Title: Chokecherry
Author: kissmepurple 
Genre: Angst/Drama
Rating: PG-13
Summary: My best friend died on the T-junction between Saskatoon and Persimmon. The boy I might have loved was driving the car.</lj>

Table of Contents

Chapter 1

I live in a town called Pomona. Its poorly constructed streets are names after fruits.

Pomona was found so long ago, that no one even remembers when exactly. It started out as a small strip of land situated on Bilberry Boulevard. From there, roads were haphazardly built as the citizens of Pomona gained land. It’s now 5,679 square miles.

The only reason the city has so much land is because no one else wants it.  It’s flat, infertile land. Farmers irrigate, and fertilize, but our trees were still withered, and our fruit tasteless. Smart people wouldn’t invest in our land.

The people here are not smart. They have lived here forever, and love the ground their fathers gave them. The citizens still want their tiny slices of America, and are adamant about giving that up.

It’s because of them that the land hasn’t been put into use. They refuse to sell their property. It’s been that way for years. They don’t want their precious farms to be taken over by strip malls, and strip clubs. Harvest will be better next year, they always insist.

***

I have a veil of scars over my face. I got them to replace my best friend.

Her name was Tangerine Mills, and she grew up next door to me. She died because somewhere down the line, no one thought of the consequences of making shitty roads in Pomona.

There were four of us in the car, under eighteen, and slightly buzzed, if you want me to be honest. Except for the driver, who was quite legal, and quite straight-edged. The driver was a friend of ours, Sal. I was sitting next to him in the front seat.

I’m a year younger than Sal, and Tange is a year younger than me, but the three of us have always been neighbors, and somehow, we ended up being friends as well.

Sal had the windows down. It was sunset in August, and that’s the most beautiful time of the year. I’m Goin’ Down by Bruce Springsteen was playing on one of his CD mixes, and we were belting out the lyrics, between sneaking looks at each other.

I might have fallen in love with Sal, if he hadn’t been the one driving the car that night. He was seventeen, and I was sixteen, and I’d been interested in boys for a good few years. But I didn’t want to be with Sal because my parents wanted me to be with him. On another note, he never really told me that he liked me much either. He hinted it, but he never said it. Sal isn’t one to be articulate.

I didn’t want it to be as easy as me falling into the palm of his hand. So I dated around. I didn’t want to be considered some silly hick who marries the only man who’s ever been in her life. I could circulate. I could play hard-to-get.

In the back, Tange was making out with this guy, Rowan. He had a very plain, and boxy face, but he was built like a tank, and Tange liked that in a man.

“There’s something about being with a man who’s stronger than you,” she said. We had skipped history, and were chain-smoking behind the school.

“It’s like you’re really risking something.”

I never agreed with her on that. I liked safety, and comfort, which is why Sal always appealed to me.

The longest road in Pomona is called Saskatoon Street. It’s crooked, and winding, and horrible, but being the longest road, it’s quite useful, especially when you’re just starting to drive, and get used to directions.

Saskatoon Street has this really dodgy crossing where it intersects with Persimmon Path. There’s always been drama from worried mothers about that intersection, but there hadn’t been any problems, so no one did anything about it.

Essentially, Saskatoon Street has a nice deep, low swoop, then it comes up, and cuts off in a straight line before making contact with Persimmon Path in a sloppy T-junction. It would make more sense for Persimmon Path to continue straight, creating a four-way, but that would run into the Marshalls’ orchard, and running into the Marshalls’ orchard would be blasphemy.

Luckily, Persimmon Path is a pretty small road, and most of the fruit trucks that pass through don’t take it, unless they’re really baffled by the road maps.

“We come home early burning,” Sal and I sing, coasting along that scoop. “Burning in some fire fight.”

It would be the best place to drive, really, if it weren’t for that goddamned t-junction. It really makes you feel like you’re alive, coasting down that curve.

“I'm sick and tired of you setting me up,” I looked into his eyes, which were this lovely green colour. Just like if you hold a blade of grass up to the sun. He turned from me, and focused on the road.
“Setting me up just to knock-a knock-a,” I kept singing.

“Fuck,” Sal mumbled, hitting the breaks of his car. He’d forgot about the junction.

A pick-up truck smashed into the side of his car. The windshield was making a sickening crunch, as it folded in on itself.

Behind us, there’s a squealing of wheels, and smashing, crashing, scraping of metal. I heard it, the cars colliding, and destroying, but I couldn’t hear Tange scream.

I don’t think she screamed. I think she didn’t know what was coming, and died before she could realize what was happening. I hope that’s how it happened. I don’t want her to have had any feelings of fear, or anger. I hope that she just let go, and went wherever the dead go.