The sound of a plow scraping asphalt jostles me awake. A glance out the window tells me that well over a foot of snow blanketed Harmony last night.
I maneuver around the piles of clothes, books, and college mail to retrieve my phone and unplug the charger. Cell in hand, I stretch my arms wide and try to encourage my eyes to remain open. When I hear a ding, I check for a cancellation text, but instead find a message from Jana telling me to meet her in town in an hour. Shoot. Driver’s ed is on.
I shimmy into my faded weekend jeans and a loose sweater. My apartment is dark, except for a sliver of light poking between the gap in our curtains. Mom’s probably sleeping off last night’s drink specials. Deciding to skip breakfast, I twist an elastic band into my unwashed hair and tug on a pair of tall boots before venturing into the frozen waves of winter slush coating the sidewalks.
Clumps of gray snow litter the roadways, kicked out from under the tires of careless drivers speeding by as if it’s a warm summer day. I head for Starbucks, where Jana waits, shivering in her faux fur-trimmed parka. Even though it’s an early Saturday morning, the town teems with legal-types filtering in and out of the nearby courthouse; silver-haired judges dressed in three-piece suits, young lawyers in khakis, and blue-haired document runners with nose rings, pedaling their bikes between traffic lanes.
Together, we take stock of the long coffee line, and, after a joint sigh, decide to skip our pre-Driver’s-Ed lattes.
“Hate Driver’s Ed,” Jana grumbles. We’d both failed our permit tests (because we took them without bothering to study first) and consequently were required to sit through the school’s sponsored driver’s education classes. But, when it comes to studying for Driver’s Ed, Jana and I follow our own academic standards.
Matthews/Rodriguez Driver’s Ed Principle Number One: We refuse to study for Driver’s Ed because the class is on Saturdays. Saturday! You know, the WEEKEND. Outside the government’s mandated parameters for education.
Matthews/Rodriguez Driver’s Ed Principle Number Two: If a class does not factor into our high school GPA we see no need to devote more than minimal brain cells to our mastery of the subject.
Matthews/Rodriguez Driver’s Ed Principle Number Three: We can sit and look at pictures of cars all day long, but in no way will this teach us to become better drivers. We learn by doing.
In our opinion, driver’s education is a big time waste. We need real life, on the road experience. Because we’re pretty sure that after all this classroom training ends, we’ll both still suck at driving.
In fact, we only bother to show up for Driver’s Ed because Mr. Drum, our teacher, is kind of hot for an old guy. Ordinarily, I’m not a huge fan of former military, battle fatigue-wearing men with multiple piercings and snake tattoos. Even his eyes look Special Ops-ready, matching the greenish brown of his camo Army Ranger shirt. And I rarely wonder about what teachers do in their spare time, but Mr. Drum sparks my curiosity.
Who trades the excitement of a military career for teenage driving instruction? Was he honorably discharged or did he go AWOL and decide to hide out in Harmony? Does he crave the constant adrenaline rush associated with near-fatal accidents?
Possibly, this state of wonderment is what continually sets off my unfortunate case of Driver’s Ed amnesia. And Mr. Drum always seems to direct his attention my way whenever I’m not fully concentrating on his lecture.
“Who can tell me which vehicle has the right of way at this stop sign?” he asks, pointing to a chalk diagram sketched on the blackboard. No SMART Board for Mr. Drum—he’s totally old school.
Unsurprisingly, no one volunteers.
“Miz Matthews, let’s hear your perspective.” Just the force of his gaze has me shrinking a few inches in my seat.
“Um …”
“Give it a try,” he says.
“Okay … I guess it would be … whoever has the biggest car?”
Mr. Drum redirects his attention to the blackboard. I swear the cleft in his chin wobbles as he restrains a burst of laughter. Even his dark hair seems to shake.
“Would you further enlighten me as to your reasoning?” he finally asks, crossing his arms in front of his chest and tapping his fingers on his rock-hard bicep. He still can’t look at me.
“Because you don’t want to get steamrolled by a Hummer if you’re only driving a Corolla?”
Sophomore guy next to me raises coughs into his fist, covering his own bout of hysterics. Newbies think Driver’s Ed is all fun and games, but right now the idea of repeating this class has lost most of its humor for me.
“Interesting theory, but no.” Mr. Drum clears the final echoes of restrained laughter from his throat. “I hope you never get behind the wheel of a tank. Anyone else?”
Sophomore guy’s hand shoots into the air. He knows he can’t possibly screw up his answer as badly as I did.
Needless to say, my post-Driver’s-Ed mood is foul. Jana talks me into grabbing lunch at the indoor market located in the shell of an old textile factory a few blocks from school. Since I’m craving comfort food and my morning latte money is still in my purse, I decide to drown my sorrows in a big bread bowl of chicken noodle soup.
At the Main Street traffic light, Jana’s backpack rings.
“Hold up, chica.” She breaks her pace, searching for her phone buried beneath a makeup bag, our still blank achievement list, and her driving manual.
Standing in the cold, my teeth begin to chatter. “I’ll go inside and find us a table.” When the light changes, I step closer to the intersection.
Bam! A snowball pummels the left side of my head, spraying frozen slush into my hair.
“What the …?” I whirl around and find Andy and his friend Sidh standing at the corner, chortling like a couple of delirious baboons.
An angry scream escapes me, echoing through the frigid atmosphere. I bend over and scoop snow with my bare hands, but when I attempt to return fire, my backpack slides down from my shoulder. The heavy bag bounces off my cheap plastic boot and a jolt of pain shoots up my leg, triggering an explosion of stars, dancing in my line of vision.
“Andrew!” I scream, stomping my uninjured foot on the ground like an irate two-year-old.
Sidh chuckles and points at Andy. “Dude, your future wife is pissed. She called you Andrew.”
“She’s not my future wife. Senior Superlatives are ludicrous, and I’m filing a formal appeal,” Andy says, but he’s laughing.
“Yeah, sure you are.” Sidh flashes a toothy grin. Then his dark eyes roll side-to-side, as if he suddenly realizes he’s now a target.
He’s right, of course. From behind me, Jana pegs him with a snowball. But, with Jana’s hand-eye coordination basically being non-existent, she might have been aiming for Andy. Her throw is wide right, and shaves Sidh’s spiky-black hair above his ear, leaving him with half a head of snowy highlights.
“Got your back. But, girlfriend, you jumped about ten feet in the air.” Jana laughs right along with the guys. I extract my soaking wet backpack from a pile of snow and stalk away, leaving the three of them on the far side of the street when the light changes. I hope Jana enjoys spending time with her recently elevated to datable guy status, super-nerd Andy Kosolowski.
Right now, they are all dead to me.
Two blocks later, Andy calls my name. “Sadie, I want to apologize.”
I ignore him and continue power sulking.
“Sadie, stop. Please. I didn’t mean to hit your head. I was aiming lower, but you’re so …”
I whirl around and face him. “I’m so what?”
Andy’s gaze drops to the ground as he kicks at the snow with his sneaker. “Let me make it up to you. Can I buy you a cup of coffee? Something from the bakery?”
Damn. One bad thing about going to school with the same person for approximately eleven years, five months and six days—he knows the best way to bribe me into forgiving him.
“An éclair,” I snap, crossing my arms in front of my chest. “No, make it two. And a vanilla chai.” With a quick nod, Andy plows through the bakery door, sending the tiny bell attached to the frame into a tinkling frenzy.
I wait five whole minutes in the cold, stomping my boots to shake off a crust of powdery snow. Eventually, Andy returns, carrying my order in a crisp, white paper bag. His glasses fogged over inside the steamy bakery, but I still catch a glimpse of the rest of his face, twitching under the duress of holding back laughter.
Great. First, Mr. Drum, then sophomore guy, and now Andy. Nice to know I’m considered highly entertaining by the general male population.
“Ah, sorry about your hair,” he says. His large hand reaches out to tuck a damp lock behind my ear.
I shake away and thrust my arm out in defense, fearing another destroy-Sadie operation is underway. “You’re sorry about my hair? You bombarded my entire face with snow. I might have frostbite!”
“Nah, you’re good. Your lips are still moving. Enjoy the éclairs.” He hands me the bag. “Oh, and sorry about Sidh’s future spouse comment. I know how much you hate the whole Senior Superlative thing.”
“Yeah, I saw Melinda’s article in the paper.” I spit out the name like my mouth is filled with snake venom. Andy looks confused and opens his mouth to say something, but then decides against it. He waves good-bye and sets off in the opposite direction, whistling a happy tune, like a really tall dwarf from the Snow White fairy tale. Super-sized Dopey.
Jana passes him on her way up the street, her dark hair now tucked beneath a bright red knit cap she keeps in her backpack.
“Did Andy just buy you not one, but two éclairs?” she asks, stunned. She grabs the bag from my hand and peeks inside, then glances at his retreating form, as if checking to make sure he’s not an apparition.
“And a vanilla chai.” I hoist my cup in the air.
“No freakin’ way. A large chai costs at least five bucks. He could have taken you to a movie or something.”
This comment has me spraying fifty cents worth of my hot beverage on the ground. Me and Andy at the movies? Together? In the dark?
“Geez-us, Jana. Do you want me to suffer third-degree mouth burns on top of everything else?”
“Sorry. He just seemed—overly concerned when you walked away.”
“Unlike you, best friend.”
“I thought we were joking. I didn’t know you would take a little snowball so personally.”
“Little? I was crushed by a flying ice bomb.”
“You’re absolutely right. It was a direct hit. Any lasting damage?”
“No. But don’t tell Andy.”