1999 Read Online Free

car down, “just blew a tire.”
    â€œWhat are you doing?” screamed Debbie, mascara streaking her face like war paint. “Are you crazy? Don’t stop!”
    But there was no choice. Sonya got out of the car. The back left wheel was already withering into a black rubbery goop. In the distance something like a bomb went off and a flash of light doused the neighbourhood; a few shots followed, then silence. Sonya’s breath puffed from her face in clouds; she shivered and clutched her elbows.
    Debbie came and stood beside Sonya, eyeing the flat. Mrs. Mendelbaum rolled down her window and stuck her head out to evaluate the damage. “Tire’s flat,” she said, nodding sagely.
    Esme hadn’t moved since they’d entered Minneapolis, and still sat petrified in the back seat, eyes tracking at once over everything and nothing, hands still hidden inside the pocket of her hoodie.
    â€œIf you want to keep going,” Sonya told Debbie, “we’ll have to walk.”
    Debbie’s mouth opened, but no sound came out – her jaw just hung there slackly, her expression that of a stunned child watching a prized balloon lift into the heavens. The night was silent for a moment; everyone waited. Slowly into Debbie’s eyes seeped that old look, a hungry, focused sort of lunacy, and her mouth snapped closed with a clack of teeth. She looked from Sonya, to Mrs. Mendelbaum, to Esme – but they were passing glances, because now she was off, shrieking, the grenade raised over her head, high heels ticking on the asphalt as she vanished into the night.
    â€œGoodbye, Debbie,” called Mrs. Mendelbaum from the back seat.
    Sonya got back into the car and sat there, staring out the windshield: the darkness was broken by sporadic pockets of light from the flames of burning buildings. Things felt still again for a moment – but once again that was short lived, as a fireball, like an orange fist thrust righteously into the sky, rose up from the Home Depot at the end of the block. The air was thick with smoke and ash, and debris rained down and went scuttling along the street.
    Coughing, Sonya pulled her shirt over her face. “Anyone have any ideas?”
    Esme leaned into the front seat and turned on the radio.
    â€œPeople,” came’s voice, meek and exhausted, “U have gotta listen 2 me. This ain’t no time 4 hate. I’m – I’m here. I’m waitin’. I don’t wanna die 2nite.” There was a pause, then, and Sonya was sure she heard a sniffle – was he
crying?
“This is a song I wrote,” he finally spoke, “and it’s called ‘Just as Long as We’re 2gether.’ I hope U listen to it and I hope it means somethin’ 2 U.”
    The music began and everything slowed down. Outside things seemed to settle; the flames leaping from the Home Depot dwindled. The only sound was’s voice over the shudder of instruments, the patter of drums. It was a sweet song. Everyone listened.
    By the chorus all three of them had joined in: “Just as long as we’re 2gether / Everything’s alright (everything’s alright) / Everything’s alright (everything’s alright).” While Mrs. Mendelbaum provided subtle harmonies, it was Esme’s voice that moved Sonya the most: beautiful but fragile, at once knowing and innocent.
    Then the song was over. They waited forto speak, but only a light hiss of static played from the radio. Everyone in the car waited for another blast from outside, or rekindled gun battles, but none came. And there was something about this silence that didn’t feel like an interlude – whatever battle had been raging seemed to be over.
    Esme touched Sonya on the arm. She was pointing out the window at an alleyway off the main street. “Can you –”
    â€œDo you have to pee, dear?” asked Mrs. Mendelbaum, with a look of empathy that spoke of her own ongoing urinary