Train Tracks

My friends and I like to get drunk on the train tracks across the road from our old middle school. Shadowed and shrouded by the forest, nobody can find us. Light pokes in through the pine trees from a nearby church parking lot. It illuminates our faces just enough to distinguish who’s who. That’s all we need. We don’t fear an oncoming train because they’re a rare sight. They only pass through during the afternoon hours to get to somewhere bigger and better.

We pull warm Yuenglings and crusty, sugared-over bottles of Malibu out of our backpacks and pass them around taking swigs. The tepid, sour flavors swirl around our mouths, making us dizzy and loose. The humidity makes our skin shiny. Mosquitoes feast on the flesh of our legs.

A couple of sips in, I’m no longer worried about how I’m supposed to act or the fact that I’m so bored I could scream. I feel funnier, lighter, like a cool girl. I strut around in my mini skirt like a grown woman, attracting attention from all the wrong people. We all speak like sailors.

My future is out there somewhere, hundreds of miles away from here, waiting for me to grasp it with hungry hands. I can almost taste it. The buildings, the people, the classrooms—everything will be new. I’ll be new too. I picture myself at parties in the city drinking out of red cups, wearing heels and slinky dresses. They’ll ask me where I’m from and when I answer they’ll say they’ve never heard of it. But, for now, I’m sitting on these empty train tracks with people I’ve known since I was little talking a comfortable kind of nonsense.

Miranda Steinway

Miranda Steinway is a writer based in Los Angeles. Her stories have appeared in Across the Margin, Bending Genres, Ellipsis Zine, Maudlin House, and others. Find her on mirandasteinway.com.