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Never Been Nerdy

By:C.M. Kars
Never Been Nerdy

By C.M. Kars

Chapter 1

It’s the curse – it’s gotta be all the curse’s fault.

The curse has everything to do with my bad luck. Everything. And for fuck’s sake, I can’t use the excuse of being cursed as a defense for vehicular manslaughter.

If the thing I hit is even human, that is. It could’ve been just a really big duck. Yeah, or one of those evil geese with their honking and hissing. See? Not so bad if I killed a goose – which means I’ve orphaned a whole bunch of geese babies.

I really really don’t want to think about the alternative. Like, I could have seriously possibly hit a human being. Ah, Christ, I’m not ready to go to jail! I have so much to live for, and they’re going to separate me from my Louboutins!

I have to think about letting go of the steering wheel for a solid thirty seconds before my hands do what I tell them to. I check in the rear-view mirror and pretend I see tumbleweeds in the distance since the road’s completely deserted. I’m on a back street on my way back home, and dusk has painted the sky a fiery orange that reminds me of my favourite nail polish – OPI’s Tasmanian Devil Made Me Do It.

Which reminds me of jail jumpsuits. And the possibility of becoming someone’s bitch because I’m not a physically strong person, and I know I’m pretty enough that like Vinny Gambini says in My Cousin Vinny, “one way or another, you’re getting fucked tonight.”

I punch the button to turn off the radio, Axl Rose’s vocals being lost to the sound of my heavy breathing, as if the silence is going to make me focus better. I have the fleeting shameful thought that my hood is going to be ruined and I just fixed the fucking brakes. But I’ll take the dent if it means I didn’t hurt a person. Oh please, please don’t let it be a dog, either. Please, please, please!

I pull in deep breaths through my nose, and ignore the squelching panic my stomach is currently feeling. I feel like I’m going to vomit, and shit my pants at the same time. Hell, even my fingers shake hard enough that I have to fumble to get my car door open.

Minghia, I hate you Nona Imelda! Who the hell curses their own granddaughter?!

When I ease my foot off the gas, I realize I’m still moving, and with a screech I pound the brake and get Roxie, my blue Mustang, in park. A shocked sob escapes my mouth, because seriously, if I didn’t originally hit a person, I sure as fuck did it now!

The dread gnaws on my insides, and saliva pools in my mouth. But I have to see, I have to get out of the car and face what I did.

I don’t want to look. I want to stay in my car, and stare at my reflection in the visor, and pretend that the smudge at the corner of my mouth of my practically Valentino-Red lipstick is the only problem I have right now.

Now that I’ve got the sweats, black spots float in the air which would probably mean I’m about to have a panic attack, or pass the fuck out.

Ovary up, DiNovro!

I gulp down air, and end up choking on my saliva. I feel my pumps connect with the pavement as I climb out of my car, but everything from the waist down feels like it’s gone to Jell-O.

So this is what a jellyfish feels like.

I start to pray – even though I’m pretty sure God doesn’t exist and the cornetto I wear on my necklace is more to keep the malocchio away than anything else.

I use my laser-focus to look at the driver side tire, examining it without really examining it, forcing myself away from the reality of it all, and denying, denying, denying the mere hint of some dark stained liquid on the pavement as I slowly round my car.

I take a huge amount of time staring down at the pavement two inches forward from my toes. I think of stupid things, trying to ignore the blood pounding at my temples, and my rapid pulse throbbing in my wrists.

Really, DiNovro? You wore those pumps today at work? Black pumps don’t suit you – even if they are red soles.

Swallowing hard, I force my head up with, I’m pretty sure, the pressure needed to cause a wrecking ball to demolish a building.

Fuck, fuck, fuck!

I let out a squeak at the sight of the body. There’s a body!

The dizziness that envelops me has me swaying on the street like I’ve had too many shots of Nono’s grappa, and the horizon has tilted on its axis. My ankles give up on holding me up, and I wobble almost gracefully until I hit the pavement with enough force to rock the very foundations of the planet. Or almost.

All I need now is for some fucker to dash into my car, put it in gear, and hello, I’m spaghetti Bolognese on the pavement next to the giant dude I hit with my car. Christ, there must be an asteroid-sized dent in my hood. Please let that be my only problem.