Deadly Drive

by Justine Fontes

  I try to remember what made me think she was so great. Not just her hair, eyes, lips, and legs. Wasn’t there something more?

  I remember our first kiss. It had been like Christmas morning when you’re a little kid. I had felt that same tingle of joy and anticipation.

  Now that sweet memory is all jumbled up with Gabi screaming at me to take her place in the driver’s seat.

  I also keep seeing her tossing back that Southern Comfort, saying, “I’ve been sneaking out of my house since I was fourteen.”

  Mom concludes her silent prayer with a whispered, “Amen.”

  Dad mumbles an “Amen” too.

  I don’t know if he was really praying or just playing along for Mom’s sake. He once told me he’d rather watch football on Sundays than attend Mass. But he goes to church now and then for Mom’s sake. “It makes her happy,” he says.

  I wonder what it’s like to love someone enough that you’re happy because they’re happy. I thought I was going to feel that for Gabi. Now I don’t even know who she is.

  Mom sighs and stands up. She says to me, “I need to get home and take care of your brothers and sisters.”

  Luis, Lucinda, Ramon, and Raquel seem a million miles away. I shudder. What will they think of their big brother now? Will they still look up to me if I become a cripple?

  Mom adds, “Will you two be all right here?”

  I want to nod, but the brace stops me. I mumble, “Yeah. We’re fine.”

  Dad stands up to kiss her good-bye. She hugs him hard and says something I can’t hear. Then, in a louder voice, she says, “I’ll keep your dinner warm.”

  Dad kisses her again. “I’ll stay till the nurses kick me out. I’ll call you before I leave.”

  Mom kisses my forehead. “I didn’t hear an Amen from you.”

  I shrug and it makes my neck ache. Then I fold my hands again. This time I manage to muster something like a prayer. “Please, God, help me get through this. Please forgive me for…”

  The prayer stalls out at the image of Vera’s brains on the pavement. Then I see Gabi’s mouth shouting, “Move!”

  I clench my fists and try to get my thoughts under control. The best I can do is mutter “Amen,” so Mom won’t worry too much. I figure I can straighten things out with God later, if there is a God.

  Dad looks up from his hands to my face. I see that flash of anger again. He’s always been a little scary. Sometimes a lot scary. I guess fathers are supposed to be. I want to look away, but the brace prevents me from turning my head. And his angry eyes have clamped on mine.

  “So—is there anything you want to tell me, hijo?” I get the feeling he’s not so much asking as telling.

  An awkward silence settles between us. His breathing is heavy, like the snorting of a bull. I don’t want to wave any red flags. I’d rather run out of the pasture. But my leg is busted—and so am I.

  “Don’t you want to tell me where the four of you got that liquor?”

  He knows. He knows I took it from our house!

  I don’t want to cry, but the hot tears pour down my face. I blubber like a stupid kid. “I took it from the liquor cabinet.”

  Dad pounds his fist so hard on the bedside table that the tissue box bounces onto the floor. He hisses, “We trusted you!”

  I don’t know what to say. So I mutter, “I’m sorry, Dad!”

  “Sorry? You’re sorry? You bet you’re sorry!”

  His voice is so loud one of the nurses ducks into the room. Dad sighs and tells her, “I’ll try to keep my voice down.”

  She nods. “Please.”

  Then he does something even worse than yelling. Dad puts his head in his hands and moans. “Hijo mio! What have you done?”

  Once again, I don’t know what to say. This morning I would have said, “I was just trying to have a little fun.” But now, with Vera dead, that excuse seems worse than lame.

  When Dad picks up his head, I see tears in his eyes. Dad never cries, except at funerals.

  I don’t want to cry, but the tears flow anyway. Dad blows his nose. Then he takes another tissue and gently wipes my face.

  “You should rest,” he says. He blows his nose again before adding, “I’ll yell at you when you get better.”

  I try to smile, but it doesn’t work.

  Dad pats my shoulder and repeats, “Rest now.”

  – – – – –

  I don’t remember falling asleep. I wake up to see Dad standing over me.

  “Hijo,” he whispers. “I’m supposed to leave now.”

  Dad hugs me too hard again. My eyes fill with tears. It isn’t really from pain. It’s more the way the hug takes me back to being his little boy. There was a time when the worst thing on my conscience was sneaking into the cookie jar or teasing Lucy until she cried.

  Now one of my friends is dead, and I…

  My thoughts start churning again. I wasn’t driving. I wasn’t even that drunk. It isn’t all my fault, the way Gabi said it was. So why do I feel…?

  The nurse comes in and Dad hugs me once more. “We’ll see you in the morning. Buenas noches, mi’ijo.”

  As soon as Dad leaves, the nurse gives me a sleeping pill. I’m afraid I’ll have nightmares. I don’t want to see Vera’s brains on the pavement anymore. I don’t want to remember the sick weightless feeling as the car flipped.

  But the pill works fast. Suddenly I’m nowhere. And then it’s morning.

  W

  hen I wake up, I don’t have much time to worry. My surgery is scheduled early. My parents barely have time to wish me luck before I’m wheeled into pre-op.

  A nurse gives me a shot and tells me to start counting backward from one hundred.

  – – – – –

  I wake up in the recovery room. I feel cold but okay. Nurses take my pulse, and a doctor shines a light in my eyes. They speak around me again and write things on my chart.

  As the fog clears, it starts to make me mad that no one’s talking to me. I say, “Hello?”

  The nurse pats my shoulder. “Hello, Roberto! You came through the surgery just fine.”

  “A complete success,” the doctor adds. “The rest is up to you now.”

  I hear a familiar voice outside the door. It’s Mom. “How is he? I want to see my son!”

  The nurse rushes to the door. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Ramirez. Family’s not allowed in the recovery room. But Roberto is fine. Really. We’ll be moving him shortly. We just want to give him a little more time to recover from the anesthesia.”

  Mom looks past the nurse’s shoulder to wave at me. Her smile is huge. Her eyes are bright with tears.

  I try to lift my arm to wave. But it feels like it weighs a ton! Trying to do anything makes me dizzy. So I just smile back at her.

  Dad waves over Mom’s head. “We’ll see you soon,” he says, then puts his arm around Mom’s shoulder and leads her away.

  I sag back onto the pillow, close my eyes, and wait for my head to stop spinning.

  The next time I wake up I feel much better. I can move my arms. But when I try to wiggle my feet, pain surges up from my bandaged knee.

  The doctor tells me, “The good news is, you’ll only need to stay in the hospital for a couple of days. The bad news is that your recovery is going to hurt. A lot. Painful as it is, we’re going to get you back on your feet right away. You’ll have physical therapy several times a day. And even after you go home, you must do all the exercises every day. Do you understand?”

  I try to nod, but the brace stops me. So I promise, “I will!”

  I want to walk, to run, and to play soccer again. I’m used to exercising. It’ll be like drills with the team, I think.

  Soon I’m in a room with Mr. Kravitz. He’s an old man recovering from a broken hip. He says the cast is driving him crazy. “Everything itches!” He complains about the nurses, the doctors, the food, and the TV. Then he apologizes for complaining.

  I try to tune him out, but the only things competing for my attention ar
e the tremendous pain in my leg and the lingering ache in my neck.

  Even with all the painkillers, my knee hurts more than I thought anything could hurt.

  I want to be brave. I tell myself it could be worse. I could have lost a leg! Or I could be dead like Vera.

  I want to be brave. But mostly I just clench my teeth and moan.

  A

  dam stops by to see me. There’s so much I want to say to him. But my throat is tight with tears. I only manage to croak out a few words: “I’m so sorry about Vera!”

  Adam nods. I know how he feels. If he speaks, he’ll cry. And who wants to do any more crying?

  I know I should ask about Vera’s mom. But I already know the answer. She must be a mess! Vera’s dad left when she was very young. Vera was her mom’s whole world.

  Adam’s eyes meet mine for a few seconds before he looks away. We’ve hung out together for so many years. But this is the biggest thing either one of us has ever had to deal with. We don’t know what to say.

  After an awkward silence, we both start talking at once. Usually that’s enough to crack us up. Now it just sends us back into silence.

  Finally, I take a deep breath and start again. “I’m so sorry! I shouldn’t have brought that liquor.”

  Adam’s eyes meet mine again. They look like deep, empty pits.

  I know what he’s thinking. He was the one who suggested alcohol in the first place. But I can’t stand to see him so sad. And besides, he isn’t the only one to blame. Vera teased Gabi until she drank. Vera took off her seat belt. Gabi drove drunk.

  We’re all in this mess together. I want to ask Adam, how do we get out? When do things start to get better?

  Adam sighs. I guess he doesn’t know either.

  I make a feeble joke. “So, I’m part robot now.”

  Adam tries to smile, but his lips quit halfway through.

  “Hurts like hell,” I add.

  Adam looks down at the floor and says something strange: “I envy you.”

  I’m not sure I heard him right. “What?”

  Adam keeps his eyes on his sneakers as he explains. “Wish I hurt on the outside, instead of just on the inside.”

  I try to lighten the mood again. “Yeah, well, I know it’s the only thing that’s kept my old man from tearing me to pieces.”

  Adam attempts to smile again. His eyes don’t play along.

  I want to say something wise and comforting like a friend would on TV or in movies. I want to assure Adam that “we’ll get through this together” or “Vera’s in a better place now.” But I don’t know how to even start.

  The silence between us hurts almost as much as my knee. So I keep trying to fill it. I ask, “So how’s school?”

  Adam shakes his head. “Haven’t been back yet.”

  “When…?” I don’t even finish the question.

  He shrugs. “Not sure. Can’t…” His voice trails off.

  “I talked to my brothers and sisters on the phone earlier. Luis told me everyone is talking about the accident, even in middle school.”

  Adam shrugs.

  News travels fast at Southside High. And news this big was probably all over the TV and the local paper.

  I couldn’t go to Vera’s funeral. But I saw pictures from it on the news. I tell Adam, “I wish I could have gone to the service.”

  Adam shakes his head. “No, you don’t.” His voice is husky with tears when he explains, “Vera’s mom almost fainted. Vera’s uncle had to hold her up. Her grandmother just kept staring at me. Every time I looked up, there she was!”

  “It’s not your fault,” I say.

  Adam looks through me with his strange, dark eyes.

  “It’s my fault,” I add. “And Gabi’s too.”

  Adam mumbles, “Whatever.”

  The last time a student died, our principal held an assembly. A counselor, Mrs. Renner, spoke and invited everyone to come see her. I’m thinking maybe Adam ought to make a visit.

  “Have you … been to the counselor?” I ask.

  Adam groans. “Stages of grief, blah, blah, blah.”

  I want to ask him if the other kids know I wasn’t driving. But it seems selfish. Vera is dead. Does it really matter who was behind the wheel? We all shared in the mistake. I just wish I had a time machine or something. I wish I could go back and do things right.

  As we start to fall into another silence, Adam slowly lifts a hand. He waves and mutters, “See you.”

  When he’s in the doorway, Adam looks over his shoulder and says, “Feel better soon.”

  “You too,” I reply.

  But I know that neither one of us will for a long time. I’m almost jealous of Vera. Her problems are over.

  I know it’s wrong to even think like that. Who knows? Maybe dead people have problems too. Or maybe they’re just gone. And the people who loved them are left with holes in their lives.

  I don’t want to think about Vera’s mom, or her grandmother, or all the students and teachers from Southside who crowded into the funeral home. I don’t want to think about how many of them probably blame me for what happened. But my brain won’t shut up!

  I get so mad I throw a plastic cup across the room. It isn’t as satisfying as I’d hoped—the cup just taps against the wall and falls to the floor.

  Mr. Kravitz looks up from the cup to me. I blush and say, “Sorry.”

  His eyes meet mine and he says, “It’s all right. Being in pain’ll make you mad, all right.”

  I don’t mind his complaining so much after that. A broken hip probably hurts more than a busted knee.

  A

  s soon as I can, I call Gabi. Her voice sounds low and muffled, like she’s far away.

  “It’s me,” I say, in case she didn’t recognize my hello.

  She doesn’t answer. So I ask, “How are you?”

  I hear her sigh. Then there’s a silence just as awkward as the one with Adam.

  “Where are you?” I ask.

  “At home,” Gabi replies. “I only spent a few hours in jail before my parents paid bail. They got a lawyer too.”

  I figure her folks must be furious! My parents haven’t mentioned the doctor bills. But this accident will probably bust their budget, even with insurance. When I get well, I’m going to have to find a way to make it up to them. I’ll probably have to get a summer job. Or two.

  Gabi starts to sob. “I’ve been charged with Intoxicated Manslaughter. Charged as an adult. It’s a second-degree felony. Do you know what that means? I’ll be a criminal. It’ll go on my permanent record.”

  My mind reels. She won’t be able to vote. She won’t be able to get a good job. And her chance of a scholarship to a fancy medical school is probably long gone.

  “I could go to jail for twenty years!” Gabi wails.

  I can’t believe it. “You won’t! It was an accident.”

  Gabi sighs. “It doesn’t matter—my life is ruined!”

  I know I should say something to comfort her. But my knee throbs. And a nasty part of me thinks, “And you tried to ruin mine!”

  Sure I brought the booze. But she didn’t have to drink so much of it! She didn’t have to swerve for some stupid armadillo.

  Gabi’s voice is flat with despair. “I shouldn’t have drunk. I shouldn’t have drunk.”

  I can’t argue with that. Her voice dissolves into sobs. Even over the phone I can tell these aren’t “pretty tears.” This is anguish.

  I suddenly panic, picturing Gabi as dead as Vera. “Look—don’t do anything stupid, Gabi!”

  Gabi sniffles. “Too late.”

  “I mean…” I don’t even want to say it. “Don’t hurt yourself.”

  Gabi sighs. “Whatever.”

  “Promise me!” I shout, sounding like Dad. I’m angry at her too. But I don’t want Gabi to die. “Dying won’t bring back Vera. It would only make things worse.”

  Gabi doesn’t answer, just breathes raggedly.

  “Promise me!” I repeat.

&
nbsp; Gabi sighs again. “Okay. I promise.”

  I wish I could believe her.

  “My parents are making me go back to school tomorrow,” Gabi says. She sobs again. “I don’t think I can take it! Everyone’s going to be looking at me…”

  Her voice trails off. I don’t know what to say to her. So I try repeating what the nurse said to me. “It’ll be okay.”

  Gabi snaps. “Really? What makes you say that?”

  “I … you know…” I fumble around, not finding an answer. Then I hear Gabi’s mother in the background. “Who’s that on the phone?”

  “Just Nancy again. She forgot to tell me the trig assignment.” Gabi lies easily. Then she whispers to me, “Please don’t call me again. I’ll call you when I can.”

  I hang up the phone and mutter to myself. “And when will that be? When you need someone to blame?”

  I

  n between painkiller doses, there’s no getting away from the pain in my knee. TV’s no distraction either. Everyone’s still talking about the accident. They’re all saying that Vera was “so wonderful” and “full of promise.”

  I fumble with the remote, trying to change the channel before I hear one more person describe Vera as this beacon of light.

  Vera was Vera. Why do they have to turn her into someone else? It reminds me of all those movies where the hero’s perfect blonde wife gets killed at the beginning so he can go on this rampage of righteous revenge.

  Nobody’s perfect. Can’t we be sad that Vera died just because she was Vera? Why do we have to pretend she was perfect?

  I liked her laugh. I liked the way she made fun of the lunchroom lady. She always baked cupcakes for everyone’s birthday. She collected snow globes from tourist shops—the cornier the better.

  Vera loved buying new shoes and new clothes. She wanted to be America’s Next Top Model. She probably wouldn’t have made it. Vera was very pretty. But she wasn’t model pretty. She was the kind of pretty that grew on you after you got to know her.

  And now she’s just a memory. Somehow it makes me mad that instead of remembering the real Vera, the media is turning her into some kind of saint.

  Vera wasn’t a saint! If she hadn’t been so eager to sit on Adam’s lap … If she’d only worn her seat belt …