I peer into the mirror, concentrating, and lift my foot hesitantly off the brake. We start to roll down the driveway.
“Was that your mom?” Hector asks.
I don’t reply, focusing instead on the reversing. The movement is at once familiar, the prologue to hundreds of mornings driving to school with Mom, and incredibly alien. Finally, I reach the street, stopping on the pavement. “Yeah,” I answer him.
“Okay, now you want to shift to drive, and we’re off.” Hector’s fingers drum on his knee, and I can tell his reckless energy isn’t well contained within work days cooped up in this little Honda. “Anywhere you want to go?”
“What do you mean?”
“Shit, like”—he shrugs—“if you have errands or whatever. Or we can just drive in circles. Hey, you hungry?”
“I guess,” I say. I’m not, really. I’m just hoping the reply quiets Hector. Right now, I’m working very hard to avoid veering into the curb. Pressing the gas pedal down gently, I feel fortunate the wide avenue is free of other cars. Nevertheless, every familiar feature of the neighborhood, the knotted trunks of the trees, the BMWs and Range Rovers in the driveways I’m passing, feels newly intimidating, obstacles to watch out for instead of the comforting imagery of home.
“Awesome. You want to go to Dairy Queen?” Hector proposes this like it’s what he’s had in mind all along. “You ever had a Blizzard?”
I wrinkle my noise, wishing Hector would let me concentrate. “No,” I say. In truth, I’m not 100 percent certain what a Blizzard is.
“Then you have to try one. Turn left here,” he instructs without warning. We’ve come to the first traffic light of the drive, the one leading to the Starbucks I walk to. A couple cars have come up behind me. I roll calmly into the intersection, my blinker on, and one of the cars honks as I gradually finish the turn. Hector doesn’t comment on the honking, which means he’s either not concerned or not paying attention. “Your mom seemed laid back,” he says.
I’m guessing moms usually interrogate the driving instructor, wanting to know routes and vehicle details and whether the freeway will be involved. Not my mom. “You could say that,” I reply. “She’s been pushing me to get my license since, like, the day I turned sixteen.”
Hector nods, chuckling. “Turn right here,” he commands.
I do, feeling grateful there’s no one behind me.
“Nice. Much better than last time. Feel free to step off the gas and let him coast to stops instead of braking. Reluctant driver?” he asks, returning to the previous conversation without pause. His fingers continue their incessant rhythm on his knees, and I have the feeling he wants to reach for the radio and is deferring to my painfully obvious discomfort in the driver’s seat. “I get it,” he continues. “Let me guess. Honor roll kid?”
“Yeah,” I confirm—a little annoyed to be called merely honor roll, but whatever. I’m too concentrated on the road to explain I’m going to be valedictorian.
“It’s always the overachievers who put off driving. Okay, the DQ’s up here.” Hector points. “We’re going to do the drive-thru.”
The Dairy Queen emerges on my right. The plastic sign with the red-and-white logo occupies the front wall of the nondescript building. White metal fences encircle the low hedges, with openings for the drive-thru. On the front patio, a kid in a hoodie fiddles with his phone at one of the blue tables. I’m familiar with the Dairy Queen’s reputation for being the hangout for band kids and burnouts.
“I’m a Royal New York Cheesecake man,” Hector starts while I guide the car into the drive-thru. “It’s all about the strawberry center. I also like the Rocky Road, and the Oreo is classic. I wasn’t into the Peanut Butter Cookie Dough Smash. It could just require a couple more tries, though.”
I say nothing. I’m realizing it’s easier with Hector to just let him talk instead of following the conversation.
We roll up to the ordering window. The employee working the register doesn’t look in our direction. “What’re you having?”
Hector leans over the center console to speak out the window. “Daniel, hey,” he says. “Good to see you.” I wonder if Hector read Daniel’s name tag, or if he comes here often enough to be on a first-name basis with the employees. Either way, it’s weird, but not the weirdest thing I’ve noticed about Hector. “I’ll have the Royal New York Cheesecake,” he tells Daniel, then turns to me. “What do you want? I’m not going to buy it for you, obviously, it’d be kind of inappropriate. If you have cash, though . . .”
“I’m okay. I don’t know if I’m up for eating while driving on my first day.” If Hector hears the light judgment in my voice, he doesn’t react.
“I got you.” He nods. “Next lesson.” I honestly don’t know if he’s joking.
He pays, and Daniel reappears with the Blizzard, flipping the paper cup upside-down robotically before handing over the ice cream. I drive forward. Hector’s quiet for once while he eats.
“I went to high school with that guy,” he says out of nowhere after some minutes have passed.
“Who?” My confusion distracts me, and I nearly roll past the stop sign into the intersection. The car shudders to a halt when Hector hits his own brakes. With the lurch comes a little jolt of fear. This is why I don’t like driving.
“Daniel,” Hector says, ignoring our sudden stop. “The Dairy Queen guy. I had ceramics with him junior year.”
I remember Daniel’s distant demeanor. It’s kind of odd he betrayed no recognition of Hector. Then again, I reconsider, I probably won’t remember every random classmate in ten years. It’s Hector who’s unusual for remembering this dude from one ceramics class he took.
We keep driving. With every turn and lane change, I find myself feeling more comfortable. Hector gives me random directions and sporadic instruction while peppering me with questions on what TV shows I watch. When I say I don’t watch TV—which is true, not just me trying to prevent further conversation—he proceeds to recount the entire first season of Westworld. It’s confusing, but it’s not bad background noise while we circle endless streets of small supermarkets, veterinarians, and churches, and every possible view of the country club’s golf course.
At the end of the hour, Hector directs me into a residential neighborhood I distantly recognize. “Pull in here.” He nods toward one of the houses on the right. “We’re picking up the next student.”
I effortfully navigate into the driveway. “Why don’t you just pick them up after you’ve dropped me off?” I press the brake hard, then put the car into park, a bit proud of myself for finding the right gear.