No Right Turn (3 page)

Before I know I'm going to say it, I hear words flying out of my mouth, “Sure, let's go.”

I glance at his license plate:

I wonder, Who the hell is Nos?

I shouldn't be doing this, I think as I climb into the Corvette and buckle up. If Don Lugar thinks he can buy me off this easy, he's dumber than he looks.

But what the hell.

He fires the engine, and a soft rumble, deep and powerful, vibrates through my whole body. I've never heard or felt anything like it before.

We back out of the driveway.

As we move forward, it's like we're bumping over the surface. This car is nothing like my mom's Honda or any of the other newer rigs in which I've ever ridden. Riding in the Stingray is like being strapped onto the back of an animal, maybe an oversized cheetah. It feels like the car has a mind of its own.
It's
taking
us
for a ride, not the other way around.

We reach the stop sign at the end of our street.

“You ready?” Don asks.

I'm not sure what he means, but I answer, “Sure.”

Don cranks it through the turn, and then he punches it.

The jolt is unlike any rush I've ever felt before. The car shoots forward, and the back of my head slams against the tall bucket seat. A roar replaces the soft animal rumble.

I glance at the speedometer and notice that it isn't working, but in only a few seconds we're flying. I grab the black vinyl handle on the door. A hundred yards ahead is a sharp curve, a ninety-degree turn to the left where Cedar Road turns into Strong Road. As we get closer to it, I squeeze the door grip even harder.

Don barely eases off the gas as the 'Vette screams into the turn.

Everything moves incredibly fast. In half a second we're through the curve and pounding along the straight stretch ahead of us.

I start to ease my hold on the door grip when Don guns it again. In a few seconds we're going really fast. The rush is incredible: the rumble of the engine, the deep vibration of the car, the way that every bump and dip in the road registers through my feet and legs and ass.

Trying not to sound too scared, I say, “We must be going a hundred.”

Don glances down at the tachometer on the dashboard and says, “Oops … more like a hundred and ten.”

He immediately backs off the gas and smiles over at me. “Sorry about that.... She kinda likes to go.”

I say, “No, this is great.”

As the 'Vette slows down, he asks, “Is she fast enough for you?”

I laugh and answer sarcastically, “I guess.”

Don laughs too. “You like it?”

I don't hesitate. “I love it.” Then I ask, “Is your speedometer broken?”

Don says, “Yeah, I'm waiting on a part for it, a new head. But you can tell your speed by the tach. Every line mark on the tach is a hundred rpms, which equals five miles per hour … a thousand rpms is fifty miles per hour, fifteen hundred rpms is seventy-five miles per hour, and so on.”

“And we were going a hundred and ten?”

“Yep, pretty close to that.”

Unable to stop myself, I ask, “Did you drive like this when my mom was with you?”

Don laughs out loud. “Shit no!”

I laugh too.

We cruise on for a ways at a more sane speed, not even talking. Although only five miles north of Spokane, the prairie is mostly fields and pastures and old farmhouses, horses, a few cows. It feels like we've gone backward in time. I wonder if my dad, who grew up a few miles from this same neighborhood on Spokane's north side, ever flew down Strong Road at 110 mph. I can't
imagine
it.

Don suddenly asks, “You wanna drive her?”

I feel a jolt of adrenaline. “Me? Drive? I've never driven a car like this.”

Don, I think teasing me, says, “No kidding? Well, there's always a first time. You drive your mom's Honda, right?”

“Yeah,” I answer, not mentioning that Mom's Honda has
nothing
to do with this Stingray—they're not just different machines from different times, they're in different universes.

A few seconds later Don pulls over to the side of the road, onto the dirt parking strip. There are no other cars in sight.

A rush of crummy thoughts races through my head again. Why would this guy let me drive his cool car? What's he want from me? These thoughts aren't in my dad's voice, but they might as well be. Does Don think that he's going to take my dad's place? The last thing I need is another dad—the last thing I need is to go through something like that again....

I try to push these thoughts away as we trade seats and I grip the steering wheel.

Don says, “When you feel comfortable, just slip the gearshift into drive, the top D, and ease the accelerator down. We don't want to throw any gravel—this
is
a fiberglass body.”

I pause, trying to get comfortable. After a few seconds, finally, I put the shifter into drive. My foot still on the brake, I'm surprised how cool and calm I feel. I check both directions. The coast is clear, and I ease out onto Strong Road.

My dad would
not
approve!

Of course, that makes this even better.

Back in Don's driveway, I get out of the car and close the door behind me. Don climbs out too.

I look over at him. “That was pretty incredible. Thanks.”

“My pleasure.”

For some reason I don't like the sound of him saying the word “pleasure.” It's stupid of me, I know he's just being polite; still, something about it feels weird. Pleasure … Mom … yuck!

But something else bothers me even more, something I hope Don can't see in my face. As I look back at the Stingray, studying the car's long, sleek body, I know I
have to
drive it again—I've
gotta
feel that rush I felt going over a hundred miles an hour, even though I know that Don would never let me drive it that fast.

“I'll see you, Don,” I say. “And thanks again for the ride. It's a great car.”

He smiles, “You're welcome. Come by anytime.”

As I reach the street, I yell back to him, “By the way, the keys are in it.”

Don, maybe absentmindedly, maybe just distracted, answers, “I park her in the garage, so I always leave the keys in her in case of a fire or something—she'd be the first thing I'd save.”

I think, The keys are always in her, huh? Is that right?

Maybe there
is
a way I can go 110 again—maybe there's a way I can drive that fast all by myself!

When Mom gets home from work, the first thing she asks is what she always asks: “How was school?”

Of course, school's an ancient memory—I'm still thinking about Corvette Stingrays, about going 110 mph on the prairie. Mentioning that little detail, the 110 mph thing, doesn't seem like the best way to start this conversation. Still, I have to say something about it.

“I saw Don Lugar. He was out working on his 'Vette.”

“That's nice,” Mom says, pretending that she isn't paying much attention.

“I mean, it's the most beautiful car I've ever seen.”

Mom glances over at me and laughs. “I
know
,” she says, all excited. “It
is
fun, isn't it?” She pauses and smiles again and puts her hand up against my face. “You don't think you're getting a Corvette anytime real soon, do you, honey? I mean, when you're older, you can—”

I interrupt, laughing, “Yeah, right! But he gave me a ride in it.”

Mom asks, “He gave you a ride? In the 'Vette? Really?”

She sounds so silly. I had hoped her reaction would be more like mine—kind of a mix of suspicion and criticism—at least a little bit annoyed that Don was trying too hard to impress me. Instead she sounds so flippin' happy.

I hate how she asked, “
In the 'Vette
?” Like she's all into the lingo now?

I'm not too surprised, though. Frankly, Dad always had the “common sense” in our family—Mom always had more fun.

I say, “We just cruised up to the prairie, a short ride, ten minutes or so. He said he wanted to show me what the car was like. We went for a quick spin.”

Mom, sounding slightly more sane again, asks, “Did you like it?”

I admit, “Oh, yeah. It was wayyy cool.”

“And Don didn't mind showing it to you?” She's still obviously happy. I'm getting more and more annoyed.

I just say, “No.”

Mom says, “Well, that's nice. I'm glad you had fun, honey; I'm glad you and Don are getting to know each other. And if he wanted to show you the car, I guess there's no harm done.” She hesitates a second and then says, “I'm glad to see you excited about something....” She stops herself from saying more, but I know what she's thinking; she's relieved to see me enjoying
anything
at all.

I think about my insane need to get behind the wheel of the 'Vette again.

I think about Mom's words: “No harm done.”

I smile to myself.

If I had to name my closest friend at school, where I don't actually have
any
close friends, I'd say it's Wally Britton. I think this is because he's, maybe, almost as much of a social misfit as me. He has funky red hair, real wavy, like curly fries soaked in ketchup, and he's kind of skinny and wears old hippie-frame glasses when he doesn't have his contacts in. He carries a cell phone in a little leather case, clipped to his belt, and I've never, not once,
ever
seen him use it. For all I know it could be fake.

When my dad died and I was in middle school, like I mentioned, I got rid of all my friends, but I met Wally at the start of high school. He'd gone to a different middle school than me, and when I told him that my dad had died (not
how
he'd died, just that he was dead) and that I didn't like to talk about it, Wally said that was cool—he didn't want to talk about it either. You could say that Wally is empathy impaired. Still, being as out of it as I've been for these last three years, it's useful to know someone who still circulates on the edge of the real world.

I call Wally and tell him about riding in Don's 'Vette.

“He's the guy who's trying to get into yer mom's pants, isn't he?” Wally asks.

Great minds think alike (then again, so do moronic, perverted ones).

I answer, “Yeah, I guess. I don't know what he wants. What I
do
know is that I'm gonna drive the Corvette again.”

“What do you mean?” Wally asks. “Is this Don guy into some kind of Big Brothers trip with you now? Aren't you a little old for that?” He laughs.

I say, “No, Wally. Do I have to spell it out for you? I'm gonna find some way to drive that car again—even if I have to sneak it out.”

“Sneak it out,” Wally says with a real sarcastic tone. “You mean steal it. Good plan,” he adds, even more sarcastically. “Do you know what days are reserved for prison visitations?”

Sometimes Wally can be pretty annoying.

Two weeks later, to the day, I'm ready to steal Don Lugar's Corvette.

Wally's right; that's what it is, grand theft auto. I don't care.

I tell myself that sneaking the car out for a joyride isn't
really
stealing, since I plan to bring it back. Of course, if I get caught, who'll believe me? I tell myself that stealing it is partly Don's own fault, for letting me drive such an incredible car in the first place (how's a guy supposed to drive a Honda after that?) and for interfering with Mom's and my fragile, crappy lives. Plus, why should Mom get to move on when I don't even have a life? I know this is mostly bull, but it's what I feel. So Don isn't innocent in this—that's what I tell myself.

There's something else, too, though—something bigger than all these other excuses. The truth is that going 110 mph that day on the prairie was the first time since Dad died where I did
not
feel like … well … like some kind of zombie.