Rewind
Jenna Jauregui

An explosion implodes. The bubbling tower of fire is pulled from the frosty night air as if sucked through a vacuum hose. The intense heat and dazzling light give into sudden darkness, a torch of flaming marshmallow extinguished in a single breath. he acrid smell of smoke—nothing left but a charred, unrecognizable mass: a melted heap of rubber and steel that twists to life with a screeching, metallic groan. Something familiar takes shape: a bumper, a grill, and two glowing headlights. A crumpled bit of blackened tinfoil morphs into a silver cat—a leaping Jaguar.
Four tires appear, spin into the air as the car does a backwards somersault. Spattered blood darts back into its source. Crushed cartilage and bone snap into place. Burns and lacerations disappear into skin. Suddenly, we’re breathing. The world spins in a circle and I fall in next to you through the hole where the window used to be. Our bodies collide with everything, our limbs smashed against every surface. Each new contact yields one less bruise. Your face hits the steering wheel and you’re suddenly awake, screaming. Down is up, then down again. Every impact is the sound of glass and metal crunching, damage reversing.
Trillions of tiny glass bits come zooming towards us like a blizzard, and with a great shattering noise the windows are intact. I can even make out the zigzags I drew in the condensation. The car leaps backwards into the air and our bodies lurch with the movement, the useless airbags deflating into the dashboard. We’re flying. The radio is playing that heavy metal stuff you like; I don’t know the name of the song. I’m screaming. You’re screaming. The lead singer is screaming. Was the volume really that high?
The back tires skid across slick asphalt. Splintered boards and rusty barbs scrape the candy-red sides of your beloved Jaguar, but you’re too scared to notice, too busy clutching the steering wheel and screaming. The fence reconstructs itself in the headlight’s receding glow as the demolished wooden planks and tweaked wire come together with a thunderous smash. We’re spinning again, the tires screeching as we skid in reverse across the yellow lines. I’m yelling at you to brake, reaching over to grab the wheel, our eyes as wide as our gasping mouths. For a second, I’m aware of my heart pounding—the music’s deep bass throbbing in my chest.
The spinning stops as the front tires leave the traction-less ice. The glistening dark sheet appears in front of us—too late for me to warn you. We’re suddenly jerked into the darkness behind us, the speedometer needle sliding past 60, 55, 50, your right foot slowly easing up on the pedal as the needle drops. Broken, glowing lines in the dashboard read 11:56. “Stop looking so paranoid, we’ll make it,” you say to me as the digital numbers blink back to 11:55. You glance at me as you reach to turn on the CD player and notice the way I’m staring uneasily at the clock. Midnight curfew. I’d never had a problem making it home in time before.
Tiny white flakes swirl up into the sky. My finger erases the designs in the fogged window as I trace it over the glass. “No,” I say. “Of course not.”
“You don’t think I’m a terrible person, do you?” you plead, flicking the blinker on and turning off the highway, rolling backwards through the intersection. Neon storefronts reflect in the glistening wet asphalt, moving past us and appearing one by one through the front windshield. There’s the restaurant where we had your birthday dinner in October, when you turned seventeen. I gave you the silver charm bracelet you’re wearing. Afterwards, a few guys from school invited you to a house party to celebrate. I went home and watched TV. You wanted me to come, but I wouldn’t lie to my parents. Tonight was the first time I did lie—you finally guilted me into it.
On the left, the drugstore comes into view. I remember that one time two years ago when you drove me to get ice cream and we sat in your shiny new car and ate heaping spoonfuls of Chocolate-Chip Cookie Dough, talking and laughing about life. That was before your new crowd of friends, when the two of us could hang out without you begging me to drink. “It’s not as bad as you think, Amy,” you’d say. “Come on, rebel a little! Don’t be so boring.”
We pass the high school, where I stood by my locker, waiting for you to meet me at lunchtime. You said you had to tell me something—something I couldn’t tell anyone I knew. It seemed like forever since you had told me your secrets; our hour-long phone conversations had grown shorter and shorter. You told me you had gone to a party and smoked pot for the first time. You seemed triumphant, happy about it.
I never told you that I worried about you. I never said anything.
“Good! But watch out, Amy, or I’ll be a bad influence on you!” you laugh as we roll backwards down the street.
I paste on a grin. “It was fun!”
“So, how did you like your first party?” you ask, turning to me with a wide smile.
Raindrops make tiny rivers on the windshield, and I stare at them as they slowly creep up the glass. I keep quiet, the way I always have. You don’t need another person judging you—another person against you. I don’t want to fight.
“I can’t believe how much Drew was all over me tonight!” you suddenly giggle as 5th street appears before us. “He is so hot. I’ve had my eye on him since like, last year. Damn, he’s amazing. We shared a joint together afterwards… it was awesome.”
The late-night traffic around us is a blur of white and red dots that blossom into bright, glowing flower shapes if I cross my eyes at them. I don’t know why I feel so sleepy…
“I think you had just the right amount to drink,” you say, glancing at me. “Any more and you might have thrown up all over my car.” You whip around the corner, and we disappear backwards down a different street, stopping by a vacant edge of curb in front of a large, well-lit house.
The engine dies with the sound of it coming to life, and your bracelet catches the light from the streetlamp as you turn the key. “Trust me, I’m okay. I didn’t drink that much, and that was hours ago,” you assure me, “and plus I don’t want anyone else driving my Jag. Come on, Amy. Don’t worry so much.”
“Maybe we should call someone to pick us up,” I say, opening the passenger door and rising from my collapsed slump in the seat as if pulled by strings. My mouth is clumsy as it shapes my words; I guess I’m still feeling those four shots you made me take, one right after the other. They tasted awful—you laughed at my grimacing face.
“Are you sure you’re okay to drive, Meg?” I ask you as you open the driver’s side door and back away from your car to join me on the sidewalk. The street is filled with tipsy teenagers rollicking in the frosty night air—it’s so cold out here; we can see our breath surrounding our faces in booze-scented clouds. The lights on your shiny red Jaguar blink twice and it makes that little “bleep bleep!” chirp as you click the unlock button on your key ring. “Come on,” you say to me as we step backwards up the driveway and make our way towards the front door, “I’ll take you home.”