The Driving Lesson

by Ben Rehder

  But in the last year or so, I’d come up with a theory: Maybe Mom condemned lying with such vehemence simply so that I’d admit to those other things.

  For some reason, standing there on the porch, facing an inquisition, I’d decided that wasn’t going to happen this time. Maybe I was protecting Matt. Maybe I was being selfish and only protecting myself. Or maybe, just once, I didn’t think Mom needed to know all my secrets. After all, I was nearly fifteen years old. I could fix this mess myself. Matt and I would return the drill and be done with it. I’d learned my lesson, and wasn’t that the important thing?

  Mom stared at me hard, and I can tell you this much: She wasn’t buying it at all. Not even the tiniest bit.

  “Charlie,” she said slowly, “Cathy is being very reasonable about this situation. If you know anything about it — anything at all — now’s the time to tell us, before it goes any farther.”

  In other words, last chance, buddy boy. I’d already peeked over the cliff. Might as well jump.

  I said, “I didn’t do it and I don’t know who did. End of story.” Then, just for grins, I added, “You know something? I’m not the only kid in the world with blond hair.”

  Then I walked inside. Just like that, before anyone could ask me any more questions. As I slipped past my dad, I noticed the slightest trace of a grin on his face.

  Pretty cool, huh? I thought so. But right before I closed the door behind me, I heard my mom say, “Well, Cathy, I guess you have no choice but to call the police.”

  I went to my bedroom and immediately texted Matt.

  Call me

  Cant. In car w m&d wats up?

  So I sent him a series of messages that explained the situation.

  I told him about Cathy Abbott, and how she had seen us through a window, and that it was pretty obvious, when she met me, that she thought I was one of the kids in the house.

  I told him about my mother’s questions, and how I had lied, and how my mom had told Cathy Abbott to go ahead and call the cops.

  I said that as long as we kept our story straight and denied going into the house, nobody could prove anything, but he should also return the drill as soon as possible, if he could figure out how to do it without getting caught.

  And last, I said this absolutely was not a joke, and then I called him a pinhead for getting us into this mess, because it was a moronic thing to do, and if we did get busted, I’d expect him to tell the cops that it was all his idea.

  When I was finally done, he sent me a one-word reply: Sorry.

  I said: Thats OK, delete these msgs

  My plan was to hole up in my room all day, pretending to be hurt by my mother’s accusations. Besides, I had studying to do, because I had one more final exam tomorrow, Monday. Despite the fact that I appeared to be a punk on the road to hell, or at least prison, I was actually a pretty good student and I wanted to keep my grades up.

  The question was, would my mother leave me alone or would she come up and keep grilling me? I figured it could go either way.

  At one point, about thirty minutes after the incident on the porch, I could hear raised voices. My parents were having an intense conversation, also known as an argument. They didn’t have many of those. It only lasted about five minutes. After that, they might’ve still been fighting, but if they were, they were doing it quietly.

  It was an hour later when my mother finally did show up. She knocked softly on the door, then opened it. I was sitting at my desk, trying to read a web site about the Byzantine Empire without my eyes glazing over. So far, it wasn’t working.

  Mom leaned against the doorjamb, going for a casual look. Odd, isn’t it, that you get to know your parents’ body language so well that you can tell what kind of conversation you’re about to have?

  She said, “How you doing?”

  “Fine.”

  She looked past me, to my computer screen. “What’re you studying?”

  “The fall of Constantinople.”

  “Oh, boy, I remember that. Thrilling stuff, huh?” Trying to lighten the mood with sarcasm. Parents were never very good at it. Well, my dad was, but most parents weren’t.

  “World History final,” I said.

  Tomorrow was the last day of school. Normally, it would have been two days ago, on Friday, but they’d had to add one extra day because of a snow day earlier in the year.

  “And then you’re all done, huh?”

  “Yep.”

  Mom nodded, and now the small talk was out of the way, so she could move on to other things, which she did. “Listen, I just wanted to see how you’re doing after your talk with Dad this morning. How are you handling it?”

  “I’m okay.”

  She did that thing she does, lowering her head, moving it, trying to catch my eye. “You sure?”

  I nodded again.

  “Do you have any questions about his condition or...?”

  “No, Dad pretty much covered it.”

  “Okay, good. It’s a very sad situation, but we wanted to be completely up front with you about it. There are no easy answers, so remember to include Opa in your prayers tonight.”

  Somehow she managed to fool herself into thinking I still prayed every night, or at all, anywhere, unless I was in church, although all I really do there is lower my head. But I wasn’t about to tell her that.

  She said, “We think it would be a good idea if we all went to see Opa tomorrow evening. He needs us right now. I’ll make a casserole and we’ll take it over there. So come home right after school, okay? He likes to eat early.”

  “Okay.”

  Then — maybe I should’ve known this was coming — she said, “About this thing with the house down the street...I’m sorry if I hurt your feelings on the porch earlier, but if you took those things, the best thing to do is admit it, because God already knows the truth.”

  I was thinking, Seriously? Right after we talk about Opa, we’re going to keep talking about this? I didn’t miss a beat. I said, “That’s cool, because it means He knows I didn’t do it. Too bad you don’t believe me.”

  It sounded snottier than I meant it to. But, to be technical, I was telling the truth. I didn’t take “those things,” Matt did. Plus, it was only one thing, and he was going to put it back.

  Mom frowned. “As I said, if you didn’t do it, then I apologize.”

  I just shook my head and turned back toward my computer. She didn’t say anything, so I said, “I’ve got studying to do.” Just as snotty.

  After a few seconds, I heard the door close.

  When I think back on it, I wish I hadn’t been such a jerk. I should’ve just kept quiet. Because now Mom thought I was mad at her, and later she would probably even start to wonder if she was being unfair. Which meant she would feel responsible when I vanished without a trace after school the next day.

  4

  I walked out the front door of the school and saw Opa.

  And this is when it all began — all the craziness that I’ve been talking about. Right here, right now. Of course, I didn’t know that at the time. All I saw was my grandfather leaning against his Honda Civic. He was dressed in some khakis and a long-sleeved shirt, even though it was nearly eighty degrees. Even from this distance, maybe forty yards, I could tell that he was skinnier than the last time I’d seen him.

  I stood there on the steps for a second, a little confused, wondering why he was here. He hadn’t seen me yet, because the front of the building was swarming with kids, all of them excited about school letting out for the summer.

  Then he saw me and raised his hand. He smiled.

  I walked over with my backpack slung over my shoulder. Yeah, he was definitely skinnier, and kind of pale. And I noticed he was holding a cane. I didn’t know what to say, so it’s a good thing he spoke first.

  “Learn anything good today, Bud?”

  That was what he always called me. Bud, or sometimes Buddy. As far as I knew, there was no particular reason for it.

  “Not
really,” I said.

  “Crap, you’re kidding me. My tax dollars are going down the toilet. You didn’t learn anything at all?”

  “Just the regular stuff.”

  “Here’s something: Did you know that there are only forty-six states in the United States?”

  He’s always coming up with weird little facts about history and science and stuff. “Okay, what’s the trick?” I asked.

  “No trick. It’s just that four of the ‘states’ are actually commonwealths.”

  I shook my head. “Oh, man.”

  “What, you didn’t like that one?”

  “You’ve had better. Besides, I don’t even know what a commonwealth is.”

  “Well, you can look it up on that fancy Internet thing you kids use.”

  He was a goofball and a teaser. I think he surfed the Internet more than I did.

  “So, what, uh, what’re you doing here?”

  He said, “I tried to call you earlier but I got voicemail.”

  “We have to turn our phones off during school or they’ll take them away for a week.”

  “Oh, yeah? Probably a pretty good rule.”

  Something wasn’t quite right. I knew that.

  “Is there like an emergency or something?”

  “No, no. Nothing like that. Everything’s fine. I just need a favor.”

  “Yeah? What’s up?”

  “First things first, we might as well acknowledge the elephant in the room. I understand your dad had a talk with you yesterday, so you know my situation. No need to dwell on that. But the thing is, I need you to drive me to a doctor’s appointment.”

  “What? When?”

  “Right now.”

  “But...I don’t have my learner’s permit yet.”

  “You can drive, can’t you? Your dad’s been giving you lessons. I hear you’re hell on wheels.”

  It felt good to know that Dad had been bragging about me. “I’m pretty good.”

  “You won’t hit a tree or anything, right? Trees rarely move, so it’s pretty easy to avoid them.”

  “Funny, but it’s the other cars on the road I’m worried about.”

  “I have enough confidence in you for the both of us.”

  I have to admit it all seemed a little odd. Opa could obviously still drive. He drove here, didn’t he? I gestured toward the side of the school. “But I have my bike.”

  He thought about that for a second. “We’ll bring it.”

  “But you don’t have a bike rack.”

  “We’ll put it in the back. Lay the seat down, it’ll be fine. Plenty of room. I bet we could fit a family of circus clowns back there.”

  So that’s what we did. I went to get my bike, and when I came back, Opa was sitting in the passenger’s seat. He had already popped the hatch, and there, shoved to one side of the cargo space, was a suitcase.

  Big clue.

  Enormous clue.

  There might as well have been a flashing red arrow pointing at it.

  Just as I started to ask what the suitcase was for, Opa said, “Load ’er up, Bud. Let’s get rolling.”

  We took Mockingbird down to South First and turned right, going west. We passed Leggett, then Pioneer — both major intersections — but we kept going straight. Then we passed under Winters Freeway. It wasn’t much farther to the edge of town.

  “Uh, where is this doctor’s office, Opa?”

  “Just keep going. You’re doing great.”

  South First crossed Arnold Boulevard, then it turned into Steffens Street. The Civic was fun to drive. Very smooth and the engine had pretty decent power. Then I saw signs indicating that we were about to merge with Interstate 20.

  “We want to go west, so just stay in this lane,” Opa said.

  I realized I was gripping the steering wheel tightly with both hands. “I’ve never driven on a highway before.”

  “Nothing to it.”

  “I don’t think I should do this. I think I should pull over.” Of course, by now, there wasn’t any place to pull over.

  “Bud, you’re going to have to trust me. Just stay in your lane and go with the flow.”

  A big, black Ford truck was filling the rearview mirror, tailgating us. We took a ramp over the highway, then the ramp curled around and funneled us on to the interstate. Jesus. I was doing it. I was driving on I-20. Fortunately, traffic was light, but it was all moving at about seventy miles per hour. I’d never driven that fast before. The black Ford switched lanes and roared around me. I kept steady on the gas pedal.

  “See?” Opa said. “It’s not so hard.”

  I was too nervous to answer. I just kept driving.

  We passed several exits, then several more. Before long, we weren’t in Abilene anymore. Six more miles and the interstate skirted the small town of Merkel. Then I saw a sign that said it was nineteen miles to Sweetwater.

  “How much further?” I asked.

  “It’s a ways yet.”

  An eighteen-wheeler was rumbling up beside me and I thought I was going to have a heart attack.

  “Easy,” Opa said. “Just focus on the lane in front of you. He’ll move on past.” And, slowly, he did. I let my breath out. I was enjoying driving, but I’d had enough for now.

  “Is your doctor in Sweetwater?” I asked.

  Now Opa turned his head and looked at me. I could feel his eyes on me, but I had to watch the road.

  “Not exactly,” he said.

  I was starting to wonder about something my dad had said yesterday — that Opa hadn’t been thinking straight. “What are we doing, Opa? Where are we going?”

  There was a long moment of silence. I wondered if he was going to answer me. Then he finally said, “I’m going to make you a promise right now, okay, Bud? That promise is, no matter what happens, I’m not going to lie to you. I never have and I never will. You’re a young man now, and you deserve to be treated like one.”

  I had no idea what he was talking about.

  But he wasn’t done. He said, “So I will answer all of your questions as well as I can, with complete honesty, starting right now. ‘Where are we going?’ The answer is: Seattle.”

  I thought I’d misheard him at first. As far as I knew, there was only one city by that name.

  “Seattle, Washington?” I said, thinking that couldn’t possibly be right. I mean, come on, that would be crazy. Opa wouldn’t just pick me up after school and take off across the country, especially without asking my parents. Would he?

  “That’s the one,” Opa said. “We’re going to Seattle, Washington.”

  Wondering how I felt? OMG doesn’t even begin to cover it.

  We turned north on Highway 84, taking us through Wastella, Inadale, Hermleigh, and Snyder, then through Brand, Dermott, and Fullerville.

  What I didn’t know was that by the time we reached Justiceburg — which was what my dad would call “a wide spot in the road” — my mom had already called my cell phone twice, leaving voicemail, wondering why I wasn’t home yet.

  I didn’t get the messages until later because I still hadn’t remembered to turn my phone on. Understandable, because one minute I was walking out the door of the school, the next I was driving Opa’s Honda on an interstate highway. Not that I would’ve answered if my phone had been turned on. I couldn’t imagine how anyone could talk on the phone and drive at the same time. Driving takes too much concentration. Heck, I couldn’t imagine how anyone could chew gum and drive at the same time. Reaching for a stick of Juicy Fruit might be enough to send me careening off the pavement into a concrete embankment. That would be a stupid way to go.

  I had a lot of questions, of course.

  What’s so special about this doctor in Seattle?

  Why are you taking me along?

  Why aren’t we telling anyone where we’re going?

  On the other hand, I trusted Opa completely. I was sure he had a good reason for doing things this way. Besides, when it came down to it, this whole thing was pretty cool. Just ditc
hing everything and taking off for Washington? What kind of pussy would turn down an adventure like that?

  I’d ask my questions later. For now, I just kept driving.

  “Welcome to Lubbock, Texas,” Opa said, as we entered the city limits. “Flat, quiet, and boring, like the girl I took to my senior prom.”

  He looked over at me, grinning, so I grinned back.

  People do make fun of Lubbock, but, so far, I didn’t understand why. It looked like most of the west Texas cities I’d been to. A lot like Abilene, in fact. The only thing of interest that happened here was that Opa had me pull off the highway to fill up with gas.

  He gave me a credit card to swipe through the gizmo on the pump, then he said he was going inside to take a leak. I noticed that he seemed to have some trouble getting out of the car, and when he walked toward the little convenience store, he was relying on his cane for support. I figured he was just a little stiff from being cooped up in the car.

  I pumped the gas and got back in the Honda. Five minutes later, Opa still hadn’t come out, so I moved to a parking spot in front of the store. I sat and waited, and that’s when I finally remembered to turn my phone on.

  At this point, it was nearly six o’clock — two and a half hours since Opa had picked me up at school. I figured my parents must be totally and completely freaking out, and boy, was I right.

  I had seven voicemails from Mom. Yes, seven.

  The first one: Charlie, where are you? You were supposed to come home right after school. Give me a call when you get this.

  The second one: Charlie, it’s nearly four-thirty. Do I need to remind you that we’re having dinner with Opa tonight?

  Well, I still was, but she wasn’t. I wondered why parents always told you what time it was when they called. The time was listed right there on my phone.

  The third message, only twenty minutes later: Okay, it’s official — I’m starting to worry. You need to call me immediately. Dad will be home soon and we’re supposed to be at Opa’s by five-thirty. Love you.

  Now I was starting to feel bad. She was sounding kind of desperate.