The Coma

    Natalia Grimwood, an overly cheerful girl with terrible cooking skills, hasn’t peed in over eight hours.

    In fact, she hasn’t moved anything other than her fingers since this morning. (Get your head out of the gutter; she’s been typing.) She’s simply stumbled out of bed, made a poor excuse of scrambled eggs and hasn’t strayed for her computer since. Her breakfast, now long forgotten and emitting a smell that not even the poets could put into words, sits next to an empty carton of OJ that was full not five hours previous.

    Hence Natalia’s ungodly need to visit the ladies room.

    She doesn’t notice, of course; as far as she’s concerned, her body doesn’t even exist. Her mind is trapped in her world of words where she is currently creating a rather gruesome interpretation of… well, you don’t want to know. Point is, it’s no surprise that when two very tan and very loud teens come crashing into her room, she doesn’t even lift her head.

    “It’s not going to spoil, Johnny,” the girl drawls, then tries not to smirk at the boy’s expression. “I don’t even think watermelon can spoil.”

    “You know I hate that nickname,” the boy—John—mutters. “Only my mom calls me that.” The girl shrugs, then freezes. Taking a big inhale through her nose, her hand flies to cover her mouth. The boy notices the smell too, though his reaction is far less dramatic than his companion’s.

    “Ugh, not today,” the girl gags. “She had to pick today?”

    “Maybe she’s almost done?” John offers half heartedly. The girl, now pinching her nose between her fingers, makes her way to the back of the room to find Natalia hunched over her glowing screen, abandon eggs beside her.

    “This’s become a problem,” the girl scolds, though she knows her friend can’t hear her. John lumbers up next to her, taking the cold plate with a grimace. “I mean, just think about all the starving people who would kill for those… are they eggs?” The boy nods, scrapping the yellow blob into the garbage and tying the bag shut.

    The girl starts tapping her foot, lips retracting behind her large front teeth. John, recognizing the look, pales and shakes his head. “Don’t do it, Meg. Remember what happened last time?” he tries to warn.

    “It really wasn’t that bad. Plus, she’d been ten hours in. She can’t be over nine today.” A pause. “What time do you think she made breakfast?”

    “Meg, she’s in the Coma and she hasn’t eaten yet. Double jeopardy.” He counts on his fingers for emphasis.

    “We’ve been planning tonight for ages. She’ll have to suck it up.” Meg leans over the girl’s shoulder, eyes narrowing as she reads. “She just spelled ‘in’ with an e at the end. I’m waking her up.” John starts to argue, taking long strides towards them, but he’s too slow. Meg grabs Natalia by the shoulder, making the writer physically jump in her seat. A noise that can only be described as assorted strangled like sounds escapes her throat as she yanks out of Meg’s grip and whips around.

    “It’s us, it’s us!” Meg half shouts, waving her arm to get her friend's attention. The panic on Natalia’s face slowly glazes over into sleepy confusion.

    “Oh, uh… hi,” the girl manages in a husky voice. Rubbing her tired eyes she mutters, “What are you guys doing here?” Meg rolls her eyes and sighs.

    “The beach party’s tonight.”

    “What time is it?” Nat says over Meg’s response.

    “Six,” John answers dutifully. Nat’s eyes widen, fully pulled out of her world now.

    “Six?” she repeats incredulously. “No, it’s, like, noon.”

    “Nope, it’s six,” Meg confirms.

    “Oh man.”

    “Get off your butt, we’re going to the beach.”

    “How’d you guys get in?”

    “I never gave the spare key back.”

    “I’ve really been sitting here the whole day?”

    “Come on, we’ll miss the sun set.”

    “Holy shit, I have to pee.”

    “Nat!” Our girl’s head snaps up at this, eyebrows raised.

    “Yeah?”

    “Beach night.”

    “Pee first.”

    “Fine.”

    “And food.”

    “You can eat in the car.”

    “The waterlemon’ll go bad before we get there anyway,” John supplies.

    “It. Won’t. Spoil!”

    “Give me five minutes.”

    “Three.”

    “Deal.”

……….

    It may be occurring to you that Natalia didn’t ask for time to change. This, my friends, is because it is summer in Nantucket, which means bathing suits for underwear and sunscreen for lotion. Especially if you happen to be a late teen who borders on the edge of adult demands and a tax free life. Which our trio happens to fit the description of perfectly.

    This also happens to explain why they are currently doing what all teens do best; terrible, sincerely horrifying car karaoke.

    “So I put my hands up to play my song, the butterfly’s fly away,” they shout between mouthfuls of overly ripe watermelon. Their screaming is accompanied by sporadic and severely uncoordinated arm movements, which successfully earn them annoyed glares from the older island residents. None of the teens seem to notice (or care), so they finish the song off without hesitation.

    John gently eases them to a stop at a red light, the wind quieting in their ears and letting their loose hair fall into their eyes. Nat pushes hers aside with a grin, leaning forward between the front seats.

    “And then he’s going to die at the hands of his own brother,” she says enthusiastically, then sticks her tongue out between her teeth in concentration. “Or maybe he gets caught in the crossfire. Anyway, he’s gonna die during the final battle.” Her eyes take on a wild shine. “It’s gonna tear people apart.”

    “You’re a terrible human being,” Meg confirms, shooting her friend a sad look. “Why would you kill off the hot one?” John lets out a deep laugh, making Nat break out into a big smile.

    “Remind me to not let you write my life,” John jokes, pushing his foot against the gas pedal, which sends Natalia thudding back into her seat. She quickly recovers and climbs back to her perch.

    “I really think this could be the one, guys.” She’s practically buzzing with excitement. Taking another big bite of fruit, juice squeezes through her teeth and proceeds to poor down her arm, dripping onto the carpet. John sighs, but doesn't say anything. Meg only giggles, sticking her arms through the sunroof, creating currents of air twisting through the car.

    “I’m so happy for you, Nat,” Meg says, turning her dazzling blue eyes to the back seat. “I told you that you’d be the next New York Times best selling author.” Nat blushes and tucks a stray lock of dark hair behind her ear.

    “Yeah, well, I’m not there yet.”

    “Yet.” The three grin, then Meg lets out a shriek when Harry Styles starts to croon about love from their old stereo. They let the music carry them the rest of the way down the old cobblestone streets. Quant two story houses turn into blurs on either side, oranges and pinks streaking across their open windows like a colorful record. The girls’ hair gets hopelessly tangled and sticky with pink watermelon juice, but neither try to tame it. They reach the edge of the beach just as the sun starts to dip dramatically down the horizon, sending a flush across the crashing water.

If you were a local watching these three fling themselves out of the car and onto the rocky sand, you would just shake your head and not think twice. You might envy their carelessness, or consider telling them to watch where they’re stepping. But the truth is, you wouldn’t remember this site years later. You wouldn’t nudge your friend and go over and ask for a picture. Wouldn’t stop what you were doing to ask yourself, “Is that Natalia Grimwood?” Why would you? They’re just another group of happy teens lucky to be living off of their parent’s money just a little while longer.

But soon, like everything else, things will change for these three. Even as they hop from foot to foot and curse at the burning sand, their time together is already drawing to a close. They’ll try to keep in touch even after their day’s under the salty sky are done, and maybe they’ll succeed. Or maybe life’s current will sweep them down separate streams.

So as Nat watches the other two argue and lug an oversized cooler down to the water, her head tilts to one side with a goofy grin. Then her face falls, mouth hanging open. She scrambles reach her back pocket, pulling out a small notebook with a black pen hanging from its pages. Bending her head down to block the sun from her eyes, she scribbles furiously on the crowded pages. After a moment, she leans back, a look of relief and satisfaction relaxing her muscles while a small smile plays at her lips.

“Now that is good.”

“Nat! You gonna stand there all day or help us?” Meg calls from where she’s leaning on the cooler. Nat stuffs the notebook back into her pocket and runs the rest of the way down the sand to her friends. Quickly picking up one end of the box, they trudge across the shore, grimacing at the especially sharp pebbles that dig into their feet.

“What were you writing?” John asks in between gasps. A far away look melts Nat’s eyes, and her friends don’t notice her mischievous grin as she looks at the two infront of her.

“You’ll see.”