The white plastic Jesus dangling by a string from the rearview mirror is rocking in time to the music as Ro barrels up the Henry Hudson Parkway singing “Stop in the Name of Love.”
Without warning she lurches into the middle lane then floors the gas so Mr. Trailer Trash in the pickup with the God, Guns, and Guts bumper sticker riding our tail and doing disgusting things with his tongue is left behind like roadkill.
“Do not fuck with a Porsche 911,” Ro says, extending her middle finger.
It can go 197 mph, I’m about to add, then think better of it because our little Jesus is shaking his head and doing figure eights. Or it’s me because we’ve shared a six-pack and haven’t eaten except for the Ritz Bits that Dante—whose car we have stolen—left behind in the glove compartment along with Trojan Extended Pleasures and half a joint.
“Where are we going again?” Ro asks.
“The outlets. Looking for Louboutins.”
“Why didn’t we program the GPS?” she says, punching her head. “I don’t, uh, really know where I’m going.” She blinks hard as if that will clear her brain fog.
I tap tap tap on the GPS, only “outlet mall” doesn’t come up and neither does “Louboutins” and I can’t remember the actual name of the mall and I’m starting to feel queasy and wondering if this was really such a hot idea since I have two quizzes tomorrow that I haven’t studied for. But that doesn’t matter because right then we hear a siren in the background that starts out low and grating, like the buzz of a bloodthirsty mosquito circling your ear, and then it grows louder and louder—and in case you’re deaf there’s a row of red.
Flashing. Lights. In. The. Mirror.
“Mofo,” Ro says. “First time we cut school and we get…”
“PULL OVER TO THE SHOULDER,” booms the loudspeaker.
“No way,” I mutter.
Ro shoots me a look of disbelief. “Gia, remember whose car is this?”
I do remember. She slows down and makes her way to the shoulder while I study the font on the can of Bud between my knees deciding if I think it really works with the design.
Bodoni, that’s the name of the font I like. Bodoni.
“Don’t say anything,” she says.
“What?”
“Don’t say anything unless he asks you something.”
“What do you think I’m going say, ‘do you want a hand job?’”
Ro and I start to laugh because right then that becomes the most hilarious thing in the world. Then the cop struts up to the driver’s window and we are not laughing any more. No. I stare straight ahead.
“You were doin’ eighty.”
“Oh,” Ro says. Dead silence. One one-thousand. Two one-thousand. Three one-thousand.
“License and registration,” he says, which will be a problem.
Ro hands him her license, which isn’t a license. It’s a goddamn learner’s permit. She leans across me and fishes around in the glove compartment until she finds the registration or maybe it’s the insurance and accidentally knocks the condoms to the floor. Ro hands him the registration. Dante’s registration.
“So you don’t have a license and it’s not your car,” the cop says. “And you were speeding and drinking.”
Ro doesn’t answer, but she’s breathing like an asthmatic.
“You,” he says. “ID.”
I turn to look up at him and he looks back at me and something like the wattage they must use for the electric chair shoots through me from head to toe. Because the cop is about the hottest thing on the face of the universe, and I am ready to roll on my back—but I mean, a cop? So I uncurl my middle finger at him.
“Gia,” Ro hisses.
“What exactly is your problem?” he asks.
“You.”
He stares at me for longer than he has to and I stare back at him, never mind the heat and the shock waves. I refuse to look away first.
“ID,” he says again, pointing to my bag in case I don’t understand English.
I scratch the side of my nose with my middle finger, then hand him my learner’s permit. “Here, hottie.”
Another intense look before he examines my permit, looks back at me in surprise when he recognizes the name, examines my permit again, and then hands it back to me.
“Shit,” he mutters.