The Day She Lost Her Soul
When I was eleven years old and in the sixth grade, I climbed into the backseat of my mother’s white Toyota Corolla after school, like I’d done countless times before.
My best friend Jasmine was with me. This wasn’t new either; she’d been coming to my house at least once a week since we were six. That day, we were in particularly high spirits. We’d spent all day together at school and had plans that afternoon to play with my new purple and silver Poo-Chi and build a dream life on The Sims while we waited for dinner. I was keeping my fingers crossed for macaroni and cheese or aji de gallina. Or maybe both. Our appetites knew no bounds back then.
My mother, usually punctual, had parked the car beneath the dappled shade of the lot’s single soaring arbutus tree, just as she had every other time she’d come to pick me up. She was unpredictable in many ways but her parking spot could always be counted on. It made me feel safe to know that I could exit my school and see the station wagon waiting to welcome me aboard.
Jasmine and I buckled ourselves in, tossing our backpacks to the floor. “Hi mom,” I said cheerfully. She didn’t reply. Instead, she wordlessly turned the key in the ignition, set the car into drive, and without a glance in either of the side mirrors, pulled out onto the bustling street, narrowly avoiding a crossing guard. Sorry, I mouthed . . .