Natascha�s cell phone goes off. She has a way of saying hello, a product of a pack a day and her own personality. It sounds the way British writers will sometimes write �Hullo� with a question mark tacked at the end of it. There�s a note of exasperation underneath it, barely disguised.
�Hullo?�
It�s her mother.
�Natascha, where are you?�
We can hear what she says through the static of the phone, through the tiny mouthpiece. We can hear every word.
�You know Aunt Gigi�s number?�
Gigi is pronounced Gee-gee.
�I�m over there. Grandma passed away about an hour ago.�
�Oh.� Natascha says.
My heart has stopped. I feel like a pull through my spinal cord, as though it is collapsing backward, being sucked out like an exit wound. No-no.
�There�s going to be a little service for her on Sunday. You should be there.�
�Can I call you back in like five minutes?� Natascha asks.
�Yeah. You don�t have to call me back.�
�I�m just in the car with a bunch of people and I need to talk to you about this but I don�t want to get upset.�
She repeats, louder.
�But I don�t want to get upset.�
She hangs up. Turns to me.
I pre-emt, �That fucking sucks.�
�I hate being on the phone in a car. I just hate how everyone can hear it. My mom always talks so fucking loud.�
�Yeah, mine too. I always turn the volume down? When I talk to her?�
�I keep the volume on my phone at the very bottom and then I get angry when I can�t hear what people are saying.�
Steve turns around at the red light.
�What did she say?�
�My grandma died.� The words don�t have a tone. They come out like she�s typed them on a square of white paper.
�I�m so sorry, dude.�
Everyone in the car extends an awkward apology.
I mean I was expecting to get a call sometime this weekend so it�s not like I didn�t know it was going to happen�
The words coming out faster, better. She�s getting better at lying.
�Let�s just go.�
I can see the struggle in her, she�s struggling.
We all pretend it isn�t happening. We put on the music again and we squabble over the front seat. We drive around SUNY Purchase looking through the dorm dumpsters for clothes, for furniture. Steve wants to collect TVs to smash, he and Colin are going to smash TVs and computer monitors and shitty guitars tonight. We don�t find anything: spoiled food and polyester underwear.
Natascha steals the car, drives about a hundred feet. Steve runs alongside it, snatches on to the open window.
�Natascha, what the fuck? Get out of the car!�
She rolls up the window and he bangs on it.
�Natascha!�
He�s genuinely angry. She�s laughing, drives around the corner. An old black man in a taxi regards us, the spectacle of furious Stephen.
She unlocks the door, gets out. We drive away.