Hurricane Kiss by Deborah Blumenthal

car keeps going.
    He laughs, almost to himself. “Can’t believe this old heap is still working. See?”
    I bite my lip to keep from telling him to go to hell.
    Then a rush of water surrounds us as if a dam broke. It starts to fill the car. Within seconds, it’s over our knees.
    â€œOmigod, we’re going to drown!”
    â€œUnbuckle your seat belt, quick!” River yells.
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œC’mon,” he yells, pushing out his door, despite the wall of water pressing back against it, like it’s trying to drown us. He manages to get it open and I slide over. Waist-high water surrounds us.
    â€œWhat are you doing?”
    â€œWe’ll swim up to the exit ramp,” he says, out of breath. “And walk from there.”
    With my heavy wet bag on my back nearly weighing me down, I swim after him, stroke by heavy stroke, the water smacking my face like I’m swimming against the tide. I’m sucking air, water splashing up into my face, every stroke an effort against the force of the water against us. You’re saving someone’s life, I keep repeating, pretending I have to reach a drowning kid.
    River swims ahead of me, every so often glancing back to look at me.
    You bitch, Danielle, you bitch , I keep repeating to myself, anger fueling me, keeping me going, stroke after stroke until I’m closer. We make our way toward the side of the road, and finally we’re at the ramp going up. The water is only as high as our ankles as we finally get out.
    â€œHoly shit,” he says, breathless.
    I’m breathing so hard I can’t answer.
    â€œWe’re not far now,” River says. “Just a block or two.”
    My sneakers are waterlogged, like weights on my exhausted legs. Just a block or two. If I can make it.
    RIVER
    I have to pull her along, but we get to the school. The wind’s blowing crazy hard, the whipping rain flooding the streets, nearly knee-high now, gusts slapping our faces, but finally we’re at the back door of the school.
    I never thought I’d be here again.
    I flash back to the late day practices. It was dark out, we weren’t supposed to be there, but we had keys and let ourselves in. We went out to the field and practiced, then we came in and talked strategy. If it went well Briggs ordered pizzas. If not, we stayed hungry.
    The strangest thing was that every day at exactly 6:15, Briggs would stop practice. Without a word, he’d walk back into the building for five minutes. We wondered what the hell he was doing.
    Then one day one of the guys went to the bathroom, passing Briggs’s office during that five-minute break and the mystery came clear. Briggs went inside to feed the canary. Something about the rigidity of that schedule freaked me out.
    After practice I’d drive home at eight or nine, stopping for fast food. Then there was homework. I crashed for five or six hours and the next day it started all over again.
    â€œHope they didn’t change the lock.” Jillian stares at me in disbelief.
    I fish for the loose keys in my soaking hip pocket. Finally I slide one out. I reach for the handle. “Start praying.”
    â€œThat should help.”
    â€œI got you here, didn’t I?” She’s finally quiet. “You’re free to run back to my dad’s car at any time, OK? Don’t worry, I won’t stop you now. You won’t be stuck here with me.” I take a deep breath, and insert the key.
    It doesn’t fit.
    She’s breathing hard. I look over at her. Don’t say it.
    I jiggle it and then struggle to pull it out, finally. I turn it over and try again. I know what she’s thinking. I’m not crazy. And no, it’s not the goddamn pills.
    It still doesn’t fit.
    â€œCrap.” I pull the key away and search my pocket for the right one. I used to know it by the grooves, but my mind is dead now. I flatline. I forget things. Everyday things. I take out