IT WAS THE BEST day of Jem Parsons's life.

Jayne Wilmer had finally agreed to go out with him, and that was practically as good as getting tickets to Comic-Con. Jayne was tall. She was blonde. She was a cheerleader. She had all the ingredients Jem's seventeen-year-old brain figured girls were meant to be made of. And he had a pretty good handle on women, he thought. He'd seen movies. A lot.

Jayne wasn't the captain of the cheerleading team, but it was her second year on the squad now and that meant she was head and shoulders more important than the freshies.

She was social status.

Even better, she was hot.

Jem's Firebird coughed as he rounded a turn onto East Hart Street and eased the automatic transmission up a gear. A thin cloud of bluish smoke spewed out of his tailpipe and hung over the road behind him as he sped away. The warmth of summer was easing into the burbs of NYC with the graceful fingers of a painter, brushing small, bright green leaves onto the ancient oaks that lined Hart. Jem cranked down his window – with the hand-lever, of course; the Firebird was a clunky '95 with no power systems – and let the wind ruffle his sandy blond hair.

Jayne Wilmer. Jem let the name waltz through his head like a silk dress caught in the wind. Maybe she spoke a little ditzy. Said "like" too many times in front of too many words. Maybe she and Jem weren't going to have any in-depth conversations about world peace or human rights, but Jem didn't care much about those anyway. Maybe she wouldn't be excited about every update from the Curiosity rover currently trolling the surface of Mars, which Jem did care about, but he wasn't above sacrificing. That's how relationships were supposed to work.

No doubt about it, Jem thought as he swung off Hart and put the skyline of the city in his rearview, this was the best day of his life.

Even better, it was Friday. They weren't going out in the far-off realm of Next Week, or Sometime. They were going out Tonight. 

The Firebird coughed again as Jem turned off the main road at the elegant wooden sign announcing the entrance to Roadwood Terrace in flowing red script. Something behind the dash rattled as the brittle suspension bounced over a small hump where a fresh layer of asphalt had been laid the previous summer, but Jem was too busy mulling the chances of post-movie activities (Jayne Wilmer had an SUV with one of those reclining back seats) to notice. The towering oaks of Hart and Greenbriar gave way to rows of low, ranch-style houses, manicured lawns, and mulch-strewn flower beds where the year's first tulips were just peeling tentatively out of their closed buds. Houses and lawns and flowers he'd seen hundreds of times as he drove home this way from school.

Since it was Friday, Jem had had yearbook club after school, and he was getting home late. He'd been useless at the club meeting, where they'd been discussing the layout for the senior ads to go in the back of the book. Who cared about pictures of Billy Greeson hanging from the football field's goalpost when Jayne Wilmer was probably already getting ready for their date? Not him.

Twice the club president had yelled at Jem for daydreaming. Twice he'd snapped away from tantalizing visions of Jayne smiling at him as she climbed into his car later that evening. Would he kiss her? Who was he kidding? Probably not. But maybe, maybe he would. After all, summer vacation started next week. What did he have to lose? And those lips...

Miles inside his own head, Jem didn't see the grayish-blue car speeding down the cross-street ahead of him. Its lights were off, and it all but blended into the gathering dusk as it barreled toward the intersection. Jem only had a slight sensation of movement out of the corner of his eye before the two vehicles connected with a screeching crunch. It was over as soon as it started.

Jem's Firebird spun into the grassy ditch at the corner of the intersection and the blue-gray sedan stalled right in the center, its nose scrunched in like an accordian. Glass from Jem's passenger-side window lay scattered over the asphalt in a sea of dull gray translucent crumbs.

Jem groaned and put a hand gingerly on his neck. Whiplash. His chest burned where the seatbelt had dug into it. Thank God he'd seen the parking monitor on his way out of the school lot and slid it on. Normally, Jem completely forgot to wear it. He tried to crane his neck to see the damage to the other car, but the angle was too extreme. His neck was already getting stiff.

Jem got out of the car and walked around the rear. The driver's door of the offending sedan opened as well and a tall, muscular man unfolded onto the street. He rushed over to Jem.

"Hey, man, you alright? That stop sign popped out of nowhere. Didn't have time to hit the brakes. You hurt?"

Jem instinctively raised a hand to his neck. Rubbed the aching muscles. "I don't think so. Not too bad. Are you okay?"

"Nothing worse than a bruised ego and a couple thousand in repairs," the man replied, smiling sheepishly. "You wouldn't believe the airbags in those things. Are you sure you're alright? I can take you to the hospital."

In his head, Jem knew he should be angry. People got angry when they got into accidents. Like usual, though, he couldn't muster it. Confrontation wasn't his thing. The accident could have been worse. That was enough for him.

"No, it's fine. I'm fine," Jem said. He glanced back and forth between the two cars. His passenger-side door was a caved-in, crinkled jumble. The window yawned where the glass had shattered out of it. So much for the perfect day.

He turned back to the man. "So uh, what do we do now? Trade insurance? Call the police?"

"Yeah, that'd be best, wouldn't it," the man said, sheepish smile still plastered across his face. He was trying hard to look apologetic. A sleek wave of dark hair hung over his forehead, utterly black in the fading sunlight. His frayed blue jeans and loose-fitting white T-shirt emblazoned with a turquoise image of a knight and an excited caption proclaiming him to be a FIRST ASSEMBLY CHRISTIAN WARRIOR seemed out of place. Thrift-shop veneer. They didn't quite fit the man's wiry frame.

"Only thing is, uh," the man continued, "I kind of left the house in a hurry and left my wallet sitting beside the door. It has my driver's license in it. Silly me, figures that's the day I run a stop sign. I'm Petar, by the way." He extended a hand. Jem took it.

"Jem."

"Look, are you sure you're not hurt? I feel awful about the whole thing. Of course I'll pay to have your car fixed, and any hospital bills. We don't need to bother the police with it. Are you sure you don't want to see a doctor? I can take you."

Something about the question felt forced. A sliver of apprehension crept under Jem's skin. The guy seemed pretty intent on getting Jem to go with him.

"Really, I'm fine," Jem deflected. "Let's just trade information and have the insurance company sort it out."

"Works for me," said Petar. "Do you have a pen?"

"In my car. I'll grab it."

Jem walked around the car and leaned in through the open driver's door. He flipped the center console. Nothing. Rummaged through a pile of paper McDonald's bags on the floor of the passenger seat. Felt something hard. A pencil. It needed sharpening, but it'd do. He grabbed an old receipt with it and stood back up.

Petar was gone.

"Sir?" Jem looked around. Maybe he got back in his car, Jem reasoned, and went over to it. "Sir? You in there?"

"Over here."

Jem jumped. The voice was behind him. He turned and saw Petar walking toward him from the Firebird. From his car. Where he'd just been. The evening was just at the point where the sun dipped too low to cast any light, but before the streetlights buzzed to life for their nightly vigil. In the shadows, the man took on a strange, otherworldly look.

"Sorry, just taking a look at the damage," Petar said, stepping toward Jem. "Looks like it missed all the important bits," he explained.

Jem hadn't seen him there, but he hadn't really looked, either. Maybe he'd crouched to get a better look. The light was terrible.

"Got a pencil," Jem said.

"Perfect."

They traded numbers, each on one torn half of the receipt, and Jem turned to leave.

"Look," Petar's voice made Jem stop. "I really am sorry about this. Completely avoidable, and entirely my fault. I'll see that the insurance company pins it all on me. Least I can do. It was a pleasure meeting you, Jem."

"Likewise. Sorry it had to happen." Jem shook his hand.

Petar watched Jem back out of the ditch and speed off, then slowly climbed into his own dented car.

Thanks for reading my story! Please VOTE and let me know what you think of it so far, then check out Chapter 6!