Out of Turn

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No one had shot at me in weeks, or beat me up. I hadn’t been cut, punched, or slapped. No one threatened me, stalked me, or stabbed me.

It was a nice change.

And that’s what I kept telling myself as I headed to my car. It was mid-afternoon, and the humid heat of late June in Indianapolis made perspiration slide down the middle of my back under the thin T-shirt I wore. The backpack I carried didn’t help matters any.

The air inside my white Toyota Corolla was stifling and sliding into it felt as though I were climbing into an oven. I rolled down the windows as I drove to my apartment, waiting for the AC to kick in. The air gusting through the windows was hot but cooled my sweat-dampened skin.

I thought longingly of the huge Lexus SUV I’d had the brief privilege of driving. It had been a gift, a wonderful gift that I’d have been happy to keep, if it hadn’t cost so much to drive it. Gas was too expensive for me to justify driving the luxury car—especially when I sometimes wondered how I was going to pay my rent—so I’d sold it, using the money to buy a used Toyota and what was left to help pay tuition.

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