I didn’t know if Betty Babcock was bad at anything else, but it took me less than a minute to figure out that she was really bad at driving. In fact, Betty Babcock was such a dreadfully rotten driver that I was curious about how she’d ever passed a driving test. Less than half an hour earlier, she’d nearly killed me, so you’d think that would have made her drive cautiously, but no—instead she sped, swerving and careering around corners like she was behind the wheel of a race car at the Indianapolis Motor Speedway.
When she screeched to an abrupt stop at a stop sign, I actually smelled burnt tire rubber. The car hadn’t even come to a complete stop when she put her foot on the gas and sped off again.
“Aren’t you spozed to actually stop and look both ways?” I asked.
“Oh shush! You sound just like that pesky man at the motor vehicle place . . . the one who gave me my driver’s test. I’m an excellent driver. Got good instincts.”
That started me giggling.
She took her eyes off the road and gave me a look. But then her lead foot eased up and she began to drive at a normal speed, causing me to let out an extremely long sigh of relief.
I stared out at the countryside the rest of the ride home and started wondering exactly who might be calling my parents right now—Mr. Summerlin or the butcher or Miss Duval or someone else? Knowing how fast news travels in this small town, I could be certain someone had.
When Mrs. Babcock pulled the car to a stop in front of my house, I quickly climbed out. Made it, I thought.
And right then, Cousin Polly and Them pulled up behind Mrs. Babcock. Their black Ford was sputtering the way it always does, and their hands were waving and their faces were smiling.
I was about to wave back, but I didn’t have time to because Mama had come running out of the house and wrapped her arms around me. “Gabriel!” she yelled.
Tink climbed out of their car, pointed her camera at us, and snapped a photo. It wasn’t the first picture I’d daydreamed about her taking of me today, but it was definitely part of this day’s story.
My assumption that someone had squealed and filled Mama and Daddy’s ears with news of my mishap was now a crystal-clear certainty. Daddy stood in front of me, and I could tell he didn’t know which path to take, the thankful or angry one. I was happy when thankful won. His eyes got watery, and he patted my head. Mama finally released me and wiped at her tears.
Tink looked out from behind her camera. “What’s buzzin’, cuzzin?” she asked me.
Mrs. Babcock, who had joined us on the sidewalk, answered for me. “What’s buzzin’ is that Gabriel was being careless as he rode his bicycle down Main Street and sailed through a red light, but I am happy to say that my excellent driving skills allowed me to avoid a tragic accident. So here he is, alive and well, safe and sound.”
“But Mrs. Babcock . . . that man, Mr. Meriwether, he pushed me out of the way just in time. Wasn’t for him, I might have got killed.”
“Well . . . that too. Yes.”
“That’s exactly what Miss Duval told us,” Mama informed her.
So, Miss Duval—who everyone claimed was a speedier carrier of news than the Birdsong Gazette—had been the informant.
Minutes later, the bicycle was out of the car and Mrs. Babcock had been thanked. Daddy shook her hand, and Mama even hugged her.
If you knew what a terrible driver she is, I don’t think you’d be so grateful, I thought. Boy, I couldn’t wait to spill the beans on her. But the shocked looks Mama, Daddy, Cousin Polly, and Them passed around when Mrs. Babcock screeched off in her Roadmaster made me figure they wouldn’t require much convincing.
To my surprise, Daddy handed off the bicycle to me, and together we all strode to the front porch.
“Swanky cycle, Gabriel,” Tink commented.
“Yeah, it’s really swell, and boy, does it fly,” I told her.
“Attention! Everyone halt!” Tink suddenly ordered. “I wanna take a picture.”
Her father, Teddy, chuckled. “And what else is new?”
As directed, we stood together and posed.
Tink pointed her camera and focused. “This is a special day we should always remember.”
“Yes ’tis . . . Gabriel’s birthday number twelve,” Auntie Rita replied.
“But it’s even more special than a birthday,” Tink said. She had a sly grin on her face.
“Why’s that?” Cousin Polly asked.
Tink snapped the picture. “Because his birthday almost became his death day.”
Tears returned to Mama’s eyes, and she squeezed Daddy’s hand and my shoulder.
“Tink! How can you be so crass?” Cousin Polly hollered.
“Jeepers creepers! It was just a joke,” she replied.
Auntie Rita shook her head. “Tsk, tsk, tsk . . . Death ain’t sumthin’ to poke fun at, Theodora.”
At the sound of her real name, Tink frowned.
“Apologize to Gabriel this instant!” Cousin Polly insisted.
“I’m sorry, Gabriel.”
“Thank you, The-o-dora.”
Tink sneered, “Rub it in deep, why don’t you?”
I smirked and replied, “I just did.”
Daddy interrupted the silliness. “Gabriel, put the bicycle in the shed. We’ll talk about what we are going to do with it later.” He had his no-nonsense look.
So I gave him my no-nonsense answer. “Yessir.”
The look in his eyes gave me a clue about what was coming. And from what I surmised, the bicycle might not be part of my future.