The hatchback of his beat up Volvo station wagon was open wide, yawning like a lazy lion. Warm summer wind whistled past, and bursts of heat lightening made the clouds over head flash, with rain sure to follow later. The back seat was pressed down, she was in his arms, and they were in a light blanket watching the credits roll upward on the drive-in movie screen.

This would end soon, they both knew it. She was heading to one coast, him to another. They’d both gotten into the colleges of their dreams, and now the whole rest of their lives were conspiring to pull them apart. But that’s how high school went.

They were lucky enough in that there was no regret, nothing unspoken, no hidden animosities. She was his best friend, and he was hers. They were partners through the biggest years of each other’s lives. Really, there wasn’t much more you could ask than that.

The credits for one movie finished and the screen went white, a blinding terminus.

But then, it went dark again, as the next movie began.

This would end soon, but not tonight. He pulled her closer to him in the meantime.

Memphis Note
The Summer Avenue drive-in is the only one in the city. Horrible and crappy and dirty, just like a drive-in should be. Because when you go to the drive-in, you don’t go for a great picture or stunning sound, you go to be with people. The movie is just an excuse to gather, the people are the reason you go.

The keys on her phone clicked furiously under her fingers. She let the predictive text do most of the work. They’d get the point of the message, she was sure. Hitting send, she snapped the phone shut and slid down the bathroom wall, ruined.

It just sat on the edge of the basin, taunting her with that perfect blue line.

This didn’t make sense. She’d never let him, you know, inside of her. Sure, maybe things went on for a bit before they put a condom on, but never far enough for stuff to happen…right?

God. What the hell was she going to do? She wasn’t some poor girl out in Frayser. Her parents had money, she was going to go to college, she was going to have a future. But now that stupid blue line had been drawn across her life.

It was a line of demarcation, dividing what was before, and what comes after.

On the floor, her phone started to buzz like a beehive, filling up with messages, and her waiting for the sting. She couldn’t bare to open it. If she did, then all of this would be real, and she would really be pregnant.

Memphis Note
In early 2011, the national press caught wind of the rising pregnancy rate at Frayser High School. They called it an epidemic and a failure of the Memphis School System and Memphis as a whole. I couldn’t help but wonder what a privileged girl finding out that she’s pregnant would think about those 90 girls who were pregnant at the same time. Would she think that she’s better than them? Would she empathize with them? Or would she just be a normal, selfish teenager and not think about anything but herself?

I held it up, careful to only touch the rough green stem. Its dark red surface glistened, slick with oil. The sheen seemed to bleed out into the air around the pepper, making it undulate like heat waves off a desert road.

“La Sangre del Diablo,” I said, reverently. “The Devil’s Blood. The most violently hot pepper you can legally find in America.”

“Are…are you sure this is a good idea? We don’t have to do this.” Whimpered Kevin, at my side.

“No!” I hissed. “This stops. I will not spend another year letting those jocks tease, humiliate and abuse us.”

I slipped it carefully into a paper bag and paid the concerned looking man behind the table.

As we walked through stalls of the farmer’s market, I smiled a wicked smile.

“So what are we going to do with it?” Kevin inquired.

“We’re going to dice it up…,” my voice trailed off, lost in the moment.

“And?” He urged, spurring me on to hear the rest of the plan.

“…then we’ll rub it all over their gym towels.”

For the briefest of moments, I swore I could hear the pepper hum, low and furious, approving of the plan.

Memphis Note
Despite our reputation for being America’s fattest city, Memphis has a surprising number of farmers markets. There’s one downtown, two in Midtown, and a few more as you head into the ‘burbs. All of them showcasing the best in fresh, regional produce. Believe me when I say this, you haven’t lived until you’ve had a fresh Ripley tomato. Have. Not. Lived.