Page 3 of Kane

My anger is boiling, boiling.

My head feels like it could pop at any moment. Pure rage will spew forth, like a volcano.

There’s a long wait, in the car, outside the venue.

Oh, right—Jiwan first. When he’s gone in, followed by an entourage of men in Western suits, all likely heavily armed, and more men in traditional Brahmin wedding party attire.

Then, finally, my family begins filing in.

I wait.

And wait.

I wonder if Mamma can see the steam escaping my ears, like in the old cartoons? My skin is hot to the touch with my rage.

They think I am going to just sit here? Just wait? Go along with it? Oh no.

Oh no.

Mamma’s door is opened. The front passenger door opens, the bodyguard exits. Then the driver—I see him toss the key fob into the cupholder, for the valet. Or because he is leaving it here, and does not want the weight of the fob to ruin the lines of his suit.

And that is when an idea strikes, and I know how I will escape.

Mamma leans into the door. “Anja? It is time.”

I look at her, try to hide the slyness in my eyes, the rage in the set of my jaw. “A moment please, Mamma. To gather myself.”

She nods and closes the door.

I am alone in the Monster.

The engine is running.

I do not have a license. I barely know how to drive—I have only been allowed to make little circles in the car parking, mainly to entertain me. This is very stupid, very foolish, but it is the only way I will be able to escape, and this is the only moment I will get.

Before I have a chance to rethink my plan—or even think about it for the first time, since I am operating on gut instinct—I scramble over the console and into the driver’s seat. Lock the doors.

Find the gear shift, press the brake, put it into reverse. Look behind me, jam the gas pedal.

The engine roars like the monster it is, tires squeal. The massive vehicle bolts backward, and I slew the wheel around, the front tires skidding. I nearly hit another car, the wall, the shrubs. Only through sheer luck do I avoid an accident.

Put it into drive.

Jam the gas.

I have no idea where to go, so I just go.

There are shouts, yells, but I ignore them. After all, they all ignore me, so now it is my turn, yes?

I weave through traffic, driving far too fast; I swerve, barely controlling the monstrous automobile—this is nothing like doing circles around a parking lot. Cars honk at me, flash their lights...I am on the wrong side of the road, I believe. I do not care. I just drive, too fast, only just barely avoiding any number of wrecks. Somehow, miraculously, I end up on a highway heading out, away from Las Vegas. The setting sun is in front of me.

Fortunately, there is a pair of very nice sunglasses on the dash—men’s, but there is no one to take a photo of me in men’s sunglasses. I floor the gas until the needle won’t go any higher. It is frightening driving that fast, though, so I slow a bit, clutching the steering wheel in shaking hands, struggling to keep the Monster on the road between the yellow dashes and the white line.

I turn on the radio, and I find a good station. Rock. Mamma hates it when I listen to American rock music. So, I turn it up until the windows rattle and my ears hurt.

I roll down the window, thinking to be like a girl in the movies, the window down, hand out the window—but it’s too hot. Too hot.

I close it again.