over the creek. So far past talking, the three of them just watch the water, a shopping cart upended in the middle, brown foam pooling around it.
Slim pulls the vial out of his jacket and spills three blue microdots into his hand. He drops one and passes one back to Heck. The last one to Francie, her holding the blue tab like a bug she might squish. Placing it on her tongue. Dropping this little bit of colour down her throat, down inside her. A little blue into all that grey, like the food colouring her mom used for cake icing. Sometimes a little drop is all it takes. The blueâs falling into her and outside the snow is just starting to fall.
Before five minutes have passed, Heckâs already rubbing his face. âIt stinks back here.â
Slim snorts. âBecause you fuckin blew chunks back there.â
âIt really stinks.â Heckâs struggling out of his jacket. âAnd itâs hot, like a sauna.â Then heâs out the door, rolling around on the gravel.
Francie pulls her legs up on the seat, chin on knees. âI donât wanna be dicked around, Slim.â
âIâm not dicking you around.â
âYouâre lying â â
âIâm not â â
â â or youâre not telling me something, whatever, I donât even give a shit, I just want to get down south.â
âWhatâs the big deal? Torontoâs nothin special.â
âItâs better than here. Thereâs so much to do there.â
âThereâs stuff here too.â
âLike what â hanging out at the arcade? Whatâs up with you, I thought you hated it here too.â
He shrugs. âItâs okay.â
âItâs not okay â it sucks! I want to do things, I want to be something, and this town is dead. Itâs dead. You canât be a photographer here.â
âWho says I can be a photographer anywhere?â
âYour stuff is so cool, Slim. The way you take people â itâs so fuckin cool. Nobodyâs cool like that.â
âItâs kidsâ stuff. Iâm done with it.â
âWhyâre you saying that?â The blue is spreading through her, syruping over the grey, tinting everything. âYou donât mean it.â
âPhotography â art, whatever â itâs not real , Francie.â
âBut what about school?â
âFuck it.â
âYou said itâs one of the best in the country.â
âWell, I was wrong. Itâs stupid. Iâll get a real
Marquita Valentine, The 12 NAs of Christmas