In memory of Nicole Lewanski

Eighteen
I 
SENT
R
AD
an e-mail with my article about him attached before it was due to go
to print. A few moments later, my phone rang. “Shit,” I swore, digging through
piles of paper and other office junk to find it. “Hi?”
“Hello!” It was Rad. “Nice article. Especially the reference to my boyish good
looks.”
“That was Sam’s idea. I think she has a crush on you.”
“Who can blame her?”
I laughed. “Did you read the bit where I mention how modest you are?”
“I haven’t got to that part yet.” He was quiet for a moment. “Hey, did I really
say that?”
“Say what?”
“‘An author’s first novel is always, at least in part, an autobiography.’” He was
quoting a line from my article, word for word.
“You did say that. I have a recording of it.”
“Wow, that’s profound.” He sounded pleased with himself, and I couldn’t help
but smile.
“That’s the reason why it got the extra attention.”
“Yes, the red type really jumps out against all that other stuff I said.”
“Not to mention the bump up in font size.”
“And the generous application of semi-bold.”
We laughed.
“Hey, are you doing anything right now?” he asked suddenly.
“I just got into work.”
“Can you take the day off?”
“Uh,” I said chewing the end of my pen and surveying the office. It was abuzz
with activity, but since it was Friday, I knew it would slow down toward the
afternoon. “I have to finish up an article, but I can probably slip out just after
lunch. Why?”
“I have a surprise for you.”

---

“You know I hate surprises.”
“I think you might like this one.”
I 
STOOD
ON
the sidewalk outside the office scanning for Rad’s car when a pastel-
pink Cadillac—top down—pulled up beside me.
“Hi,” said Rad, looking up at me from the driver’s seat.
“Hi.” I looked down the length of the car. “Something seems different about
you today, Rad.”
He laughed and pushed open the passenger door. I slid into the seat beside
him. It was a beautiful day. The air felt electric, like anything could happen.
“So what’s with the car?”
“Just doing a favor for my dad’s friend. He asked if I could drive his new
Cadillac up to his house in the Northern Beaches. Want to tag along?”
“Sure—why not?” I put my seat belt on. “We’ll be back in time for dinner,
right?” Duck was coming over for dinner that night, and I had planned to tell
him I was hanging out with Rad again, before my article went to print. I wasn’t
looking forward to his reaction, but I was sure he’d come around eventually.
After all, Rad and I were just friends.
“Yeah, we can be back by dinner,” said Rad.
“How are we getting back, by the way?”
“There’s a rental car waiting for us at the other end.”
“Perfect.”
I 
ENJOYED
OUR
conversation as we sped away from the city and through the
streets of suburbia. I had never felt more alive, with the wind rushing through my
hair and Duran Duran blaring on the stereo. “What’s this radio channel?” I called
over the music.
“It’s a cassette. This car comes with a tape deck. There are stacks of them in
the glove compartment.”
I pulled the latch, and, sure enough, there was a small collection of cassette
tapes scattered inside.
“They’re ’80s tracks,” I said, delighted.
“I thought you’d like them. They were thrown in with the car. Dad’s friend is
crazy about the music of that era.”
“I don’t blame him.”
“Neither do I.”

---

“It’s been ages since I’ve seen one of these.” I held the cassette tape in my hand
like it was a holy relic. “Look at this compilation: the Bangles, Tears for Fears,
Talking Heads.”
“Great mix!” Rad agreed.
I ruffled through the collection and picked out another tape.
“Oh my God.