The Designated Driver

“You owe me, you know? Forever.”

I leave the motel party, fighting the urge to slam the door behind me. Isabelle’s car, a black convertible Mustang from the 90s, is sitting right where we left it, about a block away. I thank God no one’s stolen it.

I walk through the parking lot to the car and sit on its hood. My hands are shaking. I put them over my mouth and softly shush them. They listen to me — for once.

The neon lights of the 24-hour McDonalds across the street draw my eye. The thought of eating a fried fish sandwich makes my mouth water.

The smell of weed is coming from behind me. I quickly turn around to see three people, two white girls and a Black guy, that I vaguely recognize from the party. They’re sitting on a bench and passing around a Ziploc bag.

They realize I’m staring. I smile. I turn back around.

I lean my head back to stretch out the crick that has developed in my neck. The burnt ends of my box braids tap against the hood of the car. I close my eyes and take a deep breath. My therapist would have recommended it.

My mind zeroes in on the sounds surrounding me: cars zooming past, murmurs of the people behind me, muffled music from the party.

I sit within the symphony. I wonder if I can wander here forever, get lost.

“Alex!” I hear Isabelle yell. My eyes force open. I turn to my left and see her walking towards me, “Why’d you leave? Everyone’s asking about you.”

“I doubt that. Did you see what that girl said to me?”

She shakes her head.

“That my look wasn’t ‘polished’ enough for this party. Hearing her say that, the way she looked at me… I felt like an alien. And, not a cute one, like E.T.” My hands begin to shake again, “You owe me, you know? Forever. You know I don’t like these bullshit, wannabe celebrity-ass parties.”

“Would one of those fish sandwiches make us even?” Isabelle says.

My hands stop shaking. “I’ll consider it.”

I walk to the driver’s side of her car. Isabelle tosses me the keys.

“I have so much to tell you.” She empties her purse onto her lap: dollar bills, a lighter, candy wrappers, a bag of white powder, coins. “That model guy Eli told me Francesca is gunning for my spot in the music video. Can you believe that?”

I put the car in drive and turn on the radio. The sentences I long to say slither back down my throat, “No, no I can’t.”

Author’s Note: I wrote this excerpt for a class I took on establishing a setting. When I chose the setting of a motel parking lot, characters developed naturally. One moment they’re just faceless names. The next they have goals, families, and enjoy fish sandwiches.

Part of me wants to expand this into a novel. A more viable option would be to check on them through short excerpts like this. They’re easier to manage and give me a chance to experiment with editing, point of view, and description. But, one thing is clear: the adventures of Alex and Isabelle don’t stop here.

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Nia Simone McLeod is a writer, content creator, and pop culture enthusiast from Richmond, Virginia. She’s the creator and editor of the Medium publications oh, write and coiled. In her newsletter, she shares a behind-the-scenes look at her creative process.