Jessamine almost got hit by a white BMW three-series F30. And she wasn’t sure how she felt about that. As in she practically didn’t mind that a beautiful car nearly stole her life.
White, powerful, fast. Too fast. The driver, bass thumping, sunglasses obstructing 95% of her face, blond curls bobbing, was not paying attention, to say the least. The tears were covered by the lenses of her three-hundred and forty-five dollar YSL brand “eye protection”, her nine-dollar-a-tear Dior mascara smearing across her knuckles as she tried to brush away the only evidence anyone had that her boyfriend was a lying, cheating bastard, whom she hoped, would rot in hell.
No, Jessamine didn’t know, nor did she care, about the owner of the BMWs overcharged credit cards and undercharged sex life. She only had eyes for that white three-series that almost ended her own life. The purr of the engine, the rev of the turbocharged four-cylinder, the wail of the tires burning on the pavement, the scent of a half a tank of gas; those would have been the last pleasant uses of her sense she would have had, had she not stepped back onto the sidewalk at the precise moment she did. One more step and she would have also been subject to the pain of death; her skin pealing from cracked bones, that white metal and plastic headlights shattering her internal organs.
None of this crossed her mind though. Instead she whipped out her phone and Googled the make and model. She wanted to run after the car and ask it where have you been my entire life? All fourteen years of it? She began to conceive a plan to own that car when she turned sixteen. Somehow.
Jessamine soon realized that she could not make enough money in the two years until her sixteenth birthday, to indeed afford a BMW. Not a new one, not a sleek white kitten that would purr just for her. Her parents laughed at her when she asked if they would consider loaning their signature to her in exchange for sky-high insurance premiums and summers filled with minimum wages. She could get something from the used card lot, her father said. She could ride the damn bus, her mother interjected over a glass of wine. (Her mother rode the bus a lot on account of a blood-alcohol level “just barely” over the legal limit, but over enough times that she was on a “vacation” from driving).
So Jessamine did what any sensible girl would do and lost her virginity in the back of a black Mustang GT. When they weren’t making out, her skin pressed against the leather seats more of a turn on than Tommy’s hand mashed against her breast, she was learning how to drive a stick. To change a flat. Her father paid her five dollars less than he did the guy at the Jiffy-lube to change his oil. Her mother mumbled that her license was no good until she got the horizontal one that showed she was twenty-one, not the stupid “new driver” vertical nonsense that kids got “these days”.
Justin taught her how to drift a curve in his blue Honda Civic that sounded like a wind-up toy. Carl let her drive his Chevelle, the one he’d installed a Hemi in, for only a kiss. Stephen let her drive them to prom in his father’s red 1969 Camaro. David held her while she cried when they came upon the accident; a white BMW three-series F30, crumpled against a tree, a blond woman hanging out the cracked windshield, red dripping down the hood. He thought she was crying over the horror of it all, the loss of life, a life cut too short, tragic, senseless. Should have been wearing a seatbelt. Did the airbags go off?
Blah blah blah.
But it was the car. The lovely car, fractured and ruined and splattered blood red, which broke her heart the most.
What a wretched, exquisite way to go.
This is a short story. Based on one true fact.