I don’t know what else to say, so I nod back toward the Corvette and Don. “That’s Don Lugar, a neighbor guy. Kind of a grumpy character, but I needed him to enter the show.”
“Why?” Becka asks.
“You have to be eighteen or older.” I’m not even sure if this is true, but I haven’t see any other guys my age with cars here.
“So you had him enter for you?”
“Yeah,” I answer, sinking deeper and deeper in the quicksand of my lies. “Like I said, he’s kind of unfriendly, but I needed him to help me, to pretend the car’s his so that I could enter the show. He has to act like it’s his rig.”
I’m amazed at how easily these lies unfold and feed off one another, growing with each second, with every word.
Becka doesn’t say anything for a while, then asks, “Can we go look at your car?”
I answer quickly. “I can’t now. I’m judging, and I’ve gotta finish.”
I think for a second about encouraging Becka not to go over to the ’Vette at all, but I can tell already that her little brothers will never allow that. If Becka says something to Don about riding in the car, I’m dead. I’ll have to take my chances. Becka and I chat back and forth for a few more seconds; I can’t help but notice how incredibly beautiful she is.
I glance back at the Corvette and, as if by some kind of miracle, Don is gone! I look all around the area where the car is parked, and he’s nowhere in sight. Maybe he’s using the restroom? Maybe he’s gone to the refreshment stand? Wherever he is, he isn’t near the ’Vette right now!
“You guys should go over and look at the car right away!” I encourage them, a little too aggressively.
“We could wait until you’re free,” Becka suggests again.
But the younger of her two brothers whines, “I’m tired. Let’s go now!”
Becka looks at me, exasperated.
I quickly say, “No, you guys go ahead. I’m gonna be a while finishing this.”
The whiny kid says, “Come onnnn....”
Becka smiles at me and squeezes my arm again. “Sorry, but the brat rules can only be stretched so far.”
I smile back.
As they walk across the street in the direction of the Corvette, she looks back at me and smiles. “Call me.”
There’s still no sign of Don.
“I will,” I answer, wondering whether my luck will hold long enough for her to ever want to talk to me again.
I beat it around the far side of the grange building, out of sight of the Corvette, where they can’t see me. I hide among the Modified/Customs, specifically near a 1953 Mercury hot rod, chopped and painted deep burgundy, except for bright red and yellow flames on the fenders and hood. It’s a beautiful car, and it gets my vote in its class, although, to be honest, I’m so nervous that I don’t even look at any of the other cars in that group.
I kill as much time as I can. Finally, maybe half an hour later, I peek around the corner. Becka and her brothers are nowhere in sight. Don’s back in his folding chair, sitting next to the Corvette.
Standing right in front of him, talking, is Wally.
What’s he doing?
I told Wally last night that we were bringing the ’Vette here, but I didn’t really expect him to come by.
First Becka and now Wally? At least Wally knows not to mention anything about my stealing the car.
I approach Don and Wally and say, “Hi, Wal. What’re you doing here?”
Wally laughs. “Nice to see you, too, butt-munch.”
Don laughs too.
Wally says, “I just came by to look at this ’Vette you’ve been telling me about. You’re right—it is beautiful.”
Don smiles and says, “Your buddy showed up about half an hour ago and asked me to look at a couple of the Mustangs with him and answer a few questions.”
Wally says, “Yeah.” Then he adds, “Did you know Becka Thorson was here?”
“Oh yeah?” I act surprised.
“Yeah,” Wally says. “She and a couple little kids.”
I say, “Her brothers.”
Don says, “I thought you didn’t see her.”
I stutter, “I didn’t, but probably … you know … little kids … I don’t know....”
I look at Don. “Did you meet her?”
“No, I was showing Wally the Mustangs.”
I glance over at Wally. His expression is totally obvious, and he might as well be screaming out, “You owe me one!”
“Right,” I say, half smiling.
“Yeah,” Wally says. “Right.”
My palms are sweaty, and my heart pounds in my chest. My throat is dry, and I feel the dampness under my arms as beads of perspiration roll down my sides. I silently promise myself that I’ll never steal the ’Vette again, I’ll tell Becka the truth and come clean and just be thankful that I’ve managed to not get busted. I swear that I’ll be an honest, upright, law-abiding citizen from now on.
Wally saved my ass—how weird is that?
After Wally leaves, Don and I stick around for another hour.
The ’Vette wins a prize for second place in class.
As Don and I cruise back down the hill, he asks, “What was your favorite part of the day?”
For some reason I flash instantly to the moment when Becka squeezed my arm and the look on her face when I told her about my dad. I also think about Wally saving me; a hundred images of great cars rush through my skull, too. I look at the award that I’m holding in my lap and I feel the rumble of the ’Vette as we drive toward home.
I turn to Don. “My favorite part of the day? This, right now, just cruising.”
He smiles. “Me too.”
I’m feeling great. Great enough that I decide I’m going to tell Becka the truth about the ’Vette. I’m definitely going to tell her!
FOURTEEN
Becka and I are going on our second date tonight. And I’m driving the ’Vette—yeah, that’s right, the ’Vette.
Nope, I didn’t fess up.
It’s a Wednesday, of course, and I told Becka that I can’t stay out late on school nights with the car, and she bought it. It’s true, both for the reasons I explained to Becka and for the other, real reasons that I haven’t admitted yet.
I didn’t want to take the car again; I wanted the lies and the fear of being caught and all of that to stop—but I can’t give it up. Things are going good now; for a change I’m actually having fun.
So I’m just riding the wave.
I’ve gotten so good at grand theft auto that it’s scary—it almost feels like I’m not even doing anything wrong.
When I get to Becka’s house and pick her up, we cruise down Indian Trail Road; I ask what she wants to do.
“Let’s go park at Arlington,” she says.
I laugh. “What, are you getting all scandalous?”
She laughs too. “There’s nothing scandalous about parking at Arlington. But of course, you’re a geek, right, you wouldn’t know that.”
I punch the ’Vette and we roar forward for half a block. She grabs the black plastic grip on the door, just like I did that first time I felt the Stingray’s power.
“Don’t make me turn on the nitrous,” I tease her, easing off the accelerator.
“Dang,” Becka says. “This sucker goes, doesn’t it?”
“She,” I say.
“Excuse me?”
“She’s not an it, she’s my baby,” I say.
“Hmmm?” Becka smiles. “Is that right? Your baby, huh? Your one and only?”
I smile but don’t say anything.
Becka says, “She’s the one who’s scandalous.”
“Oh, yeah,” I agree.
Becka, a soft, sexy tease to her voice, says, “Get us to the park … and we’ll talk about scandalous.”
When we get there, we do more than just talk about it.
After I get back home, I phone Wally; I have to tell somebody what’s happened. It’s like a dream. If no one else knows, it w
on’t even feel real.
Wally can’t believe it. “She actually kissed you?”
“Yeah, we made out.”
“How far did you get?”
“I’m not gonna go into details, Wal. We kissed and made out.”
“Did you feel her up?”
“A little bit.”
“What do you mean, a little? On top of her shirt? Under her shirt? On top of her bra? Under her bra? How far did you get?”
“No comment, Wally.”
“You made out with Becka Thorson—you!!” His voice sounds like he’s in a trance. “You kissed her and felt her up—”
I interrupt: “A little.”
“Yeah, whatever. This is incredible. Amazing. My best friend is gonna nail a cheerleader.”
“Let’s not get carried away here, Wal.”
But Wally, on a roll, can’t stop himself, “Come on, man, this is how these things start—some kissing, some making out, and the next thing you know you’re buying condoms by the jumbo pack. And she must have some cheerleader girlfriends, right? She must—”
“I gotta go, Wally.”
“Yeah, okay, but just remember—”
“I got it, Wal.”
“Good!”
We hang up.
God, life can be good sometimes—I wish I could just shut everything else out and concentrate on that.
When Mom gets home, I’m doing homework at the kitchen table.
“What’s this?” Mom asks, smiling. “Those can’t be schoolbooks, can they?”
“Of course not,” I kid her back, and hold the book up for her to see: American History: Freedom and Democracy. “This is just a little light reading, you know; they were out of nasty magazines.”
“Good boy,” Mom says. “I’m proud of you. Did you have a good day?”
I blurt out, “Becka Thorson and I went out again.”
“Oh, really,” Mom says. “Did you have fun?”
“Oh, yeah,” I answer, a little more enthusiastically than I mean to.
Mom asks, “Did she come by and pick you up?”
I say to myself, No, I drove Don’s ’Vette—she loves it; it’s an aphrodisiac, better than date drugs or too much beer! But I catch myself and just lie, “Yep.”
Mom says, “You can use the Honda anytime, you know?”
I say, “Thanks, Mom.”
But I say to myself, the Honda … come on … not when I can get my hands on the ’Vette!
FIFTEEN
Don recently replaced the old, broken radio that was in the Corvette. He ordered a brand-new replica from Eckler’s Corvette Catalog. The new radio looks just like an original; it has CORVETTE in shiny letters across the top, and the dials are old-fashioned-looking. The face of the radio looks analog, like the original radios looked, but when you turn it on, the analog dial fades and a digital face appears, complete with thirty preset stations. The system is wired for a CD player, which Don hasn’t installed yet, and plays cassette tapes.
For date number three I pick Becka up at her house at six. She’s waiting at the front window, and before I’ve even pulled the ’Vette into the driveway, she runs out to greet me, followed by her two brothers.
I say, “Hi,” as she opens the passenger door and climbs in.
She leans over and kisses my cheek, and Billy, the older brother, goes, “Eeeww!”
Becka gives him a drop-dead look, which makes Brian start to tease us too. “Eeeww.” Brian laughs. “Kissy-kissy little boy-boy …”
Becka lowers the window and says, “If any sign of intelligent life comes around, please don’t say anything. They’ll lose all hope.”
This shuts them up long enough for us to make our escape.
“Wow!” Becka says suddenly.
“What?” I answer, looking around fast.
“You got a new radio? Or is that an old radio?”
I’m surprised she’s noticed it so quickly. I explain about it being a replica. But I realize that I haven’t actually tried it out yet. I could kick myself for not getting more familiar with the system before I picked her up.
“Can I turn it on?”
“Sure,” I answer, hoping she won’t ask me how.
She reaches for the left-side button and turns it clockwise, the same thing I’d have done.
Suddenly Elvis Presley’s voice blasts out at us from all four speakers, incredibly loud. He’s singing “Hound Dog,” and the volume is deafening.
Becka laughs and turns the sound down just enough for me to hear her ask, “You like Elvis?”
I say, “What?”—stalling for time. The face of the stereo has the letters PLY and an arrow pointing to the right. This is a cassette. Why would I have an Elvis Presley tape playing in my Corvette if I didn’t like him? Is the tape all Elvis or is there something even more horrible lurking just ahead? Neil Diamond, maybe, or the Partridge Family’s greatest hits—who knows what Don likes? At a total loss for an explanation, I smile weakly, hoping for the best.
Becka gushes, “Elvis.” Then, sounding almost embarrassed, “The King.”
I can’t believe that she’s serious, that she actually likes Elvis Presley, but then she sighs and says, “Just listen to him.”
She’s right; I have to admit that he does have an amazing voice.
Becka starts tapping her foot. “My parents were Elvis junkies when they were young, way back in the 1950s and 60s. They never grew out of it, and they still play Elvis’s Golden Hits Volume 1, which I listened to about ten billion times growing up. I know every word to every song. God, what an astonishing waste of RAM.” She laughs. “Heck, I even learned to dance to this stuff!”
As we drive, I’m stunned by the weirdness of this scene: Here’s this incredibly popular cheerleader-goddess, rocking to Elvis Presley music recorded more than thirty years before we were even born.
Becka does a really funny Elvis imitation. She isn’t lying about knowing all the words, and she sings along to every song. Her best moments are when Elvis turns words like “I” into three syllables, “I … I … I … love you … won’t you lovvve me?” She even sings along with the guitar solos, singing the notes they play, “Do-do-do-wah-wah-wah-do-do-do.”
The song “I Want You, I Need You, I Love You” plays. Elvis sings like he’s the most hungry, desperate, love-struck guy in the history of the world (man, I can relate), his voice full of passion and desperation. It’s so over the top that even I like it, but hearing Becka sing along makes it all the more wild—it’s both ridiculously funny and at the same time almost good. Becka actually has a great voice!
We’ve been out for almost an hour, just listening to the music and cruising. It’s been really fun. I definitely think of Becka as my girlfriend now. How demented is that? She’s so beautiful, and at Arlington Park we kissed and made out; she cares about me, she really does, I know she cares and I know—
She interrupts my fantasizing. “Did your parents love Elvis too?”
“I don’t know.”
“Did your dad ever—”
I interrupt. “I told you, Becka, I don’t talk about him.”
She looks a little hurt, but she reaches over and touches me, stroking her fingers down my face. Normally I think I’d love her doing this, but I feel really tense. I blurt out, “My dad’s dead, that’s all, there’s no point in talking or thinking about him—what good does it do?”
Becka asks, “It was that bad, huh?”
“I don’t know; I don’t talk about it—okay?” Suddenly it feels like my head is going to explode.
“But Jordan, you have to talk about it someday. It’s such a sad thing, it’s so—”
Without planning it, I slap her hand away and scream, “Shut up!” as loud as I can. “What do you know about it?! You don’t know anything!”
Becka looks shocked, but at least she stops talking.
The car is deadly quiet.
I should say something, apologize, or try to change the subject, something, anything, but I can�
��t.
We’re driving back toward Becka’s house, and in the total silence between us, my mind races back to that day my dad died, that day he killed himself!
I can see him sitting there, the gun still in his hand; I tried to get him out of the chair and down onto the floor, but he was so heavy that I kind of dropped him. His head made a loud thump when it hit the carpeted floor, and a squirt of blood oozed out of the bullet hole in his temple. He landed on his back, and I kneeled down next to him. My heart pounds in my chest now, just like it did that day. The stubble of Dad’s sandpaper beard scratched at my lips as I tried to breathe life back into him; I remember the stench of death. I can see that horrible look on his face again, so calm and peaceful, and my tears ran down my cheeks and dropped onto his neck and shirt collar. My mind was racing: What will Mom say? What’s going to happen? Why, Daddy? Why’d you do this? What have you done? What did I do? Is this my fault? And what did you mean, “bullshit,” Dad? What’s bullshit? You? Me? Everybody? Everything? Daddy … Dad … Oh, God, please help me, God....
It all races back—crashing over me.
I turn into Becka’s driveway, unsure of how I even drove here—it’s like I’m in a trance, but I’m sweating and breathing really hard.
“I …” I start to speak, but Becka is already jumping out of the car. It’s a good thing, ’cause I can’t think of another word. I can’t think of a single thing to say.
She slams the door of the ’Vette and runs into her house.
I think she’s crying.
SIXTEEN
I’ve tried to phone Becka, but she won’t talk to me. At first she had her brother Billy tell me that she wasn’t home. I called back, but when she said hello, she sounded really cold.
“Hi,” I said. “Listen, I’m sorry about yelling at you.”
“You hit me,” she says, real softly, but not nice, just low and angry.
“No, I didn’t.”
“You hit my hand.”
“I knocked it away from my face.”
“That’s hitting.”
“I didn’t mean it like that.... I just meant …” I can’t find the right words.
She says, “Hitting is hitting.”
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