Cory could tell you the name of a song right before the radio played it, like she had some moment of clairvoyance brought on by those words from our sponsors.
Those nights summer air congealed in humid clouds taking up most of the bench seat in the front of that '78 Caprice Classic. But there was still enough room for us and I'd drop it into neutral and we'd coast down Bryant Avenue, just trying to see how fast that hill could make us go. We’d stick our hands out the windows like wings and Cory would close her eyes as we picked up speed. We’d share a Big Gulp—the syrup sticking to the back of my throat and keeping down the words I regretted never telling her during that summer before she grew up way too fast and me not quite fast enough.
I’d watch her brown hair blow across her face. Cory would say “Possum Kingdom” and like magic the Toadies would play through the three speakers that weren’t busted.
Marisa Mohi lives and writes in Oklahoma. When she isn't working on fiction, she writes for a blog that riles up local politicians and media personalities. You can find more out about the author at marisamohi.com.