The smile didn't do the trick. The man looks at me oddly, brow furrowed, like he's no longer sure just what I'm doing in his car. I know that look. That's the look a man gives a girl when he picked her up hoping for sex without strings, and has suddenly realized that sex without strings isn't always a good idea. I don't normally get that look until after the fucking ends, when they decide that "a pretty girl like you" who does the things I'll do must be nothing but a whore. Styles change, music gets hard to listen to, and hemlines bounce up and down like kids on a trampoline, but hypocrisy is the one thing that never goes out of style.
"Where did you say you were going again?" he asks, sudden suspicion in his words.
I bite back a sigh before it can get away from me, trying one more smile as I reply, "Toward Detroit. I gotta get to my aunt's place before Sunday, or she'll call my folks and tell them I'm late. They'd be pissed if they found out I went to Florida for Spring Break, you know?" It helps that I'm sweet sixteen forever, dewy-eyed peaches-and-cream girl, no matter what I do to myself. Death has its privileges.
But something about me is bothering the driver, and whatever I'm trying to sell, he's not buying anymore. The car slows as he eases off the gas, navigating us toward the side of the road. "I misunderstood. I'm not going that way after all."
He's lying. I know he's lying, and he knows I know he's lying, and it doesn't matter, because there's not a damn thing I can do about it. He's the one with the car, and he knows I'm not carrying any weapons, because the outfit I'm wearing leaves me nowhere to hide them. Bikini top, cut-off shorts, rainbow-stripe socks: the very picture of a party girl trying to get home before she's missed. He never asked what I was doing in Key West without a bag. They never do.
"Oh," I say, letting my smile slip away into confusion. "I--I'm sorry? Did I say something wrong? I'm just trying to get home." It's too late; I see it in his eyes.
The car drifts to a stop on the shoulder of the highway, and I step out before he can ask for his jacket back. Once I'm out of the car, he'll have to decide whether it's worth pursuing me. They almost never take that risk. He's like all the others, because he doesn't say a word as he leans across the seat, slams my door, and hits the gas, leaving me alone, too-warm and still healing, on the side of the road.
Sighing, I stick out my thumb and start walking. Another ride will come along eventually. Another ride always does.
***
The best thing about having a jacket is the way it makes me live again, at least until the sun comes up the next morning--dawn to dawn, that's the longest a borrowed life can last. The worst thing about having a jacket is the way it makes me live again, especially when it's afternoon in the middle of Georgia, and the sun is beating down like it has a personal grudge to settle. The novelty of sweating wore off an hour ago. I wipe my forehead as I trudge along the median, giving serious thought to taking the jacket off and letting myself drop into the twilight, where I may be cold, and hungry, and itchy, but at least I won't be broiling.
The car that just blazed past slows, hazard lights coming on as it pulls off to the side of the road. I recognize a ride when it's offered to me. Tugging up the collar of the jacket to make it look a little less ill-fitting, I break into a jog.
It's a bottle-green Ford Taurus with a dent in the passenger-side door. The man behind the wheel looks like he's in his late twenties, sandy hair, brown eyes behind wire-rimmed glasses. He lowers the window as I come jogging up, and asks the question that begins this ritual--a question that pre-dates cars, and highways, and even the United States of America:
"Where are you heading?"
Something about the honesty of his expression pulls the real answer out of me before I have time to consider: "Buckley Township, up in Michigan."
"I've never heard of it."
That's why honest answers are a bad idea. Name big cities, major thoroughfares--places people know. You're more likely to get a ride if the driver believes you're heading for a real place. "From here, you just drive toward Detroit." I muster a smile. "Please? I'll go as far as you'll take me." I don't tell him any stories, don't try to sell him any lies. I'm too tired and too hot for that. I just wait.
That seems to be the right approach, for once. After a moment, he nods, and unlocks the door. "Hop in," he says. "I can get you a good chunk of the way there."
"Thanks," I say, hooking the door open and sliding into the smooth, well-worn embrace of the front seat. "Thanks a lot."
"Don't mention it," he says. The engine starts and we pull away. I allow myself to relax, trying to ignore the sweat trickling between my breasts and the constant itching on my back. Maybe this day won't be so bad after all. I've got a coat; I've got a ride; there's even the chance I'll be able to talk the driver into pulling off somewhere for a milkshake and a cheeseburger. You try being dead for fifty years and see if you can describe a better day.