Monica bobbed her head in time to the music, both girls singing along with the CD. She couldn't help grinning when she glanced at Krystal, seeing the peaceful, happy expression on her friend's face.
"That's such a beautiful song," Krystal said, the last notes fading away. "I really love Savage Garden. Play it again, Monica."
"Sure Krystal," Monica replied, moving to hit the re-play button, "anything you want. It is a beautiful song. It always brings tears to my eyes."
The song hadn't had a chance to start, when both girls felt a bump. Monica's eyes flew to her rear view mirror as Krystal grabbed her seatbelt, clutching it tightly between her fists.
Their eyes widened in alarm as the sound of the car smashing into the Mustang's rear fender, metal scraping metal, sounded above the music playing.
"What the," Monica gasped, her grasp tightening on the steering wheel.
"What's happening," Krystal shouted, her eyes opening even wider, "who's doing that Monica?"
"I don't know," Monica screamed in reply. Her eyes darted from her mirror to Krystal's pale, frightened face and back again. She leaned forward, her fingers tightening impossibly tight around the steering wheel as her right foot pushed the accelerator to the floor. With a burst of speed, the Mustang raced ahead, leaving the other car in its dust.
***
Monica's eyes darted to each of her mirrors continually, scanning the darkened path behind her for any signs of the crazed motorist. Tensely gripping the steering wheel, her knuckles white from her hold, she eased off the accelerator slightly. She risked a quick glance at Krystal.
Pale and shaking, Krystal's fingers clenched and unclenched spasmodically on the seatbelt across her chest. Her eyes were wide open, staring unseeingly behind her.
"Are you okay, Krystal?" Monica asked.
"I . . . I think so," she replied, her voice a tiny whisper. "Who was that, Monica? Why did he. . . ."
"I don't know," Monica answered, "I was hoping you'd have a clue. All I know is, I've never seen that car before tonight."
"Um, I, uh, I have," Krystal stuttered, glancing at Monica quickly. "He, uh, well, I think he wanted to pick me up. Right after I got the snag in my dress. I told him to go away." She turned to look behind her again.
"Oh my god," Monica exclaimed, " how awful! What did he do? I mean, did he say anything?"
"He called me a bitch and drove off," Krystal answered. "Thank god," she continued with a soft sigh of relief, "there's my street, and no sign of that jerk." She loosened her grip on the seatbelt she had been clutching, wriggling her stiffened fingers.
Monica nodded at Krystal as she turned on to Winslow Avenue. She glanced at her mirrors again, still only seeing darkness behind her, she allowed a soft sigh of relief to escape from her lips. Seconds later, she pulled in to the long horseshoe driveway at Krystal's house.
Krystal unfastened her seatbelt and opened her door while the Mustang was rolling to a stop in front of her door.
"Thanks for the ride, Monica," she said, "you don't need to come in or anything."
Monica's jaw dropped as she stared at Krystal, not believing what she heard.
"You sure, Krystal?" she asked, glancing at the darkened house before continuing. "I mean, it was pretty scary, and we don't know where that guy is or anything. Maybe I should . . ."
"I said no," Krystal replied, slamming her door shut. "It's over, we're both fine. All I want to do now is take a nice hot, relaxing bubble bath and forget this night happened." She turned and ran up her steps, putting thoughts of Monica and the happenings of the night behind her, once again complaining about her ruined dress.
Monica watched Krystal disappear through the door, jumping slightly when the door slammed shut with a loud bang. Nervously chewing on her lower lip, she turned to stare at the street, scrutinizing and studying each shadow she saw.
