Two days later Cyn is standing at my locker, chewing on her thumbnail. As I approach, she smiles and throws her arms around me. She kisses me on the cheek. “How would you like to drive the Honda?”
“At lunch?”
She shakes her head. “Right now. It needs gas.”
“Now? I’ve got a class. How about we go together at lunch?” I open my locker and reach for my textbook.
She puts her hand on mine. “No, it’s got to be right now. My brother is picking it up, and he’ll lose his mind if I haven’t filled the tank. I’d go, but I’ve already skipped this week.”
Has she forgotten that I’ve skipped too?
She says, “And I’ve been late. Twice.” She presses the keys into my hands. “There’s forty bucks in the console. Go to the same place. Park it at Meridian when you get back. My brother will get it there.”
I’m just about to ask where to leave the keys when she says, “He’s got keys.”
The bell rings and she starts to walk away. I say, “Why don’t you just give your brother the cash?”
She turns and runs back. She cradles my face with her hands and kisses me, full on, navigating the entire surface of my tongue. When she finally pulls back, I have to gasp for a breath. She says, “Because I really want a Malabar.” She taps the end of my nose. “Remember the Malabar.” Then the hallway is empty and classroom doors are closing, and I’ll be late to class now anyway. I toss the keys in my hand. So I guess I’ll go for a drive.
I keep the speedometer at ten over and stay with the flow of traffic, fast enough to learn what the car can do but not so fast that I attract attention. I downshift into the corners just for the feeling of the car uncoiling. I would so like to own this car. The border guard asks who owns the car, and for a second I sweat because I don’t know Cyn’s brother’s name. I don’t remember if we got asked this when Cyn and I crossed. I’m pretty sure we didn’t. But when I give him the only name I know, “Hawley,” the guard waves me through. That was easy. I crank the sound system and imagine that I do own this car.
At the gas station the same worker is on, and he gives me the same hard time about not having any Malabar and then about not waiting on the pump while he takes for-fricking-ever getting the Malabar. And when he finally comes out with the Malabar, his shirt is covered in the same crud, like he’s had to crawl through a warehouse again to get it. By the time I pay, I have just enough time to get back for second class. I pull into a spot at Meridian Park.
Cyn’s brother. Who is this guy anyway? I reach over to the glove box and pull out the plastic pouch with the vehicle registration. He probably lives in a great condo with a great girlfriend and a great dog. Wait a minute. How is he going to get the car if he lost his license? I slip the registration papers out of the pouch.
Her brother doesn’t own the car. The owner is Cynthia Hawley.