The delicate flowers that fell seasonally from the Cherry Blossom trees outlined the path to the trash habitat, that’s how the more to-do class of folks referred to the trailer park. Me and my from-birth, best friend, Bindy called those people the Whoopty-do’s. One good slander deserved another.
They’d drive through in their new cars and deliver can goods to those of us who needed them. Little Timmy Green always rode along with his mom, buckled up in the backseat of her Buick. Barely big enough to see out, he’d side-eye Bindy as long as she remained in his view. It was a crush if I’d ever seen one. Bindy didn’t believe he was love-struck until last week when Tim turned sixteen, funny how names change with age.
He stirred up the flower petals as he whipped his birthday coupe around the corner. He squealed to a stop next to us, reached over and opened the car door. “Bindy, come for a spin?” He barely blushed, she turned crimson. I pushed her into the car and told her I’d see her later. I wished a better life for all us trash.
I swung my ponytail as I skipped back to my lot. They hadn’t been gone a good three minutes, when I heard the train’s horn blaring in the distance, the sound of metal crunching and my best friend’s scream, all of which still echo in my mind. As time goes on, I try and keep my friend’s memory alive, telling the tragic story of her and Tim’s death. Ironically, “Whoopty-do” and laughter is all the sympathy I get from today’s human.
Leesa Writes 