Pencils & Polaroids

10: rumford boy's kindness

Has someone figured out how Joe Goldberg managed to spy on his women so freaking well? Because right now, I'm parked on the lane opposite Rainer's house with a black cap over my ducking head which bows lower every time a human being comes in sight. I thought California was a state where people could hide in plain sight. Not really, no. 

At this moment, I feel all eyes on my Ford sedan digging through the black layers of paint and metal to recognize the daughter of Rumford town fame-face, Christopher Mellon, or has he broken the stereotypes and changed his name to Christopher Weston now? 

Weston definitely sounds posher than Mellon. If my father had the chance to change it, he better have done it. 

Rumford is surely a level-up from our very downtown Teesbe. Suburban landscape, rich bungalows with solid white walls and dark wooden doors, I agree this neighborhood does look tempting. But I always feel like there are a hundred cameras tracking all my moves. Rumford felt like a season tape cut out of Big Brother and turned into Californian reality. 

After the worst eight minutes of my life, I see the enormous black door of the white Barcross bungalow open. Rainer walks down his porch and through the neatly cut grass spades in his yard. His walk does not resemble someone who is eight minutes late. Rather, he looks like Noah Mills walking the ramp for Dolce & Gabbana with his wantonly draped black leather jacket over a high school uniform.

I wait for his precious long legs to take further steps as he checks the empty street five times for approaching cars. We're meant to be alert of cars before crossing the road, not root at one end and hunt for them. 

He unlocks the passenger door and sits down. Just as I hear the door close shut, I hit the accelerator and speed the hell out of this neighborhood.  

Not another word slips out of either of our mouths until I'm out of Rumford and returning the speed of my car back to the level of humanity. 

"You are more likely to murder me in cold blood. Not the other way around." 

He screams it out as he buckles the strap of the seatbelt over his torso. He grabs the door handle on top of his door and glues his back to the seat as if bracing himself for an adventurous ride. 

"You didn't know that?" I chuckle after purposely putting on a devilish smirk.

"Not funny. You play with my life one more time--" 

"And what?" I step on the accelerator again. "What will you do?" 

My smirk inevitably grows when all he gives me is silence. There is no threat at the end of that sentence. There never has been and there never will be. And even if he does threaten me, I know better now that they're just going to empty bluffs.

"Park," he says my name like a warning and a plea. 

I glance at his figure extremely alert and rigid. His face is pinned to the empty morning street but his eyes and fists are closed to a level of paling. When you guess the fears Rainer Barcross might have, the ideas topping my list included heights, animals, or maybe even fire or water. But speeding was something I never imagined him to fear. 

As fun as scaring him was, I return below the normal Santa Monica speeding limit to assure him that even though I wanted to kill him for a long time, today will not be the day. I wouldn't be able to handle it if someone forced my fears onto me just for the fun of it. And what I can't handle, I won't do it others. Yes, even to Rainer Barcross. 

"Cars, huh?" I nod with an upside-down smile. "I pegged you as the lizard-fearing type." I know he's relaxed when he sighs loudly, half-groaning, but I ignore the negative response. "Childhood accident or were cars the reason for your death in your last life?"