At lunch on Monday, I sit across the table from Kam and Seth, who are elbow to elbow. I’m sketching design ideas for Dusty’s robot, and I’m pretty much on fire for the first time, and I can see it, as in I finally know what I’m doing, and my blood is pumping and my heart is pumping like I’ve just run a marathon and sprinted all the way to the finish. Nothing, as in nothing, can stop the flow of these ideas, until Seth goes, “You know, Kam and me, we’ve got something that can help you out in your situation.”
I look up, a little foggy, because my head is on the paper in front of me, not in the MVB cafeteria. Seth is grinning like a jackal, and whatever it is, I don’t want to hear it.
But I say, wary as hell, “What situation is that?”
Seth elbows Kam hard, which makes Kam drop the three dozen french fries he was about to stuff down his throat. “Goddammit, Powell.”
Seth keeps right on. “I did some research last night.” He pulls a piece of paper out of his pocket.
“Jesus. Porn?” I should have known. I go back to sketching.
“Not porn. God.” He actually has the nerve to sound offended, even though as far as I know Seth thinks the Internet was invented for two purposes: porn and poker. “Number one. They’re easy to talk to.”
“Who’s easy to talk to?” I’m still making notes.
“Fat girls.” My head snaps up so hard I probably give myself whiplash. He’s trying to keep a straight face, but he can’t help himself—he’s snickering already.
“Two. ‘Pretty women aren’t always nice.’ ”
Kam goes, “That one’s true.”
I say, “What is it you’re reading to me?”
“ ‘Top Ten Reasons to Date a Fat Girl.’ I found it online.” He waves the paper, and then holds it up to his face again, reads something to himself, and starts howling. I make a grab for it, but he holds it out of reach, over his head. “Three …”
Kam rips the paper out of his hands and hands it to me. I crush it into a ball and get ready to launch it across the cafeteria into the trash, but I don’t want anyone digging it out of there, so I stuff it into my back pocket instead. I lean over the table and whack Seth in the head.
He just keeps laughing. Kam says, “Moron.” And crams the rest of the french fries into his mouth.
I know Seth thinks he’s being funny, but my insides are burning, like I’ve inhaled an entire forest fire.
“Lay off her, man. I’m serious.”
“Wow. Sure, sure, Mass. Whatever.” He’s wiping the tears away and trying to catch his breath. He sits quietly for a minute, and then, with one snicker, he launches into another laughing fit.
I try not to let it bother me. Who cares what they think? I tell myself it’s not that she’s fat. That’s not what I’m worried about. I’m not worried at all. I just want them to leave me alone. Leave us alone. But part of me is going, What if you’re just shallow? What if that’s your identifier?
“You’re a fucking idiot, Seth Powell.” And I gather up my ideas and what’s left of my lunch and walk away.
The Damsels Drill Team auditions sign-up sheet hangs on Heather Alpern’s door. So far seven girls have signed up. I’m number eight. Jayvee hands me a pen, and I lean in and write my name. Behind me I hear, “Oh my God, you’re trying out?”
Caroline Lushamp looks down at me with this weird pretend smile that makes her look like some sort of beauty queen serial killer.
I say, “Oh my God, how did you know?”
She blinks at me, blinks at my name on the sheet, blinks at Jayvee, blinks at me.
I say, “Just imagine it—we could be teammates.” And then I squeeze her into the tightest hug. “See you at auditions!”
Jayvee can barely walk for laughing. She weaves like a drunk person through the halls. Finally, she straightens up and stops laughing long enough to say, “So what did you do about the Atticus situation? Test or no test?”
“No test. I decided he knew best after all.”
“He usually does.”
In driver’s ed, we’re assigned three to a car, and since the rest of the class is made up of sophomores, the lone juniors are lumped together: Bailey, Travis Kearns, and me.
I’m pretty sure Travis is stoned. He carries on a commentary in the backseat that goes something like: “Floor it, big girl … Go like the mother-effing wind … Open her up … Show this world what you can do … Take that beautiful big leg of yours and slam that gas pedal … Take us to the moon, sister … or at least to Indy … Take us to Indy … Take us to Indy … Indy … Indy … Indy …” (Several indecipherable words followed by mad laughter.)
Bailey is in the back next to him, and she’s smashed up against the door, as far away from him as she can possibly get. But in true Bailey fashion, she’s wearing a determined smile. Mr. Dominguez, in all his manliness, is in the passenger seat. I’m behind the wheel, and I can’t help it—I’m excited. My hands are tingling and there is this crazy heat burning up from my feet, all the way up my legs, into my stomach, through my chest. I feel like I’m on fire, but in a way that lets me know I’m ALIVE.
You have to understand that for a long time there was a part of me that thought I would never drive or run or do any of the everyday things that people my age get to do. My world consisted of my bed and the sofa, and after a while, when I couldn’t move easily from one to the other, I stayed in bed all day and night, reading, watching show after show, surfing around online, and, yes, eating. Sometimes I would hear Dean, Sam, and Castiel outside, and if I sat up enough, I could see out my window into the street and watch them play tennis or soccer or tag. I saw Dean and Sam leave for dances and dates (in my mind, they were dating me). I watched the youngest, Cas, climb one of the trees that hugged the house. I overheard phone conversations and make-out sessions and arguments. Sometimes I’d see Cas in my yard, looking up at my window, and I would sit very still, hoping he’d go away because it was one thing to spy and another to be spied on.
So now I’m driving, which is why I don’t mind that Travis is nattering on or that Bailey is asking me about Jack and me and is there anything between us that means something and is there a Jack and Libby in any way, shape, or form that she should know about. Mr. Dominguez barks directions at me, and at some point yells at the two of them to shut up.
Even though this is my first time behind the wheel, I’m good at it. Like it’s effortless. I feel AT HOME here. And at some point it hits me—I’m driving.
As in I’m actually driving a car. Like a normal person. Like that person passing me on the other side of the road. Like the person in front of me. Like the person behind me. Like all these people walking down the street who probably have cars and licenses of their own. I AM DRIVING A CAR!
This is one more thing I’ll never get to share with my mom, and before I know it, I’m crying. I miss her, but look at me behind the wheel, steering us down the street. Look at me waiting at this stoplight. Look at me making this turn.
Mr. Dominguez says, “What the hell are you doing?”
Without taking my eyes from the road, I say, “I’m crying. And also driving. I’m crying and driving!” This makes me cry harder, and the tears are both happy and sad.
Bailey leans up and gives my shoulder a squeeze, and I can hear her sniffling. Dominguez goes, “Do we need to stop the car?”
“Never! I want to drive for days!” Suddenly I’m talking only in exclamation marks. And then I check my mirrors and, even though Dominguez hasn’t told me to, I go beelining for the highway entrance because I can’t hold myself back. I need to turn this car loose.