Chapter 36
Thirty-Six
My knee bounces under the desk in my sixth period history class while Mr. Kendrick drones on about Roosevelt’s New Deal.
For the hundredth time this hour, I glance at the clock just as the second hand completes another rotation.
Only thirteen minutes to go until the bell rings and school’s done for the day.
And then this guy is getting his driver’s license.
Nine minutes.
I’ve waited years for this day. A license to drive is my ticket to escape my father, take a girl on a real date, and get a job. Basically, everything. Remy, Jeremy, and Terry already got theirs; it’s just Vin and me left holding our dicks in our hand. That changes today—for me.
Two minutes.
The bell rings, and I’m first out the door. I jog to my locker, load up my backpack, and book it to meet Graham in the parking lot. I find him leaning against his beat-up El Camino.
“Hey dipshit,” he says.
“’Sup, assface,” I answer.
“Ready to flunk your test?”
“In your wet dreams.” Douche.
I haven’t come this far to screw the pooch. After studying the damn booklet and practicing for a year, I’m confident I’ll ace the written and driving tests. I’ve got this.
We climb in his car, roll down the windows, and light up. We both smoke now—and definitely hide that fact from our parents. They’re chain-smokers, but double standards abound in both households. I don’t need to give dear old dad another reason to dole out a smack, and mom would be…disappointed.
“Hey…thanks,” I say with sincerity. Graham could have been a dick, like usual, but he agreed to take me to the DMV when I asked—and is even letting me take the test in his ride.
He takes a long pull off his cigarette and nods in understanding. He gets it. He knows a car equals freedom—and why it matters to us.
Even though the El Camino is truly a beater with peeling paint, some dents, and a mauled fender, I’m jealous my brother has his own wheels. Scoring my own is high on my agenda.
“You owe me,” he tacks on.
“Yeah, yeah,” I mutter. Whatever bullshit he comes up with as payback will be worth it.
We arrive twenty-four minutes later.
A buzz surges through me as I enter the DMV. I’m ushered into a room to take the written exam, and I breeze through the multiple-choice questions. Driving is mostly simple common sense. Be predictable. Follow the rules. Stay situationally aware. Don’t be an asshole.
I score a ninety-eight and advance to the driver’s test.
My driving examiner is a dour, middle-aged woman who doesn’t throw me any curveballs.
We take a quick jaunt around the neighborhood, and I execute my understanding of basic operator skills competently—how to enter traffic, pass another car, maneuver a four-way stop, mind the speed limit, and use my mirrors and turn signals.
When it comes to the parallel parking portion, I nail that too…
because it isn’t tough. When she confirms I passed, I’m flooded with a calm, steady relief.
There’s just one final piece: having my photo taken. It’s more waiting, but once my name is called, it’s only another ten minutes until I hold my license in my hand.
My grin spills wide as we head home, a weight lifted, some of the pressure in which I’m constantly mired evaporating into the ether. Knowing this tiny rectangle is in my wallet, secure in my back pocket, loosens that perpetual knot in my chest an inch.