Gecko

By Khalila Soubeih

The first time you drive on the freeway, your mother is in the passenger seat holding her breath. You turn onto the ramp, struggling to adjust the settings on the wipers. In your mirror, headlights turn the rain into sparks.

“You need to speed up,” she says.

You press the gas pedal. Water sprays from under your tires as you enter the merge lane.

“Luke Anderson got accepted to UW.”

“Okay.”

“You were friends with his little sister.”

“Yeah, I know.” You flick on your turn signal.

She turns her head to check the lane. “You can get in after this van.”

You do, and there’s a bright red truck behind you as you struggle to stay at sixty. It’s the fastest you’ve ever gone and on the wet road, it feels like you might fishtail at any moment.

“Isabella was your best friend for years.”

She was, but you don’t go to the same school anymore and she has better things to do than hang out with you. You say, “Things change.”

“You and her and Gracie were so close. I wish you still had friends like that.” 

You stare at the road ahead. The expanse of asphalt here is endless. You are one of few drivers going somewhere so early on a Sunday, and the red truck zooms past you, going at least seventy. A wet leaf flies onto the windshield and just as quickly, the wiper sweeps it away.

“Gracie was so sweet,” your mom reminisces. “Did she ever get that gecko she wanted?”

“It was a bearded dragon, which is a lizard, not a gecko, and I don’t know,” you say. “We don’t talk much anymore.”

This isn’t entirely true. You follow each other on Instagram, and you do talk sometimes. But now his name is Keiran and the bearded dragon idea was abandoned for a rosy boa named Crowley. You don’t mention any of this to your mother.

“Our exit is the one after this,” she says.

The ramp loops off the freeway, forcing you to slow down. At this speed, the rain is no more than a spatter. You turn up the music and come to a stop at the traffic light. Dodie Clark whisper-sings about liking girls and your mom’s lips press into a thin line.

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Khalila Soubeih (they/he) is a creative writing student at Western Washington University. He writes about queer magic, often set in their home of the Pacific Northwest. In their free time, they can be found exploring tide pools.