In an Instant(4)

“I remember when I did this with you,” my mom says, looking back at Aubrey. “You were such a nervous Nellie. It took you weeks before you’d even consider leaving the neighborhood.”

“I was being cautious,” Aubrey says, sticking her tongue out at her. “A good thing. I still have a perfect record: no accidents and no tickets. More than you can say.”

My mom is notorious for getting speeding tickets—at least two a year, and that’s not counting the ones she’s talked her way out of.

“Chloe, of course, was brilliant,” my mom goes on. “It was like she’d been driving her whole life. One lesson, and she was ready to drive across the country.”

My competitive bone vibrates. That’s the thing about having two older sisters: they’ve always done it first, which means I feel like I have to do it better.

I look down at the pedals on the floor. The right is narrow and vertical; the left is wide and horizontal. Right, gas. Left, brake. It’s not brain surgery. One is go. The other is stop. Anyone can do it. I mean, really, half the kids in my class have their licenses, and most of them are idiots.

“Finn?” Aunt Karen says, her head tilting, puzzled by my reticence.

I smile and climb on board, and Aunt Karen claps her hands with delight, then closes the door after me.

“Plenty of room back here,” she says, and I slide the seat back to accommodate my long legs.

I fiddle with the mirrors and the steering wheel, adjusting and readjusting them until they are perfect, my mind spinning. Right, gas. Left, brake. Right, go. Left, stop. Seriously, get over yourself. You’ve got this. Right. Left. Go. Stop.

“Of course I might just die of old age,” Aubrey says.

I sneer over my shoulder, then turn back. Carefully I set my foot on the brake, then push the button for the ignition, and the engine rumbles to life. I check the mirrors one more time to be sure nothing is behind us and then, to be extra sure, pivot my head in every direction.

“Really?” Aubrey says. “My plane leaves at dawn. Do you think I’m going to make it?”

My mom laughs.

“You’re doing fine, Finn,” Aunt Karen encourages, perhaps a tinge of guilt in her voice. Mischief-maker that she is, Aunt Karen is also softhearted, the sort who coos over babies and nurses fallen birds back to life. She wouldn’t have suggested this if she’d thought it would cause me any real distress.

After shifting into reverse, I back haltingly from the parking spot.

“Good job,” Aunt Karen says.

“And the Millers and Aunt Karen are leaving the parking lot,” Aubrey announces.

My mom chuckles again.

I pull onto the Coast Highway, and we start toward home, one block, then another, no one saying a word, and I know, despite my efforts to appear confident, they feel my stress.

The first signal comes into view, the light red, and with great deliberateness—left, left, left—I shift my foot from the gas to the brake.

We stop smoothly, and I exhale through my nose as I give myself an invisible pat on the back.

The light changes to green, and I shift my foot back to the gas, and on we go.

After several more blocks and two more uneventful stops, my white-knuckle grip lightens, and I start to relax. I’m totally figuring this out. I just have to focus. Think it and do it, just like in sports.

The others relax as well. Aubrey reaches forward to turn on the radio, and my mom turns in her seat to comment on some forgotten detail she needs to tell the florist.

And that’s when it happens. She is saying something about lilies and how they don’t have pollen when the car behind us honks, a startling blare that sends a jolt to my heart and then ricochets to my foot, causing it to leap sideways and stamp down so hard on the brake that my mom needs to catch herself with her hand on the dash.

Her face snaps sideways, and my skin flames. I don’t dare look at her, guilt radiating from my Irish-freckled face, and I know she knows. That’s the thing about my mom: she always knows.

Aubrey and Aunt Karen are oblivious. The honker swerves past, and Aubrey flips him off as Aunt Karen says, “Asshole. Some people are in such a damn rush. You’re doing fine, Finn. Just fine.”

My whole body trembles as we start again, my attention focused like a laser on getting us the remainder of the way home without further incident or incrimination, my eyes fixed on the road as I try not to think about my mom beside me or her judgment.

My promise was given less than a week ago, and her forgiveness was incredibly generous, especially considering my latest mishap landed me at the police station. A dare gone awry: the boulder I launched off the seesaw flew much farther than I expected, nearly taking out one of my friends and breaking the park’s sign. My mom did a brilliant job in her smooth lawyer way of talking me out of the trouble I was in, laughing and joking with the arresting officer until he no longer saw it as a crime but rather as a curious young mind testing the laws of physics. And when we got home, all she said was, “You know, Finn, an apology is only worth something if a person means it.” The words cut deep. I’d been apologizing a lot lately.

I crossed my heart and pinky swore that I really did mean it, that from then on I would make sure to look before I leaped, which actually made her smile, considering my seesaw-leaping crime.

She’s not smiling now. Stone still, she sits like a statue staring out the windshield, and I feel worse than terrible. Five days. That’s how long it took for me to break my promise and to let her down again.