Flash of Blue
Senior skip day was supposed to be a day for the senior class to all chill out at the beach, or Bobby Johnston’s lake house, forgetting all about the test they are supposed to take that day, and how soon it would all be over, and even though most of us weren’t exactly friends, we’d really miss each other that fall when Courtney wasn’t around to say the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard in my life everyday. A majority of my class planned to head to Bobby Johnston’s house on Pawtuckaway Lake because it has power, and therefore a mini fridge that could be easily stocked with beer; and it was April so no one else would be around to call the police. But my friends and I have very different plans for that day. What could Bobby Johnston’s house have that was any more awesome than spending senior skip day at a museum?
After an 11:30 breakfast at the Newington IHOP, Lanie, Viola and I departed from the rest of our class, the people we had never really gotten along with until this year, when they for some reason decided that they had to get to know the weird kids. We, however, did not want to get to know the “popular crowd,” and an hour and a half breakfast with them, was more than enough bonding time.
The three of us loaded in my 1996 tan Ford Explorer and headed east toward Portsmouth, a road we had traveled so many times before it didn’t seem important to pay much attention. We blasted old Spice Girls songs and sang at the top of our lungs, as Lanie, seated in the back, stuck her hands out my sun roof.
By the Kmart, at the stop light, we waited our turn first in line. Anxiously, we awaited the change so we could get to Strawberry Banke, the Plymouth Plantation of New Hampshire. I hit the gas as soon as the light changed. Viola, who was riding shotgun let out an ear piercing screech, the matched the sound of the Blue AstroVan’s tires as it skidded toward us. Lanie was sitting without a seatbelt leaning into the front seat. None of us had enough time to react to anything.
By the magical force field that surrounded us that day, Lanie, instead of slamming through the windshield like she should have, hit her back against it as the Explorer moved an unnatural sideways into the Kmart parking lot and lay awkwardly her head on my lap her legs by on the floor by Viola.
The next thing I remember is shaking Viola, shaking her limp body, screaming her name as loud as I could. Lanie’s blood covered most of me and my front seat, but Lanie was moving. The Spice Girls CD skipped as shook my best friend, Lanie groggily helping me. “You’re bleeding too,” Lanie whispered in the only voice should manage, there was a large cut across my upper arm, but I didn’t care, nothing matters when you’re best friend could be dead.
Moments later there was a darkly clad man at my window, and a matching one at Viola’s. “Stop moving her, she may have a neck injury,” the voice from behind me yelled. I froze, staring at my bloody best friend as the police officer tried to open the door with what looked like a crowbar. The one behind me pulled open my door. He waved someone over, and in minutes an almost conscious Lanie lay in the back of an ambulance. I was next to be removed from the twisted metal. I tried to watch for Viola, but it was nearly impossible for my angle in the ambulance.
I did, however, get a good look at the other driver, a woman about the age of our mothers, early forties, with three young children. She sat adjacent for me in her own emergency vehicle wearing her own neck brace, holding the youngest child, crying. I remember hoping she thought she killed my friend.
Through the chaos I saw Viola being wheeled to the fifth ambulance at the scene. I saw her grab the hand of the EMT pushing her away. I knew then everything would be okay.
