The truck was Soda Pete’s pride and joy, pistol-silver and not a mark on it. He’d drive it three miles an hour round the high-school parking lot, engine growling so deeply you’d think it might pounce. Most girls – the prettier ones anyway – had taken a ride in that truck, but not Ida. She kept herself to herself and gave Soda Pete and all those other jocks a wide berth.

Still, she went to the football games like everybody else, cheering when the Roosters made a touchdown, smiling but shaking her head if a boy offered to buy her a hot dog or a slushie. Like her mama said – give a boy an inch and they’ll take a mile, and it was true. So Ida gave them no way in, and for the first two years of high school got a whole lot of sneers and jeers in return. Now, for the most part, the boys who’d eyed her and the green-eyed girls who’d noticed just left her alone.

But Soda Pete rocked up new this year, having moved to Kansas from Minnesota – hence the name, though boys sniggered about some other, secondary meaning. He hadn’t given up on Ida yet, having graduated from asking her out to hollering about her frigidity every chance he got.

Ida didn’t care. She had friends, the ones who didn’t care either. While most kids were obsessed with their crushes or the Friday game, she had her eyes cast over their shoulders, scanning for the world beyond high school. The world beyond Kansas.

All the same, for now this was the world she was stuck with, so after the game Ida walked down the track to meet Sass and Marcie-Lou at the field where kids gathered on Fridays. Without having to turn around, she knew who was on her tail when she heard the growling grow louder behind her, until it pulled level and Soda Pete leaned out the window on a burly forearm.

“Hop in, I’ll give you a ride,” he grinned. Ida shot him a quick smile in return, tight-lipped.

“That’s ok,” she said. “I’m alright walking.”

“What’s the matter, you need a limo or something? Don’t be scared, I’m not gonna hurt you. C’mon, hop in.” The field was coming into view. Ida gestured at it.

“We’re here anyway. It’s fine,” she said. “Thanks.”

Soda Pete scowled. “What’s the matter with you? You think you’re too good for anybody?” He threw the truck in reverse and shimmied behind her. Startled, Ida jumped aside, but not before he’d blasted the truck through a muddy puddle and sprayed her from head to toe.

“Stuck-up bitch!” he hooted out the window, roaring past.

“Jesus, what happened to you?” said Marcie-Lou as Ida turned up. Sass grimaced and rustled up some napkins.

“The usual,” Ida said, watching Soda Pete’s friends double over as he held court beyond the bonfire, leaning against his truck. The boys were on a high after their win. The mood was victorious, footballers high-fiving and cracking beers, girls tossing their hair and slinging glances. Soda Pete went to grab another beer and stopped to talk to Michelle along the way, whose flutey laughter floated over on the evening breeze. Ida started walking off.

“Hey!” called Sass. “Where you going?” 

Ida didn’t stop until she reached the open door of Soda Pete’s truck. No one paid her any attention; they were too used to making a point of ignoring her. She hauled herself up and, sure enough, he’d left the keys in the ignition. She slammed the door and turned the key. The moment his truck roared to life, Soda Pete noticed.

“What the—” he muttered, and started shouting, stumbling and slipping in the mud as he tried to race back. But Ida had the truck moving, and all Soda Pete and his boys could do was holler and watch as she tore around the field, Soda Pete red in the face and screaming bloody murder. Ida gunned the truck through the mud, girls squealing as the wheels sprayed up dirt and boys backing away. Ida hung out the window, one hand on the wheel.

“I thought you offered me a ride?” she yelled, skidding out of Soda Pete’s way, his face apoplectic, his truck decked brown. “I decided to take you up on it!” Even if she could only go round in circles, not quite sure how she was ever going to stop.

*

S L Krutzig is a reporter covering breaking news and government in Boise, Idaho. She has had short stories published in The Milk House, Revolution John, and PovertyHouse, and flash fiction in RiverLit. She was a finalist in the 2021 Hemingway Shorts Literary Journal Short Story Competition.