My practicing didn’t seem to quell Gray’s or Max’s fears. The discomfort amped up again when I showed them the extended-cab truck that was our vehicle for the day.
“You want us to ride in that for ten—” Gray stopped himself.
If the tone had been lighter and the circumstances had been a little different, his agitation would have been funny. Here and now, it annoyed me, and he knew it. The four of us climbed into the truck, Max and me in the front, Gina and Gray facing each other in the back. The space was so tight, their knees touched. When I fastened my seat belt, Max checked on me.
You okay? he mouthed.
A posse ad esse, I mouthed back.
He nodded, and I turned the key.
“You guys ready?” I asked.
No one answered. Verbally or nonverbally. No one breathed when I backed out of the space. As I put the truck in drive, it felt as if someone had tied my throat in a knot. A cold bead of sweat slipped down my back. My knees trembled so fiercely, I was terrified to take my foot off the brake.
Gray was the one who broke my panic. He leaned into the space between the two headrests and said, “God, I hope no one needs Gina’s tires or hubcaps while we’re gone.”
We all laughed nervously, and I put my foot on the gas.
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
Driving was much harder to do when other cars (that moved) were involved and there was an audience. By the time I got to the I-10 ramp, I still hadn’t gone more than forty-five miles per hour, and no one had said a word.
Max occupied himself by drumming out rhythms on the window. Gina sang along to the radio, and Gray sat so close to the window that I couldn’t see him in the rearview, which was probably a good thing. Mostly, I gripped the steering wheel for dear life and prayed every prayer I knew. Fear was awkward. It was hard to be scared of something that everyone else was comfortable with.
“You’ll have to go faster on the interstate,” Max said carefully.
I knew that.
I just didn’t know if I could.
Every time I accelerated, we lurched forward so fast that I took my foot off the pedal altogether. With all the starts and stops, we moved like a broken ride at the county fair.
“I’ll try,” I told him.
Mom chose that moment to call.
“Want me to answer?” Max asked.
I nodded, and he rummaged through my bag until he found my phone in the bottom. His eyebrows rose at the sight of Big. On what must have been the last ring, he hit the button and said, “Hi, Mrs. Kingston. This is Max.”
Mom said something. I couldn’t hear what, but Max told her, “She’s driving right now.”
I heard her squeal. Bad squeal? Good squeal? Angry squeal? I didn’t dare take my eyes off the road to see Max’s response.
A semi roared by me, shaking the truck. Behind the semi, a woman driving a Hummer laid on the horn and jerked into the middle lane.
“Shit. People are crazy,” I yelled.
Max cupped the phone. “Your mom says, ‘Language.’”
I exhaled a very weak laugh, and drove over the rumble strip and into the emergency lane. Releasing the wheel wasn’t easy. My knuckles ached with the strain of the few miles we’d traveled.
Max handed me the phone. “Hi, Mom,” I said, once I had my voice at an even keel.
“Sadie, where are you guys?”
“On I-10.”
Because my mom was terrible at whispering, I heard her repeat this to Dad. He was equally bad, so I heard my dad say, “Ask her if she’s okay.”
“I’m fine,” I said.
Saying it almost convinced me.
“You’re sure?”
“Honey”—Mom’s voice was made of rainbows and puppies—“we’re proud of you for doing this.”
Whoa. Off-script. Weren’t they required by parental law to say they were worried and ground me for trying something so ridiculous and dangerous? Two days ago, I’d been selfish and rude for going off on my own. Two days ago, I’d been sent to therapy.
“I . . .” Didn’t know what to say.
Mom continued. “Call if you need us.”
“O-kay,” I said.
She hung up.