She Drives Me Crazy(6)

“She … accidentally spilled coffee in my car once.”

I’m not sure what possesses me to say it. This could have been my chance for some much deserved payback, but I’d rather be Tow Truck Girl than Tattletale Girl.

“You’ve been in her car before?” Irene’s mom asks. “You two are friends?”

We stare at each other for another extended moment.

“Mhm,” Irene says, recovering. She gestures at my uniform. “I cheer for her team sometimes.”

It’s a good thing no one’s looking at me, because my eye roll would prove that’s a lie in a second. I have no doubt that Irene, as captain, could get her squad to cheer for us instead of the boys, but why would a cheerleading captain ever bother to challenge the status quo?

“Isn’t that nice,” my mom coos. “Well, that makes everything less awkward, doesn’t it?”

Irene’s mom chuckles. “Yes, what a relief!”

What follows is some of the worst mom-based embarrassment I’ve ever experienced. Our moms introduce themselves, then make corny jokes about how glad they are that neither one of them is an uptight, meddling mother who would blow this accident out of proportion.

“Imagine having to do this with a Candlehawk woman!” my mom says.

“That’s a level of hell I don’t need today!” Irene’s mom laughs.

Irene and I say nothing, waiting for them to stop.

“Scottie, you look like a serious student,” Dr. Abraham says suddenly. “What are you studying?”

“Mom, don’t—” Irene tries.

“Uh … my favorite subject is history,” I say.

“Is that what you want to study in college?”

“Totally,” I lie. I’ve never seriously thought about it, but Dr. Abraham seems like the kind of woman who requires a confident answer.

“And what sport do you play? Is that a basketball uniform? Basketball’s a wonderful sport. You see, Irene? You can be a serious student and a competitive athlete.”

“I am,” Irene says, with an air like she’s said this a hundred times before.

“Cheerleading is very admirable, too,” my mom chimes in.

Dr. Abraham nods politely, but she obviously disagrees. “Well, it seems everything is in order here,” she says authoritatively. “We’re waiting on the tow truck company, but then we’ll be on our way.”

I meet Irene’s eyes at the words tow truck. She flicks her eyes away, but I catch a flash of guilt in them.

“Having your car towed sucks,” I say with fake sympathy. “Happened to me once. I really feel for you.”

I can almost see the steam coming out of her ears. It’s so satisfying I could sing. But then—

“What a pain to be without a car in this town,” my mom says. “How will you get to school, Irene?”

“My husband or I will drop her off,” Irene’s mom says with a wave of her hand. “It’s easy for us. We’re right over on Sleigh Byrne.”

“Sleigh Byrne?” My mom gets a funny smile on her face, and I’m suddenly dreading what she’s going to say next. “We live on the next road over, off Bells Haven.” She looks at me, and now I know what’s about to happen.

“Scottie can give Irene a ride!” Mom declares, her eyes bright. “Please, please, we insist. It’s the least we could do.”

I try to catch my mom’s eye to communicate what a terrible idea this is, but the damage is already done. Irene’s mom lights up like this is the best plan she’s ever heard. She smiles brightly at Irene and lifts her hands as if to say How about that!

Irene blinks and offers my mom a courteous, grateful smile, but I can tell she despises the idea as much as I do.

“Well, that’s settled,” Mom says, looking happily at me. “All’s well that ends well, right?”

It’s not until we’ve walked away from the Abrahams that I voice my horror. “Mom,” I whine, “I can’t stand that girl! I’d rather go to school naked than drive her anywhere!”

“I thought you said you were friends?”

“Uh … I mean, that might have been a slight exaggeration,” I fumble. “But does it matter? The accident wasn’t even my fault!”

Mom looks unperturbed. “No, it wasn’t your fault, but it’s still your responsibility. It won’t kill you to give her a ride until her car’s fixed.”

In the end, I walk away from my first car accident with a wounded ego, a dented bumper, and the looming dread of carpooling with the only person who could make my senior year worse than it already is.



* * *



My dad and younger sister are in the front yard, stringing up Halloween lights, when Mom and I caravan into the driveway.

I love our house. We’ve lived here since I was four. It’s a quirky street, tucked away off a busy main road. The houses are as different as the people who live in them. There’s the one-story ranch house where the Sanchez family and their three Labradors live. There’s Mrs. Stone’s green bungalow with the rocking chair porch, where she’s always inviting people in for a cup of turmeric tea and a discussion of what their dreams mean. At the end of the street is my mom’s least favorite house, the faux-modern monstrosity where Mr. and Mrs. Haliburton-Rivera host bougie parties we’re never invited to. Mom and Dad call them “Candlehawk wannabes.”