JUNO WAS SUPPOSED TO PICK ME UP FROM THE AIRPORT. But when I stepped off the escalator into the baggage claim area, it was Dad standing there waiting for me. He was holding up a sign with my name on it, just like the taxi drivers do for their customers.
“Dad!” I called.
“Sloane!” He raised his arm and waved. “I’m here!”
I jogged the rest of the way to him and we hugged hello. “Did something happen to Juno?” I asked, as we broke apart.
“Don’t worry, she’s fine,” Dad said. “I was just anxious to see you.”
“Me, too,” I said. “So what’s with the sign?”
“I didn’t want you to walk past your old man,” he said. “I wanted to make sure we found each other.”
His eyes were shiny. I reached to hug him again, longer and harder this time. I was crying, and I could tell he was, too. His body shook a little. My whole life, I’d never seen my dad cry. Then Talley died, and he did cry in front of me—that awful night at the hospital, and again at her funeral. But this was different; he was crying for me.
We finally pulled away from each other. Around us, other passengers were greeting people, pulling luggage from the baggage claim, rushing to wherever they needed to go.
Everyone was busy in their own story, but a couple of people paused to look at Dad and me. Given our teary reunion, I bet they thought I’d been away for way more than a week. They’d never know our real story.
“It feels like I haven’t seen you in a long time,” I told Dad. “I’m so glad you’re not mad at me for lying to you about Stanford and all the rest of it.”
“Oh, Sloane, you did me a favor,” he said. “I knew that I needed to tell you about your mother. But it had been so many years, and after what happened with Talley . . . I didn’t know how to start the conversation. I thought I might lose you if I did, so I stayed quiet. You did the right thing by lying to me. That’s not an easy thing for a father to admit to his child, but it’s true. Just don’t ever do it again.”
“I won’t,” I said.
“I promise that you won’t ever need to. And for the record, I’m glad you’re not mad at me, too.”
“I was. I’m not anymore.”
“That’s good. Shall we get going?”
“Yeah.”
He picked up my bag and I let him. I don’t think it counts as benevolent sexism when it’s your own father.
“Hey, Dad,” I said. “I was wondering—you have the car here, right?”
“Of course I do. How else do you expect us to get home?”
“Can I drive?”
“You want to drive?”
“I should practice if I’m going to take my driver’s test.”
He raised his eyebrows.
“I mean, if I’m brave enough to go to California by myself, and learn everything I did, then I’m probably brave enough to drive, too.”
“You’ve been brave all along,” Dad said. “But perhaps your first session shouldn’t be on the highway.”
“Fair point.”
“How’s this for a driving plan—I’ll do the first part, and the minute I’m off the exit ramp, I’ll pull over. We’ll switch seats, and you can take us the rest of the way home.”
“You’re on,” I said.
But as time wore on, I got more and more nervous. My palms were sweating hard, and I wiped them against my jeans a half dozen times. Dad noticed, despite my attempts to be subtle about it. “You know,” he said, “you don’t have to drive today if you don’t want to. The car is here for you whenever you’re ready, and whenever that day is, I’ll be your copilot.”
“Thanks,” I said. “But it’s not like anyone ever feels ‘ready’ for the things that scare them. You just do them. I have to just do this.”
“That’s my girl.” We were approaching the highway exit. Dad clicked on his turn signal. That tick-tick-tick sounded like a clock on countdown mode. My heart was racing. He pulled over to the side of the road and turned off the car. The countdown was over. Dad undid his seat belt, and I undid mine.
He put a hand on his door handle. I put a hand on mine. It was like a game of monkey see, monkey do. I waited for him to open the car door. When he did, I opened mine and stepped out. We switched car seats and rebuckled seat belts. “How are you doing?” Dad said.
“The seat doesn’t feel right.”
“You have to adjust it. There’s a button right on the side. It’s shaped like an oval. Push it to move the seat up.”
I slipped a hand down and found the button. “How far do I go?”
“Until you feel like your feet can comfortably reach the pedals.”
Duh, as Eddy would say. “Sorry I’m being a total moron about this,” I said.
“You’re being someone who doesn’t have much driving experience,” Dad said, “which is, incidentally, exactly what you are. But we’re setting out to change that. How’s the seat now?”
“I think it’s good,” I said. “Don’t I have to do something with the mirrors, too?”
“The side mirrors and the rearview. Adjust them so you can see whatever is beside and behind you.”
“Okay . . . done.”
“Okay. Now put your foot on the brake and start the car.”
“Gotcha.” I pressed down all the way on the brake pedal and moved my hand toward the ignition switch. “Wait. The brake is the one on the left side?”
“Right.”
“Do you mean, right it’s left, or right it’s actually on the right?”
“Left side,” he said. “Correct.”
“I bet you’re having second thoughts about giving me the driver’s seat.”
“Not at all. Start the car when you’re ready.”
“Ready as I’ll ever be,” I said, and turned on the engine.
“Now foot off the brake,” Dad said, “and foot on the gas, gently at first. There’s no one behind you, so you can go as slow as you want to.”
I went really slowly, though my heart was pounding as if I were driving on the autobahn in Germany, where (I knew from Talley) there wasn’t a speed limit. I was doing this for her, because she’d always wanted to teach me how to drive, and for the women in Saudi Arabia who she’d told me all about, who’d waited a very long time for the right to drive. But mostly, I was driving for myself. I made sure to stay in the middle of the lane. A car was coming from the opposite direction. It whipped past me and I gasped.
“It’s okay,” Dad said. “You’re all good. But you may want to inch a little closer to the right, so you don’t drift to the other side.” He put a hand on the wheel, and turned it just slightly. It brought me closer to the tree line on the edge of the road, which I’d been trying to avoid.
Mom didn’t hit a tree, I reminded myself. Trees didn’t have anything to do with it. Neither did black ice. And anyway, it’s the middle of summer. There isn’t any ice of any color on the road at all.
I kept going. “A car is creeping up on me in the rearview mirror,” I told Dad.
“You’re below the speed limit. Speed up if you want.”
“Oh, I don’t want to.”
“Then don’t worry about him.”
It was hard not to worry with him so close behind, especially when he honked at me. Finally he pulled around me, pausing long enough to give me a hard look and a last honk. “He hates me,” I said.
“People who have been driving for a while tend to forget they were once new at this, too,” Dad said. “Asshole.”
“What was that?”
“I’m not going to say it again.”
“Talley and I used to love to hear you curse,” I said.
“All those arts and crafts projects, and trips to the beach, and family game nights, and it’s a curse that made my children happy?”
“The other stuff was good, too. But a Dad-curse was exciting because hearing it was so rare. Like finding a four-leaf clover.”
“Ah,” he said. “Well, I save the curses for those occasions on which it’s truly called for. That way you know I really mean it.”
“Thanks.”
“You just missed the turn,” he said. “I know you’ve been gone for a week, but we live back there.”
“I missed it on purpose,” I said. “I want to stop by Juno’s house, if you don’t mind.”
“I don’t mind at all,” Dad said. “I think she was a little disappointed when I told her I’d pick you up. You know you’re special when people are fighting to be the one to get to pick you up from the airport.”
“If you want to spend more time, we don’t have to go to Juno’s.”
“No, let’s go,” Dad said. “Stay as long as you like, and I’ll come back and pick you up whenever you’re ready.”
“Or Juno can take me home so you don’t have to worry about it.”
“Or I can come get you, and then you’ll drive us both home,” Dad said. “Whatever works for you.”
I twisted through our neighborhood, and the houses got bigger and bigger. A few streets later, I turned onto Cheshire Court, where Juno lived, and where the stone houses were the largest of all the houses in Golden Valley. They all had enormous lawns with grass so green, it was like the coloring-book version of what grass is like—you take the greenest crayon in the box, and shade it in all over. Back at our house, the yard was much smaller, and our grass was patchier. No one in my family had the kind of green thumb required to make sure the grass was always evenly watered and growing in the perfect way. Not that Juno, her parents, or her brother did, either, but they could hire someone who specialized in that kind of thing.
I pulled up to the curb, bumping it a little. “Sorry,” I told Dad.
“That’s all right. It won’t leave a mark.”
“You’re being awfully cool about all this. Like, more than I expected.”
“How did you expect me to be?”
“I don’t know. I never wanted to learn to drive till now, so I didn’t really think about it.”
“I think I was pretty cool when I was teaching Talley,” he said.
“I wish I could ask her.”
“I know you do.” Dad paused. “But since you can’t, trust me: I was very cool. I was as cool as they come.”
“Did Talley bump into the curbs, too?”
“She got the hang of it pretty quickly. You will, too.”
“It may take me a little bit longer. Don’t forget—she was the genius.”
“Your sister certainly was a smart cookie,” Dad said. “The other day I remembered something she said—something I hadn’t thought about in a long time. When Talley was three years old, we spent a week at a beach house on Lake Superior. I had this ritual of taking her to watch the sunset every night. We’d been at it for a few days, and when we went back to the beach on the third or fourth day, Talley said, ‘It shouldn’t be called the sunset, Daddy. The earth moves, not the sun. They should call it the earth-set.’ That was the moment I knew—this kid was different. She was something special. Every parent thinks that about their kids, but she really was.”
“She was three when she said that? Really?”
“Yes,” he said. “Except Talley didn’t say it. You did.”
“But that’s just . . . it couldn’t have been me. That sounds so much like Talley.”
“I think it sounds like you,” Dad said. “You’ve paid attention to the details since you were a little girl. You’ve always been interested in language, and why things are called what they’re called. You notice things I never would. I love that about you. But I’d love you no matter what.”
“I love you, too.”
“Now,” he said. “Before I let you escape to Juno, there’s the matter of the money you owe her. She wouldn’t tell me how much she laid out for the plane ticket.”
“She gave me her credit card to use, too,” I said.
“Did her parents approve that ahead of time?”
“She used her own money.”
“She’s a minor,” Dad said. “That makes it the kind of thing Amy and Randall should approve.”
“Talley said don’t ask for permission, ask for forgiveness,” I reminded him. “And besides, Juno is allowed to decide for herself what’s important enough to spend her money on. She thought this was.”
“That Juno,” Dad said. I expected his next words to be something about how spoiled and irresponsible she was, but he said, “She’s been a really good friend to you.”
“Not just good. She’s the best.”
“I’m not surprised,” Dad said. “You are who you hang out with, and she hangs out with you.”
“Thanks, Dad.”
He shifted in his seat and pulled out his wallet. “All right. I have a check with me. Whatever you put on her card, add that in so I can pay her back for everything.”
“I didn’t use her card at all,” I said. “Except for the plane tickets—which were three hundred and nine dollars. Just so you know, I’m babysitting for the Hogans for the rest of the month, and I’ll give you everything I earn till it’s paid back.”
“I don’t want you to worry about it,” Dad said. “I’m not worried about it.”
“Really?”
“I’m careful with money, but I’m not worried about it,” Dad said. “I understand what it’s like to be worried about money, and I’m grateful that at this point in my life, I’m in a different place. I can pay Juno back for your trip. I should’ve been the one to pay for it in the first place.”
“I didn’t think you’d let me go, if I asked.”
“I probably wouldn’t have,” Dad said. “Scratch that. I definitely wouldn’t have. But give Juno the check. Tell her I want to make things right, with both of you.”
“I will,” I said. “Thanks, Dad. Can you pop the trunk? I have a present for Juno in my bag.”
“You pop it,” Dad said. “You’re in the driver’s seat.”
“Oh, right. I am.”
We hugged again when we got out. I grabbed the bag from Retro Planet. Dad got back into the driver’s seat.