Angela

I watched as he took it away. The guy barely spoke English, but we both understood he was here to tow my car away. I was using Google Translate to translate what we were saying, and I’m not a hundred percent confident that it was speaking clearly. I felt the same about my life. What am I doing here? How did it come to this? 

I asked the man if he still needed the manual from my car; it was the only thing I didn’t clean out of the red 2023 Nissan Altima from the day before. Of course, he said no. I don’t know what I was thinking. I was under a lot of stress, dehydrated, and low on sleep. 

I just watched it get towed away into the busy streets of my city that I’ve grown to love. The second car that my parents gave me. The car that survived my second wreck but not my third one. The car that my parents paid for the transmission replacement. The car that I had through junior college. 

“Oh, come on, Carla!” Angela, my former conjoined twin at the head, consoled me as I walked my way across the busy street and to my apartment building. She had starry contacts, pigtails in her bright blonde hair, wore lilac-colored lace over her white tank top, a pink-and-violet-blended tulle skirt, and blue boots. Meanwhile, I wore a black sleeveless turtleneck with black jeans and black dress boots. And my hair was light brown or dirty blonde. The only splash of color to my style was my white checker earrings and my blue eyeshadow on my pale skin. 

Angela shook my shoulders and rang in my ears her loud thoughts. “At least you have public transportation, and friends who are willing to give you rides. I mean, you still must think about the costs for Uber, trains, and Greyhound, but you won’t have premiums and gas to pay for a little while. And hey, what about school?” 

“That car was still a gift, Angela,” I responded as we pressed the crosswalk button, with it immediately spitting out a robotic WAIT command as the cars drove on by. “At least nobody was hurt from that rear-ending situation the other day.”

“You just had to say that forbidden sentence, right? TV always warns us to never say things like “At least this day can’t get any worse?’ or ‘Can this day get any worse?’ or the worst sentence of all: ‘What’s the worst that could happen?’” I rolled my eyes as I quickly crossed the street after the crosswalk signal flashed to the countdown hand signal. Angela followed quickly behind me, rambling off annoying reminders of my mistake while also trying to make the best of it for me. “I mean, you were already having a bad day with not getting good sleep after going to bed early, you were late for work, forgot your license when driving to church, and medical insurance not paying for your much-needed medicine.” I’m just trying to get through the day and note to self: don’t drive for a little while to save trouble.

Angela was right. I was lucky the cops weren’t involved. I was on my way to a friend’s place before Wednesday night services, and I forgot to put my wallet in my church bag from my work bag. This was my third accident ever, not counting scratches, close calls, flat tires, and running over curbs. Not good for someone who’d only been driving for six years. I must be one of the worst drivers on the planet. Maybe I’m letting Angela get into my head. 

But it’s okay. I’ve gotten used to her outbursts, thoughts, and anxiety attacks. We’ve always driven each other around the bend from day one. She and I were the perfect combo when it came to writing and art. She was the crazy side to my technical side. 

I honestly can’t list out everything we talk about, because then it’d be like printing out the Official Public Records of my brain more detailed than my search history and more confusing than riddles. Angela and I have the best adventures when dreaming. Some are amazing, like riding raptors, fighting final bosses, race car driving, flying in the sky, and meeting our favorite TV show and video game characters and/or dream guy(s). Or horrifying like being chased by zombies, always forgetting something important on a trip halfway around the world, losing my family to tragedy, assassination attempts for hate speech, being stalked by demonic spirits or sex traffickers. 

“We need therapy,” Angela and I would say together over and over again. Still getting into it.

But anyway, as I got to bed, Angela was relaying all of my misgivings and stresses. As the mask, I was falling apart while she texted my friends, my long-distance boyfriend, Joseph, and my parents. I knew from past experiences that it was best to just tell people rather than not to. Hurt pride was always preferable to broken relationships, and that often required being vulnerable and exposed. 

I felt awful on several levels, and Angela didn’t stop rambling off. I didn’t have a good driving history; here I thought I had been doing better because I didn’t get into a wreck for over a year (which was a record for me), I was fresh in the dating world at church, and I was already planning on switching careers, which my parents were worried about. 

I was surprised when Joseph called me, and I picked up. 

“Carla, are you okay?”

I was crying. “I will be.” 

Then Angela opened her mouth on all my issues and stresses. I just kept apologizing, because I wouldn’t be able to drive down to meet him an hour and a half away. We were going to meet halfway, have a picnic by the river, visit some museums, and check out a book I got for a good deal from visiting a friend. And I ruined it. I felt like a loser, because every normal girl would be responsible with a car to get places, especially if you are in Texas and the public transportation wasn’t as good as New York City or Chicago’s. I keep blanking out and getting into trouble, and worst of all, I could be one of those people that just couldn’t be trusted to be safe with such an expensive vehicle. 

I’ll spare the long and tense argument between me and Angela. Angela was telling me to keep my job that guaranteed stability and a car for more than a year, while I wanted to go back to school, even though I had no idea where I would go in life, thus trusting God would know. I wanted a flexible schedule and wanted to prep for being a future mom and wife like my mother did for me. Financial stability is important, but not my top priority. This was an argument that lasted for months. 

“You know, for once it would be great for people and you to stop reminding me of money when really God should be the focus. I don’t care what excuses I get. Maybe I don’t want the stable life where I’m most definitely going to be more materialistic than I already am! The American Dream is a myth!” The iced water Angela had dumped on me in my room earlier had turned to steam. 

Angela scoffed, crossed her arms, and rolled her eyes. “Then it’s official; you’re a loser. And selfish. How God must be so proud of you.” The sarcasm at the end was enough for me to snap, scream, and tackle her to the ground. Ripping off earrings, tearing off each other’s clothes, and wrestling. This always happened in places where nobody but God could see. I feel everything at once.

I can’t stand Angela because we can’t seem to make up our minds to the point we have a hard time giving straight answers to people, and even our parents can’t trust us to be responsible sometimes. I hated and still hate that feeling. Angela does, too. She’s both my shoulder angel and shoulder devil. 

“I’m just glad you’re okay,” said Joseph. Angela just sat and listened as we talked. I didn’t feel the need to hide her from him; he seemed to enjoy her and just listen to me being real and vulnerable with him. I’m glad Angela and I can agree on this guy. 

When I was learning how to drive in another state, I met someone. But my parents didn’t approve of him, and at the time I didn’t understand why. Maybe I did. “Do we really want to hide something this big from Mom and Dad?”

“They’ll never get it, Angela. They don’t listen to me, anyway.” 

“Oh, come on, Carla. They’re trying their best! And don’t you think he’s pushing boundaries, anyway?”

“Angela, I love him.”

“Well, I don’t. Who tries to introduce sexual fantasies into roleplay when we make it clear we aren’t comfortable with it?”

“Whatever.”

The car I had learned to drive at the time, a blue 2016 Ford Escape, I would crash it not even a year into my family’s move across states. Nine months after that, I got my Nissan. 

However, Angela and my family were right. I was drawing away from the Lord; I treated my other siblings, including Angela, like crap, and I had never felt so alone. Like drowning in an oil pool all alone, with hands like Angela’s pulling me in before I could scream out for help. I wouldn’t know how to. 

“Why do you always got to blame me, Carla?” Angela would ask as I looked at used cars online. 

“Because every time I get in trouble, you or something else are what drive me. My flesh wants to do what’s evil while the spirit does what’s right.” I keep scrolling. “I can’t be the bad guy here. I never meant to be.”

Angela went quiet. “Nobody does, Carla, sweetie. But you were still there when those incidents happened.”

“So? It’s not like it’s my fault I keep messing up in life. Jesus covered it all when I was baptized, anyway.”

“True. But maybe you’re just too scared to admit wrongdoing because it puts you in the same guilty party as everybody else.” I clench my fists and glare at her. Memories of my parents yelling, getting bullied at school, the angry media protesting and riots, heartbreak, and insecurities flash through my mind.

I don't deserve this, do I? "Can’t you be on my side and shut up for once?” Or maybe I just hate those reminders.

“Have you learned nothing, woman? I can’t! We suck at being judges, as many crime documentaries and social media comments have taught us.” 

“Yet all we think about is ourselves. How about that?”

“You and I both know that we should be dead by now because of the trouble we've caused. Have some gratitude.”

Those words stung me. “I already know that! Just once it would be nice to do something right without the stresses of criticism!” 

“I know that! But not all criticism is good for us!”

“I know that! But if we don’t listen to it, we may end up missing much well-needed advice.”

“But we don’t always know what’s good advice, do we?”

Tears are streaming down our faces as I choke out, “No.” I wipe my blurred vision and wipe my nose. Why can’t this just stop? Angela brushed my head and handed me a tissue. I quietly take it and blow into it. My mascara’s gone now. 

We look at my Bible, sitting on top of my bed. I’m currently working on my taxes, and I have work I need to get done. But I don’t know where to go from here, and quite frankly, I don’t know where I’ll be the next year. All the different opinions of what to do, and Angela and I have our dreams of what to do while meeting with reality. 

Beaten up, naked, and feeling weak from Angela and my fight, I pick it up and read the first chapter that I turn to. It had been a while since God and I had spent time together in peace. 

“I hope to see your Son in my dreams,” were my last words to Him before I closed my eyes to rest underneath my messy but cozy covers. 

The next morning, I took a deep breath and went to the full-size mirror. I saw a woman ready to take on the world. Both her conscience and her mask, all one being that had been gloriously made. On the outside, her dirty-blonde hair, her beautiful eyes, cute nose, her smile, her strength, and even how short she was. On the inside, she was creative, kind, sassy, ditzy, smart, funny, and flawed. 

As I took the buses and walked to work, it hit me. Not like how I do to others. This was all a gift that I didn’t deserve. The two cars my parents gave me were gifts, even though I insisted that I wouldn’t drive. They were doing it because they loved me and didn’t want me to be as exposed and vulnerable as I would be without one. But I had treated those cars and relationships like if I were trading cars at a dealership. 

The sunrise was worth it. I get to listen to the birds and smell the flowers. I still get to see Joseph, my family, my friends, and most importantly, will get to see my heavenly Father someday. Man's plans will fall through, but God's plans will always pull through. I have all I need because of Him. 

“If something is gifted to you, treat it like one,” were Angela’s last words. Everything's going to be okay.