Lock and Key(29)

“He was just being nice,” I said. “He doesn’t really want to drive me.”

“Of course he does,” Jamie said, grabbing another roll from the basket between us. “He’s a prince. And we’re chipping in for gas. It’s all taken care of.”

“The bus is fine,” I said again.

Cora, across the table, narrowed her eyes at me. “What’s really going on here?” she asked. “You don’t like Nate or something? ”

I picked up my fork, spearing a piece of asparagus. “Look,” I said, trying to keep my voice cool, collected, “it just seems like a big hassle. If I ride the bus, I can leave when I want, and not be at the mercy of someone else.”

“No, you’ll be at the mercy of the bus schedule, which is much worse,” Jamie said. He thought for a second. “Maybe we should just get you a car. Then you can drive yourself.”

“We’re not buying another car,” Cora said flatly.

“She’s seventeen,” Jamie pointed out. “She’ll need to go places.”

“Then she’ll ride the bus. Or ride with Nate. Or borrow yours.”

“Mine? ”

Cora just looked at him, then turned her attention to me. “If you want to do the bus, fine. But if it makes you late, you have to do the carpool. All right?”

I nodded. Then, after dinner, I went online and printed out four different bus schedules, circling the ones I could catch from the closest stop and still make first bell. Sure, it meant getting up earlier and walking a few blocks. But it would be worth it.

Or so I thought, until I accidentally hit the snooze bar a few extra times the next morning and didn’t get downstairs until 7:20. I was planning to grab a muffin and hit the road, running if necessary, but of course Cora was waiting for me.

“First bell in thirty minutes,” she said, not looking up from the paper, which she had spread out in front of her. She licked a finger, turning a page. “There’s no way.”

So ten minutes later, I was out by the mailbox cursing myself, muffin in hand, when Nate pulled up. “Hey,” he said, reaching across to push the door open. “You changed your mind.”

That was just the thing, though. I hadn’t. If anything, I was more determined than ever to not make friends, and this just made it harder. Still, it wasn’t like I had a choice, so I got in, easing the door shut behind me and putting my muffin in my lap.

“No eating in the car.”

The voice was flat, toneless, and came from behind me. As I slowly turned my head, I saw the source: a short kid wearing a peacoat and some serious orthodontia, sitting in the backseat with a book open in his lap.

“What?” I said.

He leaned forward, his braces—and attached headgear— catching the sunlight coming through the windshield. His hair was sticking up. “No eating in the car,” he repeated, robotlike. Then he pointed at my muffin. “It’s a rule.”

I looked at Nate, then back at the kid. “Who are you?”

“Who are you?”

“This is Ruby,” Nate said.

“Is she your new girlfriend?” the kid asked.

“No,” Nate and I said in unison. I felt my face flush.

The kid sat back. “Then no eating. Girlfriends are the only exception to carpool rules.”

“Gervais, pipe down,” Nate said.

Gervais picked up his book, flipping a page. I looked at Nate, who was now pulling out onto the main road, and said, “So . . . where do you take him? The middle school?”

“Wrong,” Gervais said. His voice was very nasal and annoying, like a goose honking.

“He’s a senior,” Nate told me.

“A senior?”

“What are you, deaf?” Gervais asked.

Nate shot him a look in the rearview. “Gervais is accelerated, ” he said, changing lanes. “He goes to Perkins in the morning, and afternoons he takes classes at the U.”

“Oh,” I said. I glanced back at Gervais again, but he ignored me, now immersed in his book, which was big and thick, clearly a text of some kind. “So . . . do you pick up anyone else? ”

“We used to pick up Heather,” Gervais said, his eyes still on his book, “when she and Nate were together. She got to eat in the car. Pop-Tarts, usually. Blueberry flavor.”

Beside me, Nate cleared his throat, glancing out the window.

“But then, a couple of weeks ago,” Gervais continued in the same flat monotone, turning a page, “she dumped Nate. It was big news. He didn’t even see it coming.”

I looked at Nate, who exhaled loudly. We drove on for another block, and then he said, “No. We don’t pick up anyone else.”

Thankfully, this was it for conversation. When we pulled into the parking lot five minutes later, Gervais scrambled out first, hoisting his huge backpack over his skinny shoulders and taking off toward the green without a word to either of us.

I’d planned to follow him, also going my own way, but before I could, Nate fell into step beside me. It was clear this just came so easily to him, our continuing companionship assumed without question. I had no idea what that must be like.

“So look,” he said, “about Gervais.”

“He’s charming,” I told him.