Chapter 43
It was ten o’clock Friday night in Wilmington – the 13th of July, 2012. Chantelle began getting ready to go out to Pumpers Lounge on Nutt Street with two of her best friends, Leeza and Monique. She was rummaging through her clothes searching for the right look. Must not wear anything too risqué. I’m not trying to get a boyfriend; I already have one. A good one. The golden one.
She had already given her mom and brother three thousand dollars each. She had told them that a generous, old, white-haired lady had come through her checkout line and felt sorry for her for some reason. She told them that when she said that she was from Haiti, it must have struck a sympathy nerve, as the hunched-over lady must have assumed the worst – abject poverty to the max. The sweet, elderly, presumably-well-off lady immediately got out her checkbook. Her mother and brother seemed to have believed the fabrication.
While looking at herself in the mirror, Chantelle thought about how the night might go. Now, don’t make yourself look too sexy, girl. You don’t want every Dong, Dick, and Hairy asking you out. She even thought about cancelling. But soon, the girls were knocking on the door.
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The club scene was not too intense. The guys were surprisingly not poon-craving animals on this hot and sultry Friday night. In fact, it was quite laidback. The music was reggae-infused trip-hop. The patronage had a nice racial mix. All was transpiring in swells – no breaking waves.
When a big black guy asked her if she would like a drink, she politely declined and told him that she and her friends would soon be leaving. He didn’t seem too put out by it. They had been there for two hours already. She had been sipping mineral water the whole time. She didn’t mind being the designated driver this time; she already had what she wanted.
Her two female friends were a little tipsy, but not severely plowed. She ushered them into her silver VW Beetle and drove them home. They would make arrangements to get their cars tomorrow afternoon – after their hangovers abated.
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She was headed south on 16th Street, slowing down for the red light at Castle Street when thoughts of David filled her mind. When I get home, I’ll call him. He’ll like that. I don’t want to attempt a text while driving. Too many cops out now. Even though hardly anyone ever gets busted for texting while driving, it would just be my luck.
The light turned green. Chantelle began to make the right turn as if by second nature. She suddenly saw a speeding, dark-colored vehicle out of the corner of her left eye.
<CRASH!> A black, red-light-running, Lincoln Navigator slammed right into her door at 44 MPH.