Part 18 (2/2)
When I get home I call Dylan, but she doesn't answer.
I hang up and call Taylor. He answers and I say, ”I just got my license.”
”You didn't have your license?” he asks.
”No. I told you, remember?”
”I guess I forgot. But, hey, that's great. You'll have to take me out soon.”
I hear a beeping, and look down at the phone and see it's Dylan.
”I gotta go now,” I tell Taylor. ”Just wanted to tell you.”
”So you'll take me out soon?”
”Maybe,” I say. Then, ”Yes.”
I click over to Dylan. ”I know you think that cars are the downfall of humanity, but I got my license today.”
”That's awesome! Congrats. You want to drive me to school tomorrow?”
”Yeah.” But then I get nervous. ”But my car's a stick. And I've hardly driven it. I pa.s.sed the test on an automatic.”
Dylan says, ”I can drive a stick. I'll walk to your house in the morning so we can drive together. That way, if you keep stalling in an intersection, I can take over.”
”Wait,” I say. ”You can drive a stick?” can drive a stick?”
”Well, yeah,” she says, like it's obvious.
”But you don't have your license.”
”Yeah, I have it.”
”But I thought cars were the downfall of humanity!”
”They are. But it isn't practical not to have a license. Sometimes you need one, you know? So I'll be at your house by like seven-fifteen, okay?”
7.
Dylan shows up at my front door at seven, holding a thermos in each hand.
”Here,” she mumbles, thrusting one toward me from the other side of the door. ”Needs milk and sugar.”
”Good morning,” I say.
She squints and takes a sip. Black coffee drips on her chin and she wipes it off with the sleeve of her hoodie. She walks inside.
My parents are standing in the kitchen, and I see them get all excited when Dylan walks in behind me. They haven't gotten to talk to her very much and are still getting over the thrilling news that their moody daughter actually has a friend.
Dylan manages to raise one ringed-and-leather-braceleted hand in greeting. I open the fridge and grab the half-and-half. When I turn back around, we've formed a little circle of four, all looking in at one another. My parents are smiling at Dylan and she's looking back at them, sort of puzzled. She manages a weak smile. I turn around again and take the sugar jar down from the cupboard.
”So how was the play?” my mom asks.
”Play?” Dylan asks, scrunching her forehead. ”Oh, the play.” She leans against our kitchen counter and takes a sip of coffee. ”So good,” she finally says.
”Which one was it?” my dad asks.
”Romeo and Juliet, right?” my mom says. right?” my mom says.
I dump a spoonful of sugar into my coffee.
”Yeah. It was at my old school.”
I take another spoonful.
”And you had friends in the production?”
”Her girlfriend,” I say, stirring.
”Wonderful,” my dad says. ”I always imagined that I would enjoy acting.”
They stare at her for a little longer, and Dylan and I stare at them. ”Toast?” my mom asks.
”Sure,” Dylan says.
Dylan and I finish our toast and escape from my pleasant-but-awkward parents. Then it's out through the back door, over the brick patio, past my parents' tomato vines, and down to the driveway.
”h.e.l.lo, little car,” I say. ”Ready for an adventure?”
Dylan squints. ”When's the last time anyone drove it?”
”I don't know. But I start it a lot, so the battery should be fine.”
I unlock my side, climb into the seat, then lean over and pull up the pa.s.senger-side lock. Dylan slides in and fastens her seat belt. As I put the key in the ignition, she picks at all the fur I ripped off the seat covers and stuffs it, piece by piece, into a pocket in her backpack.
”You have to treat your car nice,” she says. ”What is all this?”
I choose not to answer, just roll my eyes.
”Hey,” she says, and points at my seat belt. ”Buckle up, okay?”
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