voices; you can hear them straining sometimes, but thatâs what makes them real . Thatâs what makes it beautiful.â
I can feel the car going up a hill. Stella gets quiet for the next few songs, speaking only to tell me who the artist is and a little history. As I listen to a gorgeous song thatâs nothing but an acoustic guitar, cello, and haunting voice, she says, âThis one is from 1992. We werenât even born yet. Can you believe it? Everything cool has happened already.â
âMaybe something even cooler is going to happen any minute now,â Cole says.
âI doubt it,â Stella says.
âWhat about your band?â
âThatâs very sweet of you, but itâs kind of hard to rock when you havenât practiced in two months.â
The van continues to go up, and Iâm guessing weâre somewhere in the Oakland or Berkeley hills. I feel my chair strain against the bungee cords, but Iâve never felt safer. Itâs disorienting not being able to see anything, but I kind of like it. Itâs like all that exists is the music and Stellaâs and Coleâs voices and the feeling Iâm being taken somewhere good.
Stella sings her heart out, but after a while she has to stop because sheâs out of breath. âThe altitudeâs getting to me,â she says, but I remember that we are sick. We are not as invincible as these songs make us feel.
The van slows down. âWeâre here,â Cole says, and does some kind of complicated parking maneuver.
Part of me wants to stay where I am, in the dark. The world in the back of the van is small and manageable; itâs just me in this tiny space, with nothing and no one else to worry about. I donât even have to worry about me. I can let go because Stellaâs calling the shots. I can just let her lead. I donât have to care about how everyoneâs feeling. I can finally relax.
When the back doors open, I am on the edge of the world. All I can see are the lights of Oakland over a thousand feet below me, the Bay Bridge and the San Francisco skyline, even the Golden Gate Bridge in the distance. The moon is full and reflecting off the bay. Everything is clean andsparkling, the streets pulsing like arteries. From this height, everything down there seems to be working efficiently, as if the city is a healthy, flawless body. We canât see any of the dirt or crime or poverty. We canât see any of the disease. Up here, on the outside, everything is perfect.
With Coleâs help, Stella hoists herself into the van and leans her back against my wheelchair. Cole follows and snuggles against her. We sit in silence for a while, looking out over the city, and I think I could sit here forever.
I hear some movement and look down. Stella is rolling a joint. I watch, mesmerized, as her thin, graceful fingers work. Iâve never seen anyone roll a joint. Iâve been around weed a few times, smelled it, seen it being smoked at parties, but it was never something I was all that interested in trying.
âIâve never smoked before,â I tell her.
âThereâs a first time for everything.â
âWhat if we get caught?â
âThis is Oakland. People smoke weed walking down the street.â
âYou donât have to if you donât want to,â Cole says. âIâm not since Iâm driving.â
âNo,â I say. âI want to.â For some reason, it suddenly seems like something I have to do. Like I have to prove to myself, to Stella, that I am someone who can be wild. I can break out of a hospital. I can get strapped into the back of a van and not care where Iâm taken. I can smoke pot at the edge of the earth, inches away from death.
âI donât think Iâve ever broken a law before,â I say.
âBut youâre not even breaking a law,â Stella says. âThatâs the best part. Itâs not even illegal. You
I can feel the car going up a hill. Stella gets quiet for the next few songs, speaking only to tell me who the artist is and a little history. As I listen to a gorgeous song thatâs nothing but an acoustic guitar, cello, and haunting voice, she says, âThis one is from 1992. We werenât even born yet. Can you believe it? Everything cool has happened already.â
âMaybe something even cooler is going to happen any minute now,â Cole says.
âI doubt it,â Stella says.
âWhat about your band?â
âThatâs very sweet of you, but itâs kind of hard to rock when you havenât practiced in two months.â
The van continues to go up, and Iâm guessing weâre somewhere in the Oakland or Berkeley hills. I feel my chair strain against the bungee cords, but Iâve never felt safer. Itâs disorienting not being able to see anything, but I kind of like it. Itâs like all that exists is the music and Stellaâs and Coleâs voices and the feeling Iâm being taken somewhere good.
Stella sings her heart out, but after a while she has to stop because sheâs out of breath. âThe altitudeâs getting to me,â she says, but I remember that we are sick. We are not as invincible as these songs make us feel.
The van slows down. âWeâre here,â Cole says, and does some kind of complicated parking maneuver.
Part of me wants to stay where I am, in the dark. The world in the back of the van is small and manageable; itâs just me in this tiny space, with nothing and no one else to worry about. I donât even have to worry about me. I can let go because Stellaâs calling the shots. I can just let her lead. I donât have to care about how everyoneâs feeling. I can finally relax.
When the back doors open, I am on the edge of the world. All I can see are the lights of Oakland over a thousand feet below me, the Bay Bridge and the San Francisco skyline, even the Golden Gate Bridge in the distance. The moon is full and reflecting off the bay. Everything is clean andsparkling, the streets pulsing like arteries. From this height, everything down there seems to be working efficiently, as if the city is a healthy, flawless body. We canât see any of the dirt or crime or poverty. We canât see any of the disease. Up here, on the outside, everything is perfect.
With Coleâs help, Stella hoists herself into the van and leans her back against my wheelchair. Cole follows and snuggles against her. We sit in silence for a while, looking out over the city, and I think I could sit here forever.
I hear some movement and look down. Stella is rolling a joint. I watch, mesmerized, as her thin, graceful fingers work. Iâve never seen anyone roll a joint. Iâve been around weed a few times, smelled it, seen it being smoked at parties, but it was never something I was all that interested in trying.
âIâve never smoked before,â I tell her.
âThereâs a first time for everything.â
âWhat if we get caught?â
âThis is Oakland. People smoke weed walking down the street.â
âYou donât have to if you donât want to,â Cole says. âIâm not since Iâm driving.â
âNo,â I say. âI want to.â For some reason, it suddenly seems like something I have to do. Like I have to prove to myself, to Stella, that I am someone who can be wild. I can break out of a hospital. I can get strapped into the back of a van and not care where Iâm taken. I can smoke pot at the edge of the earth, inches away from death.
âI donât think Iâve ever broken a law before,â I say.
âBut youâre not even breaking a law,â Stella says. âThatâs the best part. Itâs not even illegal. You
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