There are different kinds of quiet.
There’s the quiet you get after it rains and you watch the birds creeping out—looking to see if it’s okay to start tweeting again. That’s a good quiet. It makes you feel like anything is possible.
And then there’s the quiet of Mrs. Tanglewood’s car.
All week long, Mrs. Tanglewood had driven us to school with no music or conversation, her white-knuckled hands gripping that steering wheel in the ten and two o’clock positions. Mace sat in the front with her and I sat in the back. Each day, it was the same quiet drive. The kind of quiet you wish you knew how to break. But just can’t figure out. The way to the Founder’s Day Gala was no different.
I couldn’t stop fidgeting in the backseat. Mace had lent me a pretty dress to wear with pink and green flowers all over it. I hoped her mother wouldn’t mind. It wasn’t a long drive to school, but with Mace and her mom in the car not talking, it felt like a million miles. I had heard them arguing again right before we left. It had sounded like a big one. Something about clones or lemmings or something. But I didn’t catch it all.
When it was time to go, I could tell they weren’t finished yet. I was just hoping they wouldn’t decide to finish in the car.
At the first stop sign, Mrs. Tanglewood, still looking straight ahead, said in a low whisper, “How can you think that? I want you to be yourself.”
“As long as myself is a clone of you, you mean,” said Mace.
I shrank down as low as I could in the backseat.
“That’s not true.”
“Right. You don’t hate my hair and my makeup.”
Mrs. Tanglewood kept looking straight ahead. “I don’t—hate it. I just—” Her voice cracked. She cleared her throat. “I just don’t see why you need someone else—”
“Oh, right, because you and I have so much in common—”
“You know…” Mrs. Tanglewood lowered her voice. “For your information, I was a real rebel when I was your age.”
“Right.”
“I was.”
“You were.”
“Yes. One summer, your aunt Lily and I pierced each other’s ears—with safety pins—right before we snuck out to see Joan Jett in the city. What do you think of that?”
The car behind us beeped.
Mrs. Tanglewood jumped in her seat. Then started driving again.
“That’s—really? Was Grammy—did she ever find out?”
“Well, yes, of course, and she grounded us and made us take them out and wait till we were sixteen and got us classic pearl studs. I still have mine. I thought you could wear them when you—Or… we can get whatever you’d like… of course.”
Mace didn’t answer for a second. Then shrugged. “Whatever. I’ll look at them. If you want.”
“That would be fine.”
“Fine.”
“Fine.…”
Mrs. Tanglewood continued driving toward the school. I eased up in my seat. The car got quiet again. But it was a little different this time. I leaned over just enough to peek into the space between them and saw that Mrs. Tanglewood’s right hand had left its post at two o’clock and was resting on the middle console. Just a few inches from Mace’s left.