Sorry, Garrett, no show for you. You’ll have to do what you always do and find it on pay-per-view.”
I steer Monica around Garrett and Keith, off the sidewalk, and into the parking lot. “What were you thinking?
He could have hurt you.”
No estaba pensando.
I wasn’t thinking. I just wanted to protect you.
I Don’t Care Who’s Looking
I reach for her hand, weave my fingers into hers as we head toward Syrah’s car. “That was dumb. But thank you.”
What’s his problem, anyway?
I shrug. “Maybe you got it right. They say the biggest homophobes are often
closet queers.”
Who says that?
“I don’t know. I just read it somewhere. You take shotgun.”
I let go of her hand, slide into the backseat where I can think.
While Monica explains to Syrah what happened with Garrett, I consider the homophobe theory, which can’t apply to all of them, or my dad would be totally gay.
Pretty sure he’s not, but wouldn’t that be crazy? What if my queer gene came from his side of the family?
When We Get to My House
There’s a strange car in the driveway.
What’s even weirder, Dad isn’t home,
and I don’t see anyone around. “Do
you guys think there’s someone inside?”
I don’t know, says Monica. You and your dad lock your doors, don’t you?
“Yeah. Dad’s all paranoid about it,
in fact. Kind of obsessive compulsive.”
Syrah jumps out. One way to know.
Come on. There’s safety in numbers.
We circle the house, looking for any
sign of a break-in, but the windows
are intact, both doors still locked, and we find no hint of possible covert entry, so I use my key and one by one, we cross the threshold to take a look inside. The house is empty. Let’s check out the car, Monica suggests. Hope there’s no dead bodies inside.
That’s dumb, says Syrah. Who leaves corpses in some stranger’s driveway?
We Don’t Find Corpses
But on the front seat
of the candy-red Ford
Focus is an envelope,
and it’s addressed to me.
Inside is a thank-you
card, and a note which
reads:
DEAR ARIEL,
I REALLY CAN’T THANK YOU
ENOUGH FOR WHAT YOU DID
FOR HILLARY. PLEASE ACCEPT
THIS GENTLY USED TOKEN
OF MY THANKS. I’VE TAKEN
THE LIBERTY OF REGISTERING
THE CAR IN YOUR NAME AND
PAID UP THE INSURANCE FOR
SIX MONTHS. ENJOY!
CHARLES GRANTHAM
P.S. I TOLD THEM YOU WERE
MY NIECE, SO PLEASE LET’S KEEP
THAT OUR SECRET. ALSO, TO BE
HONEST, THIS WAS HILLARY’S
CAR. SHE’S GETTING A NEW ONE.
IT WAS HER IDEA TO GIVE THIS
TO YOU.
No Freaking Way!
Hillary Grantham’s given me
her car? This has got to be
some kind of joke. The girls and I exchange incredulous
looks. “This can’t be real, can it?”
Sure looks real to me, comments Syrah. And “gently used” is right.
The odometer only has 38,000 miles. She opens the glove box and pulls
out the owner’s manual.
It’s a 2012. Hillary must’ve only driven it to school.
“I don’t think I can keep
it. It’s way too extravagant.
Besides, I didn’t do anything to earn it. Not really.” Even if I did, what’ll Dad say?
What? You saved Hillary’s life. Do you want to hurt her feelings? Anyway, you gotta keep it. He put it in your name and everything, so it’s already yours.
Every Argument
I can think of gets shot down: “I still don’t have my license.”
So get one. All you have to do is pass the driving test. You know how.
“Dad’ll have to sign for it.
(Which means he’ll have to
approve this whole thing.)”
Talk him into it. How can he say no? He won’t have to take you places.
“Even with the insurance
paid, I’ll have to come up
with money for gas.”
Do what everyone does.
Go out and find a job.
“Dad doesn’t want me
to work. He insists he’s
responsible for my needs.”
Point out if you’re earning your spending cash, he’ll have more of his own money to spend on booze. Or maybe say Zelda instead. No need to underline the obvious.
Excellent Point
Not that I’m sure it—any of it—
will work. But, hey, what have
I got to lose, and I already know where I can apply for a job I’d like.
Syrah hatches a more imminent
plan. Let’s take her for a spin.
The keys are in the ignition.
You might as well get used to her.
“You think we should? What if
we get caught?” We most definitely shouldn’t, of course. But I really, really want to. I still can’t believe it.
No cops out here, insists Monica.
Anyway, don’t drive like an ass.
They can’t tell if you got a license just by looking at you, can they?
Another excellent point.
“Okay. Let’s go.” The girls argue over shotgun, and eventually
reach a compromise. Syrah
will claim it first, then switch, with Monica on the inbound.
It takes a few minutes to orient
to the strange vehicle, figure out important stuff like how to turn on the heater, not to mention
the radio. I let Syrah take charge of choosing the station. It’s late afternoon, and the November
light has faded into an auburn