One Mississippi by Mark Childress Page A

mind.” I pictured Mr. Frillinger with his mouth open and I couldn’t help it — a snort, a giggle. In five seconds, we were helpless with laughter. We rode around, hooting, past the darkened school, onto Barnett Street, laughing all the way.
    Taillights ahead. Tim touched the brakes. “Is that a cop?” We weren’t drunk, but as hard as we were laughing we might seem that way to a cop.
    “No, Blindy, it’s a car and . . .” I squinted through the windshield. Barnett Street was raised above its sidewalks. The houses along here had deep lawns and long driveways. In the distance I made out — was it one person on a bicycle, or two people riding together? Cruising beside the bike, slowly weaving back and forth between the lanes, a jacked-up fastback sports car — GTO? Mustang? Cherry red, with yellow flame decals licking down the sides, around the fender.
    The car’s irregular motion made the bike wobble. The rider veered off the pavement and fell off the bike.
    The car hesitated a moment then roared off with a blast of exhaust.
    When we got there she was picking herself up, a brown girl in a green sweatshirt and khaki shorts, bent over, pulling on one of her shoes. Riding a bike in high heels! The second rider was actually her infamous white dress, now in dry-cleaner plastic, crumpled on the ground beside her. A tiara and a dozen red roses had spilled out on the grass.
    I stuck out my head. “Arnita? You okay?”
    She peered into our headlights. “Who is that?”
    “Daniel Musgrove,” I said, “and Tim Cousins. You need help?”
    “No, no I’m fine.” Arnita gathered the dress.
    Tim leaned over from the driver’s side. “Someone bothering you, Arnita?”
    “That damn Red,” she said, “he’s just
too
drunk.”
    “Red Martin?”
    “Yeah, he’s the King, y’know, the big bad Kang, thinks the Queen just automatically belongs to him for the night.”
    Tim said, “What are you doing out here?”
    “Riding home from Charlene’s, man, she’s having a biiiig party!” She took a deep breath. “I went with Tommy Johnson but he got mad at Red and took off. I hope to God I didn’t mess up this dress. It’s not mine. I gotta give it back to my aunt.”
    “Arnita, where are your glasses?”
    “I . . . I don’t know, I think I lost ’em. It’s okay, I can see.”
    “Why don’t you let us give you a ride?”
    “No, y’all, thanks, I’ll be fine.”
    “I’m glad you won,” I said. “I voted for you.”
    “Oh, aren’t you sweet.” She had no idea who I was. She climbed on the bike and wound the dress around herself to keep from tangling it in the wheels. “Thanks, y’all, I’m just gonna go home now.”
    “Aw come on, Arnita,” Tim said, “you’ve had a little bit to drink. Let us throw that bike in the trunk and drive you home. It’s late. You coulda got hurt.”
    “My house is just over the bridge,” she said, pushing off with her foot. “I’ll be fine.”
    Tim coasted along beside her. “Let us ride along with you to make sure.”
    “No, I’ll be fine.” Her voice took on an edge. “Thank y’all so much. Good night!”
    “Come on, Tim, she says she’s okay.”
    He pulled a few feet ahead. “I don’t like it.” He kept one eye on the rearview. “Red’s an asshole, he was drunk, and he might come back. God knows what he was trying to pull.”
    When he said “pull,” he turned around in his seat to look at her. His hand slipped off the wheel. The Buick drifted wide to the left. Another car coming —
    I grabbed the wheel, jerked it right just as Tim slammed on the brakes. A mild little
flonk!
from the back of the car — as if Arnita had slapped the trunk with her hand.
    “Shit!” Tim yelped.
    I turned. I didn’t see her.
    “Where is she?”
    I looked down. The grass sloped to the sidewalk, where Arnita lay sprawled on her back, her arms flung out, the dress wrapped around her like a flag.
    “Arnita?” My voice sounded small. “You okay?”
    Her head rested