“I won’t,” I said.
“I promise that you won’t ever need to. And for the record, I’m glad you’re not mad at me, too.”
“I was. I’m not anymore.”
“That’s good. Shall we get going?”
“Yeah.”
He picked up my bag and I let him. I don’t think it counts as benevolent sexism when it’s your own father.
“Hey, Dad,” I said. “I was wondering—you have the car here, right?”
“Of course I do. How else do you expect us to get home?”
“Can I drive?”
“You want to drive?”
“I should practice if I’m going to take my driver’s test.”
He raised his eyebrows.
“I mean, if I’m brave enough to go to California by myself, and learn everything I did, then I’m probably brave enough to drive, too.”
“You’ve been brave all along,” Dad said. “But perhaps your first session shouldn’t be on the highway.”
“Fair point.”
“How’s this for a driving plan—I’ll do the first part, and the minute I’m off the exit ramp, I’ll pull over. We’ll switch seats, and you can take us the rest of the way home.”
“You’re on,” I said.
But as time wore on, I got more and more nervous. My palms were sweating hard, and I wiped them against my jeans a half dozen times. Dad noticed, despite my attempts to be subtle about it. “You know,” he said, “you don’t have to drive today if you don’t want to. The car is here for you whenever you’re ready, and whenever that day is, I’ll be your copilot.”
“Thanks,” I said. “But it’s not like anyone ever feels ‘ready’ for the things that scare them. You just do them. I have to just do this.”
“That’s my girl.” We were approaching the highway exit. Dad clicked on his turn signal. That tick-tick-tick sounded like a clock on countdown mode. My heart was racing. He pulled over to the side of the road and turned off the car. The countdown was over. Dad undid his seat belt, and I undid mine.
He put a hand on his door handle. I put a hand on mine. It was like a game of monkey see, monkey do. I waited for him to open the car door. When he did, I opened mine and stepped out. We switched car seats and rebuckled seat belts. “How are you doing?” Dad said.
“The seat doesn’t feel right.”
“You have to adjust it. There’s a button right on the side. It’s shaped like an oval. Push it to move the seat up.”
I slipped a hand down and found the button. “How far do I go?”
“Until you feel like your feet can comfortably reach the pedals.”
Duh, as Eddy would say. “Sorry I’m being a total moron about this,” I said.
“You’re being someone who doesn’t have much driving experience,” Dad said, “which is, incidentally, exactly what you are. But we’re setting out to change that. How’s the seat now?”
“I think it’s good,” I said. “Don’t I have to do something with the mirrors, too?”
“The side mirrors and the rearview. Adjust them so you can see whatever is beside and behind you.”
“Okay . . . done.”
“Okay. Now put your foot on the brake and start the car.”
“Gotcha.” I pressed down all the way on the brake pedal and moved my hand toward the ignition switch. “Wait. The brake is the one on the left side?”
“Right.”
“Do you mean, right it’s left, or right it’s actually on the right?”
“Left side,” he said. “Correct.”
“I bet you’re having second thoughts about giving me the driver’s seat.”
“Not at all. Start the car when you’re ready.”
“Ready as I’ll ever be,” I said, and turned on the engine.
“Now foot off the brake,” Dad said, “and foot on the gas, gently at first. There’s no one behind you, so you can go as slow as you want to.”
I went really slowly, though my heart was pounding as if I were driving on the autobahn in Germany, where (I knew from Talley) there wasn’t a speed limit. I was doing this for her, because she’d always wanted to teach me how to drive, and for the women in Saudi Arabia who she’d told me all about, who’d waited a very long time for the right to drive. But mostly, I was driving for myself. I made sure to stay in the middle of the lane. A car was coming from the opposite direction. It whipped past me and I gasped.
“It’s okay,” Dad said. “You’re all good. But you may want to inch a little closer to the right, so you don’t drift to the other side.” He put a hand on the wheel, and turned it just slightly. It brought me closer to the tree line on the edge of the road, which I’d been trying to avoid.
Mom didn’t hit a tree, I reminded myself. Trees didn’t have anything to do with it. Neither did black ice. And anyway, it’s the middle of summer. There isn’t any ice of any color on the road at all.
I kept going. “A car is creeping up on me in the rearview mirror,” I told Dad.
“You’re below the speed limit. Speed up if you want.”
“Oh, I don’t want to.”
“Then don’t worry about him.”
It was hard not to worry with him so close behind, especially when he honked at me. Finally he pulled around me, pausing long enough to give me a hard look and a last honk. “He hates me,” I said.
“People who have been driving for a while tend to forget they were once new at this, too,” Dad said. “Asshole.”
“What was that?”
“I’m not going to say it again.”
“Talley and I used to love to hear you curse,” I said.
“All those arts and crafts projects, and trips to the beach, and family game nights, and it’s a curse that made my children happy?”
“The other stuff was good, too. But a Dad-curse was exciting because hearing it was so rare. Like finding a four-leaf clover.”
“Ah,” he said. “Well, I save the curses for those occasions on which it’s truly called for. That way you know I really mean it.”
“Thanks.”
“You just missed the turn,” he said. “I know you’ve been gone for a week, but we live back there.”
“I missed it on purpose,” I said. “I want to stop by Juno’s house, if you don’t mind.”
“I don’t mind at all,” Dad said. “I think she was a little disappointed when I told her I’d pick you up. You know you’re special when people are fighting to be the one to get to pick you up from the airport.”
“If you want to spend more time, we don’t have to go to Juno’s.”
“No, let’s go,” Dad said. “Stay as long as you like, and I’ll come back and pick you up whenever you’re ready.”
“Or Juno can take me home so you don’t have to worry about it.”
“Or I can come get you, and then you’ll drive us both home,” Dad said. “Whatever works for you.”
I twisted through our neighborhood, and the houses got bigger and bigger. A few streets later, I turned onto Cheshire Court, where Juno lived, and where the stone houses were the largest of all the houses in Golden Valley. They all had enormous lawns with grass so green, it was like the coloring-book version of what grass is like—you take the greenest crayon in the box, and shade it in all over. Back at our house, the yard was much smaller, and our grass was patchier. No one in my family had the kind of green thumb required to make sure the grass was always evenly watered and growing in the perfect way. Not that Juno, her parents, or her brother did, either, but they could hire someone who specialized in that kind of thing.
I pulled up to the curb, bumping it a little. “Sorry,” I told Dad.
“That’s all right. It won’t leave a mark.”
“You’re being awfully cool about all this. Like, more than I expected.”
“How did you expect me to be?”
“I don’t know. I never wanted to learn to drive till now, so I didn’t really think about it.”
“I think
I was pretty cool when I was teaching Talley,” he said.
“I wish I could ask her.”
“I know you do.” Dad paused. “But since you can’t, trust me: I was very cool. I was as cool as they come.”
“Did Talley bump into the curbs, too?”
“She got the hang of it pretty quickly. You will, too.”
“It may take me a little bit longer. Don’t forget—she was the genius.”
“Your sister certainly was a smart cookie,” Dad said. “The other day I remembered something she said—something I hadn’t thought about in a long time. When Talley was three years old, we spent a week at a beach house on Lake Superior. I had this ritual of taking her to watch the sunset every night. We’d been at it for a few days, and when we went back to the beach on the third or fourth day, Talley said, ‘It shouldn’t be called the sunset, Daddy. The earth moves, not the sun. They should call it the earth-set.’ That was the moment I knew—this kid was different. She was something special. Every parent thinks that about their kids, but she really was.”
“She was three when she said that? Really?”
“Yes,” he said. “Except Talley didn’t say it. You did.”
“But that’s just . . . it couldn’t have been me. That sounds so much like Talley.”
“I think it sounds like you,” Dad said. “You’ve paid attention to the details since you were a little girl. You’ve always been interested in language, and why things are called what they’re called. You notice things I never would. I love that about you. But I’d love you no matter what.”
“I love you, too.”
“Now,” he said. “Before I let you escape to Juno, there’s the matter of the money you owe her. She wouldn’t tell me how much she laid out for the plane ticket.”
“She gave me her credit card to use, too,” I said.
“Did her parents approve that ahead of time?”
“She used her own money.”
“She’s a minor,” Dad said. “That makes it the kind of thing Amy and Randall should approve.”
“Talley said don’t ask for permission, ask for forgiveness,” I reminded him. “And besides, Juno is allowed to decide for herself what’s important enough to spend her money on. She thought this was.”
“That Juno,” Dad said. I expected his next words to be something about how spoiled and irresponsible she was, but he said, “She’s been a really good friend to you.”
“Not just good. She’s the best.”
“I’m not surprised,” Dad said. “You are who you hang out with, and she hangs out with you.”
“Thanks, Dad.”
He shifted in his seat and pulled out his wallet. “All right. I have a check with me. Whatever you put on her card, add that in so I can pay her back for everything.”
“I didn’t use her card at all,” I said. “Except for the plane tickets—which were three hundred and nine dollars. Just so you know, I’m babysitting for the Hogans for the rest of the month, and I’ll give you everything I earn till it’s paid back.”
“I don’t want you to worry about it,” Dad said. “I’m not worried about it.”
“Really?”
“I’m careful with money, but I’m not worried about it,” Dad said. “I understand what it’s like to be worried about money, and I’m grateful that at this point in my life, I’m in a different place. I can pay Juno back for your trip. I should’ve been the one to pay for it in the first place.”
“I didn’t think you’d let me go, if I asked.”
“I probably wouldn’t have,” Dad said. “Scratch that. I definitely wouldn’t have. But give Juno the check. Tell her I want to make things right, with both of you.”
“I will,” I said. “Thanks, Dad. Can you pop the trunk? I have a present for Juno in my bag.”
“You pop it,” Dad said. “You’re in the driver’s seat.”
“Oh, right. I am.”
We hugged again when we got out. I grabbed the bag from Retro Planet. Dad got back into the driver’s seat.
Chapter Thirty-Nine
AS I STARTED UP THE DRIVEWAY, THE FRONT DOOR banged open. Juno came sprinting toward me, a blue ponytail swinging in the breeze. “Sloane! Oh my God!”
She grabbed me in a hug so fierce that we both nearly fell over.
“How’d you know I was here?” I asked.
“Eddy was by the window and he said he saw a gray car parked out front,” she said. “I know your dad’s car is gray, and obviously I knew he was picking you up today. I didn’t want to get my hopes up about him bringing you by to say hello, but they were up anyway. You can tell yourself not to hope for something, but if you’re telling yourself not to get your hopes up, that means they’re already up. And now, here you are. I missed you so much.”
“I missed you, too, Ju.”
“I even have a new metaphor for you,” she said. “You know that feeling when you have to pee so badly that you’re about to burst, but you can’t burst because then you’d just pee all over yourself? So you’re holding it in, and finally, you get to a bathroom, and it’s the sweetest relief you’ve ever felt. That’s what it’s like to see you—it’s the sweetest relief.”
“Oh, Ju,” I said. “Not only is that the best metaphor I’ve ever heard, but it’s also the best compliment of my whole entire life. Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
“It feels that way to see you, too,” I said. “I have so much to tell you. First off, this is for you.” I handed her the Retro Planet bag. “There’s something in there for Eddy, too. Yours is the thing that’s not a stuffed grizzly bear.”
“Ah. Ursus arctos californicus.”
“I saw it at the airport, and I had to get it for him.”
“That’s sweet,” she said. “But obviously I care more about what’s for me.” She pulled out the poster tube and popped it open. “Oh my God, Sloane. This is the best thing you could’ve brought back . . . besides yourself, of course. I didn’t want to tell you this when you were still in California, because I knew you’d probably hit your limit on information you could process at one time. But now that you’re here, I can’t keep this to myself anymore.”
“What happened?”
“Well, you know how the kids and I ran into Audrey on the street that day, and they just went nuts for her?”
“Oh no,” I said. “Don’t tell me. She stole your job?”
“Worse,” Juno said. “So much worse. Infinity times worse. Mr. and Mrs. Hogan decided I needed a co-babysitter till you returned, so it was Audrey and me all day every day for three days straight.”
“Oh my God,” I said. “I’m so sorry.”
“Audrey was delighted when they asked her. Apparently her summer job had fallen through, and I had to go along and pretend I was fine having her help for a few days, even though she kept rubbing it in my face that she got Cooper and I didn’t. I’d say something that seemed totally harmless like, ‘Melanie wants green grapes cut in half,’ and Audrey would say, ‘Speaking of green, I just thought of the funniest thing. Oh, ha ha ha.’ And I’d ask her what was so funny, and she’d be all, ‘Nothing. Just a private joke between Cooper and me.’ But the good news is, Cooper broke up with her.”
“What? When?”
“Friday afternoon, about an hour before Mr. Hogan came home. He did it over text, and I had to deal with the kids on my own again, because she was totally losing it. I almost felt sorry for her.”
“That’s kind of you.”
“I said almost,” Juno said. “But anyway, it doesn’t matter anymore. You’re back, and she’s back where she belongs, which is out of my life. Phew. This past week was so much harder than I expected, on so many levels.”
“Oh, I know,” I said.
“You had it much harder than I did,” Juno said. “I didn’t mean to complain.”
“And I didn’t mean to compare,” I told her. “My aunt says hardship isn’t a contest, and she’s right. Besides, I want to know when
people I love are having a hard time. I want to show up for them. That includes being a better friend to you. When Cooper broke up with you, I didn’t take it as seriously as I should have. It was a really big deal.”
“You were a little distracted. Understandably.”
“But even before Talley died, that night at Trepiccione’s. I wasn’t as supportive as I could’ve been—as I should’ve been.”
“Well, you thought Cooper was a loser.”
“He’s not with you, so he must be,” I said. “But you were still grieving him. Because you really loved him. It’s like what Talley’s friend Tess read at the funeral.”
“Yeah . . . what’d she read again?”
“From The Prophet—‘The deeper that sorrow carves into your being, the more joy you can contain.’ Love is like that, too. The more love you feel for someone, the more space there is for grief when they’re gone. I didn’t understand that you were grieving back then. And to be honest, I was even jealous.”
“Jealous that he broke up with me?”
“Jealous that you had him in the first place,” I said. “You’d loved someone, and someone had loved you back.”
“Whether he ever loved me back is up for debate.”
“Regardless, it was more than I’d ever had.”
“You’ll have it one day, Sloane,” Juno said. “I thought maybe you’d even have it with Adam.”
“There was a moment on the beach when I thought we were about to get together. But then we fought, and I despised him for a couple days, and now we’re friends again. It was a whirlwind nonromance. There’s nothing romantic between us.”
“You’ve only known he existed for a little over a month,” Juno said. “And you only met him in person a week ago. Look what happened in one single week of friendship. Anything is possible.”
“Yeah, but the sheer geography of it probably makes it unlikely.”
“So there’s a few thousand miles between you . . . for now,” Juno said. “Maybe you’ll end up at the same college next year.”
“Maybe,” I said. “I wouldn’t mind that at all. But back to you and me, I don’t want to let myself off the hook on this. I wasn’t the best friend to you. Meanwhile, you did everything for me—you sent me to California; you checked in constantly. When you texted me that you had an Audrey emergency, it took me so long to call back. When I finally did, I was so wrapped up in my own stuff that I didn’t even find out what it was, till just now. I mean, I’m assuming that’s what it was—the co-babysitting thing.”
The Survival List Page 22