Chapter 6: Run Every Time

Chapter 6

Track 6: Run Every Time, Gavin DeGraw

Summer 2002

My alarm blared. Disoriented, I rolled over to look at the clock and nearly fell out of bed: ten o’clock. It was ten o’clock! I bolted into the shower and dried my hair just enough, so it wasn’t dripping. I wriggled into my jeans and threw on a t-shirt and got straight to work on my bedroom floor. An explosion of maps, sticky notes, highlighters, glue, and magazine clippings were scattered across the carpet, as if a flurry of kindergartners had snuck in during the night for arts and crafts.

I picked up where I had left off after collapsing on top of my sheets somewhere between midnight and pressing repeat on Tim McGraw’s greatest hits. I had spent the last few weeks cramming for finals and logging as many babysitting shifts as I could handle. I had also successfully won back my writing gig with the Register-Guard, after relentless begging and pleading, a job I was thankful for and working extra hard not to lose again. Any spare moments in between were spent with Andy. All that meant I was now scrambling and covered in glue with only an hour left to apply the finishing touches before heading to the Willamette.

Andy was leaving for the summer.

It had been nearly a year since he catapulted into my world. I replayed that July evening in my mind endless times, wondering why Andy chose to get into my car that red sky July night. I was no one special – an overly complex girl with too many checklists and ambitions for a teenager. Andy was laid-back and overly practical, turning every problem into something that could be resolved with simplification and a little patience – I lacked both. Andy never concerned himself with the details. If I stressed over an exam, his response was simply, “just go study and you’ll know it all by morning.” When my tailpipe flew off on the Parkway on my way back from a spring shopping spree at the outlets, Andy listened to me spew all the reasons why the missing piece of metal was the end-all-be-all. “Just take it in to get replaced,” he said without regard for how long I would be without my car, how would I get around in the meantime, and how was I going to pay for it? Andy was right though, it just needed to be replaced.

We lost track of the sunsets and weekend drives to wherever the universe lead us, and when last September came, we somehow survived a whole school year as Andy and Annie, much to the disapproval of the vast majority of the Southridge cheer leading team.

Much to my doing, we spent our spring break mailing demo CDs to studios in California, New York and Nashville. Who was I kidding? I did the research, wrote the letters, stuffed the envelopes, and licked each stamp until my tongue tingled, launching each brown manila into the mailbox with a good luck kiss. Andy aimed to resist my persistence, insisting my efforts were a waste of time and postage. The world had to hear his voice if it were the last thing I would do! Letters arrived one after the other, complimenting Andy’s vocals but with the request for original songs, not the covers we had submitted. Andy brushed off each 8.5 x 11 letterhead with an “I told you so” as he crinkled each one before tossing it into the recycle bin. I encouraged Andy to write his own music, something I absolutely knew with every ounce of conviction that he could do and even offered to help, which only seemed to irritate him and push him away. I decided I was better with Andy than without, so I dropped the subject all together.

The day before graduation, Andy received a call from a booking agent at a club in Santa Monica who was in need of an acoustic guitar player who could sing back-up vocals for a local band that mostly sang covers – a dime a dozen in Cali. Someone had passed along his demo – thank you very much – and wanted him to start in a week. Weary of the offer at first, Andy declined, only to change his mind a day later. Andy never asked me for my opinion, but if I had a vote, mine would have been to accept. It was what exactly what he needed. The first step toward something extraordinary. I just knew it.

Accepting the gig meant we would be apart for the summer which made me both nervous and excited for Andy. We talked about how he would call each day, and he would drive back home for a day or two when he had time off. We would both keep busy and spend the last weekend of August together when he returned, and tell each other all about our summer adventures - surely his would be far more exciting than mine.

Today I was meeting Andy at the river to see him off. A place that was so obvious and special to us. Frantically assembling my farewell gift to Andy distracted me from what was to come.

***

The ten-minute drive to the river felt longer than usual. I drove in silence, windows down despite the cool mid-June breeze, the fresh air making it easier to breathe. My chest felt heavy and my stomach felt like a tornado was twirling in a constant spiral.

I pulled up to our meeting spot and a sense of calm overwhelmed me when I saw Andy propped up against his tailgate. I looked in the rear-view mirror at my wavy air-dried hair and pale cheeks, my olive-toned skin lacking its natural brightness. This was the best I could do given the circumstances.

Andy shot me his come-here smile that got me every time. “I thought you weren’t coming,” he joked. I was early and he was perpetually late. Today was the first time he had beat me anywhere. Ever.

I walked up to him without saying a word and immediately buried myself in his arms. Andy met me with a warm embrace before gently releasing me, wiping the hair away from my face. “It’s just one summer, I’ll be back in no time. Repeat after me, ‘It’s just one summer’.”

“Okay, it’s just one summer,” I replied. I repeated the phrase back in my head and tried to believe it. I really did. But who were we kidding? One summer was a lifetime in teenage-love-years. I wanted to believe that seven weeks would fly by and life would return to the way it was, but the wide-eyed rational side of me knew better than that. Andy knew better too.

“I brought you something,” I said, returning to my car to retrieve my “art” project. I handed the leather-bound book to Andy. He opened his tailgate and set it on top, opening the cover.

“What is this?” he asked.

“Well…it’s a uh…I guess it’s kinda a collection of things,” I began. I didn’t know what to call it. Unsure whether he would find my gesture endearing or ridiculous, I continued. “It has a map of the Pacific Coast highway, from here to Santa Monica. I’ve highlighted all of the stops with the best views and made note of where to go for pancakes and burgers. There’s a list of motels in the back with all the phone numbers. That’s just the first few pages. The rest are clippings from my journals, and some poems and entries I wrote,” Andy knew I kept a diary and asked me from time to time to share with him what I had written. He loved it.

“I also included a new CD for the road,” flipping to the back of the book. I was still waiting for the one he had promised me but wasn’t holding my breath.

“This is amazing,” he said. “But don’t you want to keep this? These are your words. I love that you’re sharing them with me, I really do, but don’t you want to keep them for yourself?”

“No,” I responded. “The memories belong to us and I want you to have them.” Deep down I didn’t want him to forget.

Andy smiled and kissed me on my forehead. It was exactly the reaction I had expected. “I love it.” He said. “It’s the sweetest thing anyone has ever given me.”

I met his thank-you with a kiss and hoisted myself up on the edge of the tailgate next to him.

“We’re going to be okay, right?” The quintessential question that you would ask your now-graduated high school boyfriend who was leaving for the summer.

There was an unspoken hesitation that was not unexpected that made me feel woozy.

“You will have the best summer, Annie. It will all be fine. When I come back, we will pick up right where we left off. Don’t worry about that.”

He said exactly what I needed to hear, and that worried me.

“You’ve got lots to keep you busy. You have your writing and you have all this,” Andy waved his arms to emphasize the beauty of the Willamette. “You’re tough Annie Walker. Just wait and see.”

We spent two hours on the tailgate, hand in hand, neither one of us saying much of anything. Any longer and Andy would be leaving in the dark, which meant our time was up.

“I better get going,” Andy said as he released my hand and hopped off the tailgate, helping me down.

“I know,” I whispered softly. I choked back the tears and my innocence, knowing I had to let him go and didn’t want to make a scene.

“The sooner you leave the sooner you’ll be back,” I said, trying to make light of the moment.

Andy smiled.

“I love you, Annie.”

“I’ll love you always,” I replied.

Wishing if only we could have one more sunset I watched as Andy’s taillights vanished between the willows.

I knew in that moment it was the last time I would see Andy.

Chapter 5: Take Me There

Chapter 5

Track 5: Take Me There – Rascal Flatts

Andy was waiting at my doorstep as I pulled into the driveway. Headlights illuminated his hoodie-wearing silhouette hunched over in a backwards ball cap. I cut the engine and felt stiff, as though every bone in my body was frozen in its place. Andy was either about to apologize or break up with me – probably the latter. My heart was pounding like a base drum thumping as if it were about to explode right out of my chest. I closed my eyes and took a deep breath as Andy approached. I cranked down the car window with the handle like I was about to place an order at a drive thru.

“Can I drive?” Andy asked. Neither one of us making eye contact, I nodded and crawled over the gear shift and into the passenger’s seat. He opened the door and ascended into the bucket seat, immediately reversing down my driveway, buckling his seat-belt and adjusting the seat back and rear-view mirror while we were in motion. We drove in silence, which was a first for us. My gaze was fixated forward as I played out in my head how the rest of tonight was about to go down. I knew we would get here eventually, because young love simply does not last, I just hadn’t expected it to happen so soon. The hardest part would be pretending I was okay with it, and that life would merely go back to the way it was before we were us. The truth is, no matter how hard I would try, I would inevitably miss everything about him.

Andy sensed my angst; it was obvious. He reached over and placed his right hand on the thigh of my jeans, and I concentrated with all my might to refrain from trembling as he left it there. For once I was thankful for my debilitated tailpipe which muffled the sound of my heart throbbing in my throat and my short breaths.

We made a left off Creston Street and into the Dairy Queen drive thru. We pulled up to the speaker, Andy’s hand still stuck to my thigh. “What would you like,” he asked, displaying his crooked boyish smile.

This wasn’t exactly the time for soft serve. I had zero appetite. “Nothing for me, thanks,” I responded.

“I know you better than that,” Andy pressed. “I’ve never known you to decline something sweet.”

He was right about my sweet-tooth, but regardless, I insisted, “Really, I’m fine.” Emotionally, I was not.

“Alright, suit yourself,” Andy said, removing his hand from my jeans to reach into his back pocket to retrieve his wallet. We pulled up to the window and he handed over a ten-dollar bill, collected his change and dropped it into the cup holder next to his caramel ice cream sundae. Andy kept driving and replaced his right hand back on me where he had left it.

We pulled into the public lot of Mahlon Sweet Field – Eugene’s regional airport – where I had been parked several hours earlier. Andy settled on a spot closest to the chain-linked fence that lined the runway. He turned off the car and began to devour his sundae, offering me some between spoonfuls which I politely declined.

“Twelve.” I said.

Andy turned towards me still gripping his spoon. He had a small drop of vanilla on his lower lip I wanted so desperately to kiss away. “What do you mean, twelve?” He asked.

“Twelve.” I repeated. “That’s the number of planes that took off tonight while I waited here for you.”

Andy dropped his spoon into his now empty ice cream container and shifted his shoulders towards me as much as he could. He crossed his arms in such a way, I felt I was about to be interrogated. “And how many landed,” he asked?

Annoyed by his follow-up question, I replied anyway. “Three.”

“Interesting,” he said. “More planes coming than going.” I was puzzled by his statement of the facts I had presented.

“Andy, I’m confused,” I confessed and was slightly irritated. “What’s going on here?”

Andy cracked the window ever so slightly to allow air to circulate and to prevent us from steaming up the car too quickly with our breath. He uncrossed his arms and took both of my hands, folding them together inside his. “Honestly, Annie…” he began, “I don’t know. I guess. I’m trying to find the words to apologize for standing you up earlier and I’m not doing so great at that. I feel awful, I really do. And the worst part is, I don’t know why I did it. I should have come. I meant to. Truly, I did. And I’m sorry for that.”

His apology was genuine and not at all what I was expecting. I wouldn’t question him or pretend to berate him at the risk of pushing him away. At the same time, I was not a push over. So, I said the only think that made sense to me.

“You owe me twelve songs,” I said. I had made Andy several burnt-CDs since we had met. It was fun for me to share my favorite songs with him, but he refused to reciprocate. “I’m not that kind of guy,” he would say, implying my gesture was sort-of pathetic in a way. But Andy kept asking for more and I kept delivering.  

“Done.” He replied without hesitation.

I was surprised by the assertiveness of his response. No push back or smart remark. I clarified, “They have to be songs that mean something to you, not just whatever is trending on the top 40 this week. And they can’t be a copy paste of what I’ve given to you.”

“Consider it done, Annie.” He said, implying there was no need to push further.

“Good,” I smiled. It was a relief to breathe normally again and for my muscles to unbuckle from the tightened state they had been in since I pulled into my driveway. I leaned in and kissed Andy, wiping the spot of vanilla from his lip, enjoying the aftertaste of sweet caramel.

To avoid fogging-up the car from just our presence, we walked out and sat on the concrete block meridian at the front of our parking stall, wrapping ourselves in a blanket I kept in my back seat for cold star gazing nights at the river. It was a rare mild November evening, probably the last before the arrival of the next four months straight of West Coast rain.

“Andy, can I ask you something?”

“Sure,” he replied.

I hardly knew anything about Andy beyond his love for music and what he ate on his burger. Each time I tried to extract something personal, he would change the subject or reply with “I don’t remember.” Meanwhile, I shared everything with him and attempted to include every single detail.

“You know so much about me. I’ve told you all my hopes and dreams, and you probably know more about me than you really care to.” Andy smiled and continued to listen. “But it goes both ways. I want to know everything there is to know about you. Your past, what you want to do, who you want to be. When you’re having a bad day or feel crummy. I want you to feel you can share that kind of stuff with me. I know so little about you. I don’t mean to push. I guess I just want you to know you can tell me anything and talk to me about anything.”

“Annie, you know you’re too good, right?”

I wasn’t sure what he meant. Too good at reading him? Too good as in ‘too polite’? Too ‘goody-two-shoes’? Too good for him?

I didn’t respond.

“Twelve songs because of the planes taking off, right?” He asked.

He was a subject switching ninja. “Yes,” I confirmed.

“Thought so,” he said. “Tell you what - for the three that landed, l’ll throw in some bonus tracks.”

“That works for me,” I said.

***

Andy was the definition of complicated. His moods were confusing, and he had the ability to take my emotions on constant roller coaster rides that were both terrifying and exhilarating. At times I wasn’t sure if I should fearlessly throw my arms in the air like a maniac or hold on for dear life on the drop down. But if I had to choose, I would pick complicated every single time.

Chapter 4: Make or Break

Chapter 4

Track 4: Make or Break – Dan + Shay

I wanted to disappear into an oblivion. Every day since Monday felt as if the whole world was working against me. Friday could not have come sooner and here I was, wishing it were any day but today.

Monday began with a flat tire. Michelins were meant to last but too many trips down gravel roads did it in. My fault. I ran to school to make it in time for my English mid-term, arriving a soggy, wet mess in mud-stained white tear-away pants – fashion’s worst invention.

Tuesday was not great. I had not seen Andy since Saturday and I could not stop thinking about him. I fumbled through the morning, forgetting to hand in my biology assignment, too distracted by the whereabouts of my boyfriend. An automatic 10% off “late fee”.

Wednesday, Dad agreed to take in my tire to be fixed on Friday, which meant two more days of walking – high school’s definition of humiliation. I caught a glimpse of Andy as he passed me on my morning walk to school, heading in the direction of his little brother’s elementary school in his pick-up. I watched as Andy’s Tacoma breezed past without stopping for a lift or a wave. I was 15-minutes late for Spanish – I do not “do” late – and earned myself my first detention for whispering to Sam Ashbee who sat across from me, inquiring about what I had missed. A detention virgin, I was late for detention. I had no idea where I was supposed to go which, ironically enough, earned me one more day of detention. I was on a roll. I sat in an uncomfortable prehistoric wood desk at the back of the room, staring into my lap, reflecting on the last 48-hours of my deplorable teenage life.

Thursday’s detention was nothing like the ‘Breakfast Club’. Jason got caught passing me a note I refused to accept. There was no goddamn way I was sitting through another detention. Jason earned himself one more day in the “slammer”, so to speak, and mouthed curse words at me when Mr. Barclay wasn’t looking. Jason would resent me until graduation. The 60-minutes felt like a million as I worked through my stack of homework, missing my meeting with my editor, Ray, at the Register-Guard. Ray was going to give me a handful of new assignments to cover over the next few weeks and instead decided to offer them to someone else, citing me as an “unreliable teenager.” No one has ever called me that before. I was crushed. I would not tell mom and dad I had served two afternoons in a row, but the fish casserole mom served up one night after the next confirmed she knew the truth. I despised fish casserole almost as much as I loathed Stacey Carter.

Andy passed me in the hall on Friday. He looked worn but appeared to be charming everyone around him, something that came so natural to Andy. He was immersed in conversation with a group of grade-twelve boys in the hall between first and second period, and I refrained from interrupting. He looked up as I passed and nodded his head, hardly breaking eye contact with the others. The afternoon was a grind as I over-analyzed Andy’s neglect as a lack of interest in me. Was he embarrassed to introduce me to his friends? Were we still together? Had I said or done something wrong?

I arrived home at the end of the week with a heavy heart and a light backpack – thanks to back-to-back detention which allowed me to get ahead on my homework. Mom made my favorite spaghetti dish. I interpreted the carb-filled marinara as a peace offering, reaffirming her knowledge of my detentions and her way of apologizing for the fish casserole, times two. After dinner I sat anxiously waiting for our dial-up internet to connect so I could check my MSN messenger. After twenty minutes of excruciating high-pitched beeps and screeches, waiting for me was a one-line message from Andy:

Meet you at the runway at 8 pm.  

I could not wait to see him, melt into his arms, and forget about the week that had passed.   

***

It was 10 pm and Andy was a no-show.

I ran through my playlist three times before driving home a teary-eyed, heartbroken, detention-serving, unreliable teenage mess.

Chapter 3: The Boys of Fall

Track 3: The Boys of Fall – Kenny Chesney

Sophia was waiting outside the entrance of Southridge High. I watched as she reached inside her purse and pulled out a pocket mirror, flipping it open and holding it above her as though it were a spotlight. She was fully enthralled in her reflection, twisting her head from side to side, sucking in her cheeks and puckering her lips to make a kissy fish face. The scavenger hunt within her purse continued, this time retrieving a tube of bright pink lip gloss – I could see the shimmer from 50 feet away. She applied at least three coats, tucking it back into the abyss of her couture. Sophia was tall, at least 5’10”, and weighed no more than I did at five inches shorter. Her copper-tone tanned legs and enviable hips held up her pleated royal blue mini skirt, and beneath that a white tight body suit to complete the Southridge High cheerleading ensemble.

Sophia and I had been best friends since kindergarten right up until our freshman year. We walked the 2 mile walk together on our first day, having rehearsed the moment all summer long when we would enter the halls as wondrous teenagers and depart enlightened adults ready to conquer the world. We planned our outfits for weeks, agreed on the boys each other could crush on, and strategized where we would meet up for lunch. When the noon bell rang, I kept my promise and waited for Sophia at the bench outside of homeroom. I munched on carrot sticks and Cheetos, scanning the crowded halls for a blonde ponytail and Adidas backpack, there were a few. After much deliberation and fashion shows in the confines of each other’s bedrooms, Sophia had opted for a sporty look for our first day.

I began to worry that Sophia was lost or got caught up with the wrong crowd. Maybe she needed rescuing? Had she gone to a different bench? Had I gone to the wrong bench? Debating all possibilities in my naïve teenage brain, I stayed-put until the third period bell rang. Sophia never showed up at our spot that day or ever.

We competed against each other during cheer week, a five-day long frenzy dedicated to destroying the self-of-esteem of freshman girls. With only three spots available, Sophia made the team, co-captain none-the-less, and I never made it past round one. We didn’t drift apart like most young friendships do. We broke apart in the matter of seconds like a Kit Kat bar.

Sophia looked down at her watch, peering around impatiently. She spotted me as I approached with caution, fully aware of her motives. “Hi Annie,” she said, beaming a forced smile as she sped towards me. “Are you excited for the game?” Her enthusiasm was overwhelmingly obvious, undoubtedly the reason she had made the cheerleading team over me, I’d give her that.

“Oh hey, Sophia,” I said dismissively. I kept moving forward, hoping she wouldn’t follow.

She was too quick for me, linking her left arm with my right like we were besties. “I uh…I just love what you’ve done with your hair” she said. I had absolutely no idea what she was talking about. My poker straight brown hair was the same as it had been the last ten years of my life, minus a headband.

Sophia had already lost interest before I could even so much as part my lips to respond. She released our linked limbs and jogged towards four more football groupies waving at her from the parking lot. I watched as they erupted in high pitched shrieks and raced towards the field, drawing every ounce of attention they possibly could to their school-spirit mob. I followed their trail of body spray and cheery lip gloss towards the bleachers, taking my seat at the press row, immediately behind the home team.

***

I began writing for the Register-Guard, Eugene’s daily newspaper last spring. I submitted articles to the editor in the hopes of earning a summer internship to add to my college resume and to bring in a little extra for my car fund. My repertoire of submissions included coverage of local fundraisers, music festivals and food truck fairs. I also tackled political issues such as the controversial ‘green spaces’ to be introduced along the Willamette, which proved far more exhausting than my adolescent patience could handle. A berate of letters arriving at our doorstep, criticizing me for believing that access to the river should remain pristine caused me to take a leave from complex issues and focus my efforts on sports and “fluff” pieces. I wholeheartedly believed that the Willamette did not need trees to be cleared into gravel parking lots nor did it need sculpted trails leading tourists directly to the river’s edge. No one would touch my Willamette.

My coverage of Southridge High’s football games ultimately caught the attention of the editor-in-chief, Ray Bolton. Ray hired me as a freelance writer, which sounded far more glamorous than it was. Going behind-the-scenes with the school’s senior football team, interviewing our star players after each game became my specialty. My ‘Beyond the Locker Room’ series immediately became popular amongst the Register-Guard’s readership, combining a play back of the game itself and intimate interviews. My weekly column was a local hit and earned me locker room access, which infuriated Sophia and her perky pom-pom crew. Ironically, being slighted by the cheerleading squad had worked in my favor and gained me more credibility than a mini skirt and a handstands.

***

The October sky was clear, but the air was deceivingly brisk, cooling the metal bleachers just enough to make me to shiver. I took a seat next to a talent scout and the editor of our school paper a few feet to my right. I placed my backpack next to me to save a seat in case he showed up.

I scribbled down the important plays for my article and snapped a few photos of the team during half-time using the camera that Ray lent me and instructed I “guard with my life.” I asked coach Taylor a few questions before the third quarter to add some soundbites to my piece, Ray would love that. I took it easy during the second half, tuned in to my disc-man as I watched the boys rush across the field in their grass-stained jerseys.

“Hey, Annie,” Sophia said as she sat beside me. “Me again! How’s it going way up here?” Way up here? Sophia’s dig that I was in the stands and she was on the sidelines did not work on me. I was one row behind the boys which seemed like the best seat in the house to me.

I said nothing and pretended I did not hear her through my headphones.

“Have you seen the new guy Andy? I think he lives near you. He seems like such a nice guy. Kind of quiet. Has this super cute bad-boy thing going on. He’s your neighbor, right?”

I continued to ignore her.

Sophia went on. “Do you know if he’s coming tonight?”

She was relentless and really getting on my nerves. If he were coming, I would certainly not share that information with her. Truth be told, I had no idea.

“I was hoping to talk to him,” she pestered. “I heard he plays guitar and I want to ask him if he could give me some private lessons.”

There was no goddamn way Sophia was getting close to Andy if I could help it.

“Can I wait here with you until gets here?” She asked.

I pressed pause on my disc-man and removed my earphones. Regardless of my answer, I knew she was not leaving.

“Sophia, I have no idea if he’s coming,” which was the truth, “and I’m not sure he plays the guitar all that well,” I lied.

“Oh, you must not know him all that well then,” Sophia fired back “Stacey says she can hear him from her bedroom window. Apparently, he has a voice like Gary Allan. Stacey says he’s amazing.”

Stacey Carter would be the death of me.

Unsure how to shake Sophia without leaving altogether, out of the corner of my eye I spotted Andy approaching the stands. Part of me wanted to leap for joy, elated that he had showed up. Another part of wished he had not come at all.

“Oh my god there he is!,” Sophia said tugging on my right arm. “Eek – he’s coming this way!”

I was half expecting her to wave him over to sit next to her, but she seemed too giddy. How on earth did Andy turn every girl into a hot mess?

I looked up at him and he smiled back as he made his way towards me. A scruffy face, blue jeans and a grey hoodie under a black bomber jacket made him look kiss worthy. Andy had a way about him that was captivating and mysterious, making you want to get close enough to figure him out and learn what was beneath. Andy was mine, and there was no way Sophia would get her hands on him.

Andy gestured for me to slide down the bleacher so he could be next to me. I nudged Sophia on my right and immediately became a wedge between her and Andy.

“What did I miss?” he asked as he wrapped his arm around me. Absolute perfection.

“Really not that much,” I said, accepting his warm embrace.

Sophia stared at his arm around me introduced herself, “Hi. Sophia Morgan. Cheer-leading co-captain. You must be Andy?”

Andy unraveled his arm from my shoulders and extended his arm to meet her handshake. Thanks, Sophia for ruining my moment. Fortunately for me Andy picked up on my get-her-the-fuck-out-of-here vibe and responded, “Andy Black. Annie’s boyfriend.”

My heart skipped a bit. It was the first time he said it. Annie’s boyfriend. We had agreed we were “together”, but we had never referred to or introduced each other for what we were – boyfriend and girlfriend. It sounded official coming from his lips.

Sophia looked annoyed. “Are you for real? Like you two are like together, together?”

Was it not obvious and was it that impossible that someone like Andy would be with me? I was starting to take pleasure in how much she loathed me. This was getting quite fun.

“Yes,” Andy confirmed.

Sophia did not say another word. She made her way back to the grass just in front of the 40-yard line. I noticed the other girls whispering as they watched Sophia’s failed attempt to win over Andy.

“See you tomorrow, Soph,” I shouted as she walked away.

Andy leaned in and kissed me on my left cheekbone, just below my lips. His untidy shave ticked my skin, causing me to shiver in bliss. I blushed and returned his kiss in the same spot he left mine.

“You’re beautiful, you know that, right?”

Andy made me feel beautiful and hearing him say it made me believe it.

***

The final score was 21-13 for the Southridge Skyhawks, guaranteeing my article front page exposure. A win-win all around. Andy and I sat on the bleachers, his jacket covering my shoulders, as we watched the crowds trickle out of the stadium until ever car in the parking lot had vanished except for ours.

The stadium lights zapped off as if a gust of wind had extinguished them, leaving only the stars in the clear night sky to guide us back to our vehicles. Hand in hand, Andy walked me to my car and teasingly would not let me get in. He leaned me up against my car door window and kissed me as deeply as we had ever kissed.

“I love you, Annie,” he said as his lips returned back to mine.

When we both caught our breath, I told him I loved him too.

I would always love Andy.

Chapter 2: Speakers

Track 2: Speakers – Sam Hunt

The Willamette River flowed through our city and shaped our lives. We were taught to skip rocks before we could ride bikes, and when we were old enough to ride, we peddled the trails that surrounded the riverbank carefully navigating the uneven terrain. Summer family dinners were spent on the shallow rocky shores in fold-out chairs with our feet dipped in just enough to feel the current tickle through our toes, cooling us down between helpings of mom’s potato salad and breaded chicken drums served up on paper plates. We earned our bruises from playing Marco Polo in the still sections of the river, tripping over rocks and branches with our eyes closed, arms stretched forward like zombies. Without knowing it at the time, the river taught us more about life, ourselves and each other than any classroom could – and we were better off for it.

As we got older, our meet-up spots were secret locations along the Willamette that we pretended no one else knew of. We knew our cardinal directions like the back of our hands and found each other by the bandanas we tied to tree branches we could reach. The bowling alleys and movie theaters were hangouts reserved for the winter months, the local businesses feeling our absence during drawn-out heat waves, attempting to entice us with two-for-one specials and free sodas. We didn’t bite. We swapped boogie boards and shared inflatable tubes, laughing until our stomachs hurt and every last one of us had flipped over. The Willamette was our summer camp. Friendships were formed, love was made and lost, and memories were created that would exceed a lifetime. Our adventures were limitless, and we had the scars – and tan lines – to prove it.

When the dark northwest coast clouds rolled in, we wore our hoodies and nailed blue tarps between the trees to keep us dry so we could flip through our Teen Beat magazines we had begged our parents to buy us. Our homes were safe, warm and filled with snacks – but we preferred to wait it out as if it were a matter of survival, sipping on slurpees and high on fresh air.

We skipped church on Sundays and practiced our own ritual of tuning in to the weekly top 40 on the radio of Kevin’s pick-up, parked as close to the water as we could get without launching in. Too many of us piled into the extended cab to listen along and place bets on the number one song of the week – a silly game to most, but to this day I remain undefeated. Far from musically gifted, I was obsessed with music. I memorized the words, inserting myself into every song, imagining the lyrics as they played out in my mind like a movie. No one knew me without my headphones strung around my neck and notebook in hand, scribbling my favorite lines and writing extra verses to make songs last longer for no other reason than to satisfy my own imagination.

The Willamette river was our religion. It defined us and was entwined in our DNA.

***

The gravel crunched underneath the tires as we approached the river’s edge and the crimson cloudless sky faded to dusk, casting a blue glow over the horizon. My fingers gripped the steering wheel like a new driver at 10 and 2 with my gaze fixated forward, occasionally stealing a glimpse of his silhouette in my peripheral. We were divided by cup holders and connected by insulated copper wire spinning songs from my Sony. I took my foot off the gas slowing to an idyll, turning into an opening in the thick pines that overlooked the water below. I released my flip flop from the gas, placed the car in park and cut the engine.

“We’re uh…here,” I said, unsure of what to expect next.

His end of my headphones dropped to his shoulder as he turned toward me and asked, “Is this your favorite spot?”

Was the Willamette River my favorite spot? Yes, it was the only place I knew.

“Yes,” I spoke out loud.

“Good,” he said. “It’s beautiful,” he added, with one foot out the door, making his way over to my side of the car. He opened my door and gestured for me to exit.

“You’re not going to kill me, are you?” I asked bluntly. Probably something I should have clarified before we left the safety of my driveway, but truthfully, I didn’t feel threatened. I asked the question half-jokingly and for good measure. Worst case scenario, I could pounce for the pepper spray that dad had tucked in my glove box. He was the smartest man I knew.

Andy’s crooked, dimple smile spoke louder than words. “You’re cute,” he said, “And not a chance,” he added for reassurance.

“Do you do this with all the girls?” I asked. The river was mine and made me feel cheeky.

He smirked. “What, hop in their cars and insist on a ride?”

“Yeah,” I replied.

“Well, yes, but you’re the first one who didn’t throw me out.”

Great. I was a desperate push-over who had nothing better to do than to give rides to handsome strangers.

Feeling like a sleazy idiot I quipped back, “Joke’s on you – it’s my first time driving.”

He laughed at my lie and flipped off his Mariners hat to reveal a head of wavy ash-colored hair before turning his hat back forwards, tucking his hair in on either side with the tips of his fingers. "So why is this your favorite spot?” He asked, smoothly changing the subject.

It would take me a lifetime to explain but a moment to show him, so I would do that instead.  

“Come with me,” I said, leading us down a short path to the river. “Be careful where you step,” I added, observing his bright white sneakers that confirmed he was not from here.

After years of wadding in the Willamette I knew the deepest parts, the fastest currents and the warmest waters to dip my feet in at dusk. “This is it,” I said, as I waved my arm to the side as if I was revealing a game show prize. I slipped off my flip flops and stepped into the water, my feet immune to the rough pebbles below. To my surprise, he unlaced his shoes and took off the left and then the right and stepped in next to me.

“It’s warmer than I expected,” he said.

Was I good or what?

“This section gets the most sun and has the least tree cover,” I explained. “It’s also very shallow, it heats up during the day like a swimming pool.”

Great, I sounded like a girl scout ready to earn her river ranger badge.

I stepped a little further from the shore and began, “I grew up here and have spent hundreds of hours down here…basically I’ve been coming here my whole life. It’s pretty much the only place I know.”

His smile was captivating, and I could see in his eyes he was savoring the moment. He wasn’t the first person I had come across who was experiencing the Willamette for the first time – his look was familiar.

“You’re not like most girls, are you?” He asked.

If he was referring again to giving rides to strangers, he could walk back home. If he knew I preferred English class over gym class and would rather spend my Friday nights writing in my notebook instead of attending bonfires at Tyler Owen’s place, then yes, I was not like most girls. If he knew I had tried out for the cheerleading squad and never made the first cut – which was really a blessing in disguise in my humble opinion – than I wasn’t like most girls. If he knew that one block over from our street lived Stacey Carter and her best friend Ashley McLeod, two of the most gorgeous girls in our grade eleven class and perhaps to ever walk the earth, than we wouldn’t even be having this conversation. So yes, I was not like most girls.

“Most girls are not like me,” I smiled.

He returned my smile. “That’s a very good thing.”

I liked him already more than I knew.

“You just moved into the Cooper’s old place,” I said, stating the obvious. “Where are you from?”

“Portland,” he said. “Originally Salem, but I spent most of my life in the city.” He walked the few feet back to the shore and shook the water from his feet and I followed.

“We moved here for my mom’s job. She was promoted to General Manger at a manufacturing plant on Grant Street. My brother is still young and it’s just the three of us, so it made sense that I finished my grad year here so I can help where I can. You’re the first person I’ve met here so far.”

Perfect. I was the convenient neighbor girl he had recruited as his summer tour guide. Little did he know, had he moved one block over he would be in a hot tub right now with Stacey and Ashley, and I would be fast asleep in my driveway.

“I’d be happy to show you around,” I offered. “There’s not much to do here compared to the city, but we make do.”

An Elvis impersonator at the Clareview retirement home was the closest thing to entertainment in the past in recent weeks, but I left that part out on purpose.

“I’d like that.”

***

For the next six weeks, Andy and I made the daily 10-mile trek to the river in my time machine, sometimes he drove and sometimes I was too tired to drive back, barely clocking 1,000 miles by the end of summer.

We bought burgers to-go from Sam’s pub or picked up snacks at a convenience store along the way. We made it home for dinner some nights, and often skipped meals altogether. The sunshine suppressed our appetites and we were too caught up in each other to care.

We spent our days floating down the river, sharing every detail about our lives that time would allow. I knew the story behind every tattoo and he knew the story behind every Willamette-earned scar on my body.

Andy played guitar and was extraordinary at it. He indulged me by singing the extra verses I had written for my favorite songs, and together we wrote a few of our own. He became my real-life DJ, taking song requests until his fingers were worn from entertaining me. Andy’s perfect pitch drowned out my off-key attempts to sing along, and he never once faulted me for it. I was his audience and he was my rock star.

Our first kiss was on the bank of the Willamette under the midnight August sky filled with infinite stars. Andy was gentle and patient and never once pushed me for anything more than our lips would allow. He was different than every other boy I knew.

We broke curfew dancing in front of the taillights, listening to the radio he had fixed. I told him all my dreams, and we mapped out every adventure we would together pursue. No matter how hard we tried, we couldn’t get close enough, and still felt worlds apart.

We skipped rocks, laughed til our stomachs hurt and carved our initials in the willow next to where we parked.

That summer I fell in love with Andy, and he fell in love with me, and forever our world was changed.

Chapter 1: Young as the Night

Track 1: Young as the Night – Corey Cox

I tilted backwards, reclining the bucket seat as far as it would bend, nestling into the headrest with my watermelon-pink toenails perched on the steering wheel. I looked up through the roof of my t-top and squinted as the hazy July sunset blurred my vision, making my eyes water. I wiped the salty tears from my cheeks with the hem of my t-shirt and closed my eyes shut. I relaxed as the summer breeze danced across my face, passing through the passenger side window and out the other, cooling me just enough to cause goose bumps to invade every surface of my exposed skin. I took a deep breath and inhaled the scent of the coconut hibiscus air freshener I had purchased a few hours earlier from 7-11, now dangling from my rear-view mirror.

That afternoon I cashed in my entire life savings for freedom. Every last hard-earned penny.

Some might say the dented tin exterior was not the midnight black I had dreamed. The faded cloth seats had rips and stains that were beyond mending and removal, the tires made a rickety-sound when I accelerated and the tailpipe trumpeted louder than the horn-section in the varsity marching band. Dad argued it had no more than 10,000 miles left, so I bet him $20 bucks - that I didn’t have - hopeful I wouldn’t be the one settling up. “Double or nothing it won’t even make it home,” he proposed. I playfully agreed, knowing full well that was his way of covering my first tank of gas.

To me, it was flawless. I couldn’t see the exterior from the driver’s seat anyway, so the colour really made no difference and it was only a matter of time before my friends would pile in the seats and add further legions and scars to the fabric. By my calculation, 10,000 miles extrapolated over 6 more weeks of summer meant just enough distance to fulfill my adventures.

My ‘89 Pulsar was paid for with a $1,050 bank draft made possible by the countless hours of babysitting I had logged with the neighbourhood hooligans and the crisp bills tucked into birthday cards I had deposited over the years from my doting grandparents. Add to that, six months earlier I began writing for the local newspaper, banking $50 an article, tasked with covering the entertainment section mainly consisting of high school football games, rotary ‘Rib Fest’ fundraisers, and an Elvis impersonation concert at a seniors home. Pumping out two articles per week brought in just enough to meet my goal.

A week ago, I began scouring the classifieds in search of the unknown. My hands were still smudged with ink from circling the translucent black and white pages, trying to decipher the abbreviated lingo. Where on earth to start. I was no car fanatic. If you asked me my dream car, I would describe Marty McFly’s supped-up time machine, minus the manic inventor. That was a car. If you asked me the difference between a Pinto and a Plymouth, I was clueless. All I knew is that I would know perfection when I saw it.

My dad took me to see the first of my top picks. An ‘89, FSH, auto trans, r/h/r, pwr steer, BPA. I was convinced BPA stood for ‘best price accepted’, so we saw that one first. We exchanged niceties with the owner and I walked the perimeter of the vehicle, pretending to inspect the hunk of metal like one would a Hertz rental, taking inventory of every blemish and fault. I tried with all my might to apply a critical eye and negotiate from a position of strength as my dad had instructed. “Don’t show any emotion, Annie. I want you to walk away, no matter how badly you want it, you need to walk away.” With my notebook and pen in hand, I lapped the car more times than an Indy 500 driver, compiling my laundry list of critiques; but the moment I sat in the passenger’s seat, I surrendered. No dents or squeaky breaks would supersede my need and desire to make it mine. I chewed them down by $150 - I guess I was right about BPA. To dad’s displeasure and to my satisfaction, I sealed the deal with a handshake and the exchange of my entire liquidity, becoming the owner of the most significant purchase of my being and the proud owner of my independence.

The radio was busted, and the cassette player was jammed, so I laid back in my seat and placed the round foam pieces of my disc-man into both ears, picking up where I had left off. I pressed play and hummed along to the latest tracks I had recorded from the radio, mesmerized by the words and tapping my fingers against my thighs along to the beats. I drifted off for what felt like no more than a brief moment when I was startled by a knock at my windshield.

I sprung my seat up-right and jolted forward, awkwardly stuck in a scissors position with my legs still stretched over the wheel and my knees nearly brushing my nose.

“Does this thing go?” asked a deep voice I did not recognize. I pulled my legs forward and adjusted myself to a normal human being position – or so I attempted – looking up to see his face.

“Are you going to drive this thing or are you camping out for the night,” the voice spoke again.  

I tightened my ponytail and rubbed both middle fingers underneath my bottom lashes to remove any reminisce of mascara from my leaky sun-scorched eyes, grasping for words. “Uh, no…yeah…it runs,” I blurted as I mumbled, squinting to meet his gaze - an outline of a teenage boy with a beaming smile.

“I’m Andy,” he introduced, extending a handshake which I obediently accepted like a start struck boy-band groupie. “Can I come in?” he asked, walking towards the passenger door, one foot on the floor mat before I could respond.

“Sure…I guess,” I barely managed as he buckled his seat belt, hat flipped backward in a tight black tee that outlined muscles and highlighted tattoos no 16-year old boy I knew possessed.

I stared at him without eye making contact, aiming to process who he was and why he was in my car. Had I truly bought a time machine or some form of a knock-off version?

I then recognized him as the new neighbour boy who had moved in a few days prior, from what I could tell. I had watched from my bedroom window, taking notice as he unloaded his car - don’t ask me what he drove, whatever it was, it was way cooler than mine – him gripping a guitar case, making his way inside the Saunder family’s former residence.

As if I was a teenager moonlighting as a taxi driver, I turned the key over and looked over at him and asked, “Where to?” So much for my attempt to act like a normal human-being. Annie, you are a real mess.

He leaned over to peer at the gas gauge, brushing my shoulder. “Your favorite spot,” he said as he took one end of my disc-man and placed it in his left ear, handing the other end to me and setting the device in the cup-holder that divided us.

Chest pounding and stomach full of butterflies, I maneuvered the car into reverse and made my way down the driveway out of our neighborhood along a back road leading to the only place I knew.