The Highway Overpass

It was one of those hot airless days where spring is long behind you and winter is a myth. There was little traffic on the normally busy interstate; everyone was draped over their air conditioners, or splashing at the beach. The trooper looked around, then pulled his car up next to the divider. He could park for a few minutes. No one was coming.
He got out of the car, quietly shut the door, and looked at her. She wasn’t moving. Safe to approach? He wasn’t sure.
“Hey,” he said.
She must have heard him, but she didn’t turn around. She didn’t move at all. She leaned against the concrete barrier as if she’d been sculpted there, looking towards the shimmering road below, with its few semis inching along its length like caterpillars. Down and down and down.
“Hey,” the trooper said again. “Hey…ma’am? Ma’am?” He took a few tentative steps towards the barrier, one hand on his gun, not taking his eyes off of her.
She turned at last and jumped when she saw him. He stopped immediately, not wanting to scare her any more than he had to.
“Y-yes?”
“Is everything all right?”
She looked around at the nothingness and unstuck herself from the barrier, straightening up, and stood at respectful attention. “Doesn’t it look so?”
“Well, frankly, no.” Another step forward. “I had a 10-107 on the radio. A truck driver called it in,” the trooper said, still staring hard at her. She was pretty, or would have been if she didn’t have so many holes in her. Ears, nose, eyebrow, upper lip. No jewelry at all, though—just the piercings, raw and empty. She had a tattoo in the corner of her eye, a red teardrop. The clothes didn’t match. They were brand-new and clean and preppy. The jeans were Abercrombie, the shoes were Nikes. “He said you were standing up here all by yourself. He said you looked as if you’d been here a long time. Are you in any trouble?”
“No, sir.” When she shook her head, her hair fell down in front of her eyes, limp and greasy. She did not bother to push it back.
The trooper took another step towards her, carefully. “What’s your name, ma’am?”
Another pause. Then: “Mallory.” And the last name: “Jennings.”
“Can I see some identification?”
“Don’t got any.”
She appeared to relax a little and the trooper walked up next to her. He was close enough to touch her now. “All right, Ms. Jennings. I’m Trooper Mark Thomas from the highway patrol. Would you mind telling me what you’re doing here?”
She hesitated. “Waiting for someone.”
“Who?”
“My friend.”
He did not try to hide his disbelief. “This friend said to wait on a highway overpass?”
“He’s from out of town,” she said defensively. “I met him online and he’s never been here, so I said I’d wait here cause it’s easy to find.”
“Is this ‘friend’ your boyfriend?”
“No.”
“You know, you really need to be careful about the kinds of people you meet on the Internet. How do you know he’s not some kind of pervert?”
She shrugged.
“Where is your friend?”
She shrugged again. “Guess he’s not coming.” She smoothed her hair back and squinted up at the trooper, the sun bright across her cheeks and forehead and catching on some glitter below her eyes. She had smudges of something black and shiny on the corners of her mouth. He wanted to wipe it off for her.
“Where do you live?” he asked.
“Down there.” She pointed at the city off in the distance, several miles down the stretch of road.
Had she walked all the way here? In this heat, it was asking for trouble.
“I mean, what’s your address?” he persisted. “I could give you a ride home.” She hesitated again. “You shouldn’t be up here. It’s dangerous. You could get run over.”
She shuffled her feet awkwardly and stared at the ground. Her hair was hanging in her face again. It had been dyed light brown, and badly—the black underneath was showing through in streaks. Standing this close to her, he could smell the hair dye, feel the chemicals stinging his nose.
“Do you go to State?” he asked, looking at her college t-shirt. Like the rest of her clothes, it was neat and clean and new, carefully tucked into her jeans.
“Yeah. I live on campus,” she admitted.
“Let me take you home,” he said, making his voice gentle, coaxing. “Come on, now.” And employed logic: “It beats walking in this heat.”
She had no choice but to get in his car.

“Are you sure everything was okay back there?” he asked as they made the drive to the university campus.
“I’m fine, sir,” she mumbled.
“I mean to say, Mallory, sometimes things happen to people that are hard to handle. But there’s always somebody that would help you out if you care to ask.”
“I don’t need any help, sir.”
Well, if she wasn’t going to tell him she wasn’t going to tell him. He had never been very much good at small talk, but he made a stab at it. “What’s your major?”
“Philosophy,” she said.
“Wow. That’s, uh, pretty impressive.” He knew nothing about philosophy.
“I was in nursing but I switched.” She glanced out the window at the highway greenbelt, then faced the front again. “I like Nietzsche.”
As they neared the state university campus, he saw a shiny banner stretched across the road, tied to the trees. In large block letters it said PARENTS DAY. He glanced over at the girl and saw her grimace at the sight of the banner.
“Are your parents here?”
She shrugged and stared at the floor.
They turned into the campus driveway. “Where do you want me to drop you off?” he asked, wishing he didn’t have to.
She looked out the window, glanced around and pointed at a squat brick building. “The registrar’s office—there.”
“I don’t want to see you on that overpass again, Mallory,” he lectured. “That is very, very dangerous. If I see you there one more time, I’ll have to pick you up for…” he thought quickly. “…loitering.”
“Sure.”
Although it was hot, there were a few people out, mostly students showing their parents around. They all stared when he parked. “Let me give you my card,” he said. She took it without looking at it and shoved it in her jeans pocket as she got out.
“Bye,” she muttered. “Thanks for the ride.”
“Take care, Mallory.”

He watched her go. People stared at her as she trudged across the glittering concrete. No one spoke to her. No one seemed to recognize her. She walked up to the entrance of one of the dormitories, took a card out of her pocket, swiped it in the reader, and walked inside. So she did live here, after all. He hadn’t been sure.
Just then, recognition bloomed in his mind. He knew her—at least, he’d seen her before. Six or seven months ago to be exact. He’d stopped her out in West Decatur for crossing the center line, and let her off with a warning because she wasn’t drunk and had no prior citations. He hadn’t realized it was her until now, not just because she’d been wearing black and white makeup and a studded dog collar at the traffic stop, but because she had been so damn happy. Smiling and cheerful, not in the least bit troubled that he’d stopped her. She’d been with some boy who looked just as ridiculous as she did, very long dark hair with stark white streaks.
I wonder what happened, he thought.

He pulled back onto Jefferson Boulevard and drove under the PARENTS DAY banner. Back to the interstate. Back to work.