“Aren’t you at all eager to get out of our parents’ house?” The question jumps out at me.
“Why? Should I be?” While her voice remains light, for once I catch an undercurrent to her easygoing friendliness. She doesn’t sound upset. It’s more like she’s challenging me. Daring her little sister to tell her she knows better.
I know it’s not my place. Jamie’s her own person, and I have no right to judge her or direct her on how to lead her life. Even if I find her choices entirely baffling. What’s more, I have enough to keep on top of in my own life. “No,” I say. “Just curious. Good luck with the guitar.”
I leave her room, wracking my memory. I’m trying to recall if I ever knew this version of Jamie when she lived here before college. When I was in elementary school, Jamie was definitely larger than life, vivacious, with plenty of friends and interests. I remember her running the Fairview literary magazine and submitting poetry to state contests, biting her nails before Ivy League decisions, canvasing for our representatives in elections for Congress. The memories I have don’t include this freewheeling nothingness.
It’s frightening, in a way. I return to my room, closing the door and reopening my calculus book. My memories of Jamie in high school don’t differ much from what my own high school days look like, filled with projects and pursuits. If it’s possible for Jamie’s life to implode into Netflix and neighborhood walks, it’s possible for mine to, despite my every effort. I don’t want to work this hard to be mature in high school only to end up a perpetual teenager.
I shut my door just in time to hear my dad walk into Jamie’s room. I hear laughing, then he must plug the amp back in, because a moment later, the guitar screeches to life.
Fourteen
I CHECK MY PHONE, irritated. My driver’s ed instructor is late. I’m not pleased I’m doing this with my Saturday in the first place, not when I could’ve used the coming hour to research reunion venues. Driver’s ed will consist of three hour-long lessons over the next three weeks, each one consuming priceless weekend work time. Last night, I stayed up scouring YouTube for everything I could find on past Fairview reunions. Venues, decorations, the works. When I got used to the nauseating shaky-cam footage of the videos, what I found wasn’t encouraging. These reunions have a high standard for extravagance and formality. It’s not like they’re black tie, but Fairview alums will expect more than some streamers in the San Mateo Community Center.
I don’t know how Ethan and I will pull this off. I do know driver’s ed won’t help.
Compulsively clicking my phone screen on and off, I sit in the front room, watching the driveway from the cushioned bench under the windows where the sun filters in from the front yard. Wandering past from the kitchen, Mom frowns when she notices me. “You’re sure you don’t want to practice with me before your lesson?”
“We practiced over the summer,” I say shortly.
“Oh, baby girl, you were so bad.” She’s trying to sound sympathetic, but she can’t hide the bluntness of her honesty.
“I was not.”
Mom shifts, watching me dryly. She’s in head-to-toe Lululemon, fresh from the yoga she does to unwind on weekends. “You almost crashed when there wasn’t anything even near you,” she says.
I grimace. That did happen. It was intimidating the few times I got behind the wheel. The perspective of everything felt off-kilter from the driver’s seat of Mom’s SUV, leaving me with the irresistible impulse to veer into the middle of the road. The memory is contributing to my nerves, and I restlessly lock and unlock my phone screen on the couch. “You’re exaggerating,” I protest, not needing the reminder of my inexperience before my lesson.
“I’ve literally never exaggerated in my life,” my mom declares.
I cut her a look. “Say I was bad. It was probably because of your teaching. I need a professional.”
Just then, the dented and dinged vehicle I’m guessing will be mine for the next hour pulls into the driveway. From the rolled-down windows, Bon Jovi blares. The car is missing both hubcaps on one side, and the sticker for IN THE DRIVER’S SEAT is faded and peeling. A Latino man wearing a red Spider-Man shirt is driving. He looks to be in his late twenties.
I walk outside, Mom trailing behind. When I reach the car, the guy turns down the volume barely low enough to be heard. “Hey,” he calls. “You Alison Sanger?”
“Yeah,” I say, examining the interior of the car. It’s clean up front but a battleground of water bottles and sweatshirts in back.
“Sorry I was late. The girl before you had a minor panic attack on the off-ramp. We’re cool, though. My name’s Hector. You ready to go?” Hector taps the wheel with his thumb.
Mom walks up beside me, giving the dented car a once-over. “This’ll be great,” she says brightly, then heads back toward the house, clearly not at all concerned with the visible evidence of the accidents the car’s been in.
Hector exits the car, holding the door for me. “Oh,” I say haltingly, “am I driving?” The prospect hits my stomach with a little lurch. I hate that learning such an everyday skill is making me nervous.
“Yeah,” Hector confirms. “Wild, right?”
I pause in the driver’s door. “I don’t have a ton of experience. What if I kill you?”
Hector opens the passenger door and gets in. “How about you don’t, though?”
I sit down in the driver’s seat. The cloth scratches my shoulders, and I awkwardly place my hands on the worn rubber of the wheel. I can handle college interviews with CEOs and three-hour exams, but driving? It’s been a while since I’ve done something I didn’t already excel at. I don’t love the feeling of incompetence stealing over me.
“Nah, you won’t kill me,” Hector says. “I have my own gas and brakes. See?” He shifts his feet, gesturing. I glance under the dashboard on his side and notice he’s wearing Birkenstocks with his basketball shorts. “First step, turn on the car. Oh shit, sorry,” he adds, realizing the car’s already on. He reaches over and removes the keys, then hands them to me. “Okay, first step. Turn on the car.”
I rotate the key in the ignition, feeling the engine hum to life.
“Now?” Hector prompts.
“Mirrors?” I venture.
Hector nods. “Rad. But also put him in reverse.”
“Him?” I repeat.
Hector places one hand lovingly on the curve of the door handle. “It’s kind of creepy every dude refers to his car as a ‘she.’” I don’t have the chance to agree. “Okay,” he continues, “so now you’re going to ease him in reverse down the driveway while looking for cross traffic and pedestrians.” Hector speaks quickly, one thought proceeding fluidly into the next.