No Right Turn

by Terry Trueman

  At the bottom of Cedar Road I go right onto Country Homes Boulevard heading south, toward downtown Spokane. Country Homes is a well-lit street. What’s the point of driving a car as beautiful as the ’Vette if nobody sees you doing it? After a block or so, the road changes into Maple, a major one-way arterial. At the first stoplight on Maple I look over at the car on my right, hoping I’ll catch somebody admiring the ’Vette, but in that lane are a middle-aged guy and his wife in an older Buick. They don’t even notice me.

  At the next light, though, only a block ahead, the car in the right lane is a late-model Honda Accord, maybe two or three years old, a decent little rig, clean and with some trick stuff: eighteen-inch chrome wheels, nice paint, and a big HONDA decal running the full length of the back window.

  There are four teenaged guys in the car. I can feel the vibration and hear their bass from their subwoofer. They can’t see me through the tinted windows of the ’Vette, but they’re all staring at the car, the guys on the passenger sides, front and back, leaning over to get a better look.

  We’re the first two cars at the light, and when it turns green, we both move forward. After a few yards, about halfway through the intersection, the Honda leaps ahead; the driver has punched it.

  By instinct I jam the accelerator to the floor, and the ’Vette shoots out too, first catching, then blowing by the Honda. I can tell he’s flat out, but within a block I’m hitting eighty mph, and he’s three or four car lengths back.

  Knowing that there’s a stop sign a few blocks ahead, I ease off the gas. I flash; maybe the guys in the Honda will be pissed that I’ve shown them up. But when I stop and they catch up to me, I glance over and they’re all laughing. The driver toots his horn and gives me a thumbs-up sign. I wave through the smoky windows of the ’Vette.

  This is the coolest thing that’s ever happened to me.

  After the race I realize that I don’t want to go all the way into downtown Spokane. I decide I’ll cruise over to the Northtown Mall.

  My adrenaline’s still through the roof from my race with the Honda, but I try to calm down and take it slow and easy as I drive down Rowan Street. I look at the speedometer: thirty-seven mph. Not bad for a thirty-five mph zone, but I tap the brake to be totally legal.

  That’s when I see her, an incredibly gorgeous girl in tight blue jeans and an Old Navy sweatshirt, standing by the side of a gold SUV with its emergency flashers blinking. She doesn’t try to wave me down, but she obviously needs help. I think that she looks a lot like Becka Thorson, a legendary goddess-cheerleader at my school. She’s really cute—she looks exactly like Becka.

  I pull over.

  She hurries over to the ’Vette, and I lower the passenger side window.

  She smiles and says, “Wow, driving this thing, I thought you’d be some old dude.”

  I laugh.

  She laughs too. “Sorry, it’s a beautiful car; it’s just that normally kids can’t afford these things.”

  I don’t say anything.

  She laughs again. “Am I being rude enough? Let’s start over. Hey, nice car, thanks for stopping.”

  “Hey, you’re welcome. What’s wrong with your Pathfinder?”

  “I don’t know. It just died suddenly, right along here. All I could do was coast to the side of the road.”

  I ask, “Did it seem like a gas or an electrical problem?”

  I’ve been listening to Don carry on about the ’Vette for a couple weeks now—I know the lingo.

  She gets a funny, hopeful look on her face. “Are you, like, one of those auto shop guys who know all about cars?”

  “Not really. I know some stuff, though. Let’s take a look.”

  She says, “Thanks.”

  I park, and we start walking toward her rig. She asks, “I know you, right? You go to Thompson?”

  I’m shocked that she knows I even exist, but I pull it together enough to say, “Yeah, I’m Jordan James, and you’re Becka Thorson.”

  She smiles. How can she be surprised that I recognize her? She’s one of our school’s most popular girls, a cheerleader, and THE most gorgeous human being in the history of the world. We are both eleventh graders, but I’ve never had any classes with her, and we went to different middle schools, so she probably doesn’t know anything about what happened to me—about my dad, I mean.

  She smiles. “Jordan, yeah.... Sorry, I’ve seen you around, but not very often.”

  I smile too. “Yeah, I get that a lot.”

  She says, “No, really, I remember you from last year, seeing you then. Where have you been?”

  I don’t want to say, In zombie land, so I blurt out, “I’ve been out of the country for a while.”

  “Really, where?” she asks.

  Damn … I’m such an idiot. “Oh, all over, Paris, Berlin …”

  Paris? Berlin? What the hell am I saying?!

  She looks skeptical but lets it drop as we reach her Pathfinder.

  “I think I know what’s wrong,” I say after trying to start the Pathfinder and hearing it turn over and over.

  “Really?” she asks. “Can you fix it?”

  “I think so. Have you got a dollar?”

  She looks confused.

  I say, “You see this gauge here on your dashboard, the one that says Fuel? When that little arrow goes below empty, like it is right now—that’s a sign that you need some gasoline. These things run wayyy better with gas in them.”

  “Oh, my God!” she says, laughing. “Are you kidding me? I’m just outa gas?”

  “Yep.”

  “Sheesh!” she says, and laughs some more.

  By the time we get back with a half gallon of gas (Becka holding it carefully, thank God, so that none spills onto the floor of the ’Vette), and I pour it into the Pathfinder, she’s told me all kinds of things I already knew about her, and two things that I didn’t know: that she doesn’t, “at the present time,” have a boyfriend, and that she loves “cool cars.”

  All I’ve said about myself is my name and that completely stupid crap about having been out of the country. What was I thinking? Out of the country? Right, like Mr. International Jet-setter? I also mentioned that I’m not dating anyone “right now” either. I don’t actually say I own the Stingray, but she’s assumed it’s mine, and I don’t deny it.

  Becka writes her name and phone number down on a scrap of paper she pulls out of her purse.

  “Call me!” she says as I get back into the ’Vette. “I wanna go for another ride in your car.”

  I smile and say, “I’ll call.”

  I think, MY car, huh? How the hell am I going to pull this off?

  Wally asked me what could make the risk of stealing the ’Vette worthwhile. Wait till I tell him about Becka!

  EIGHT

  The good news is that I get the car back and make it to my house and no one is the wiser. The bad news is that I’ve met the most gorgeous girl in the world, and she thinks I’m this real cool guy because I own a Stingray.

  Lying on my bed at home, I dig into my pocket and find the slip of paper on which Becka has written her name and phone number. I study her handwriting and try to sniff the ink, which is bright pink. I say her name about ten million times. “Becka Thorson, Becka Thorson, Becka Thorson …” I touch the writing, rubbing the scrap of paper, reading the message over and over. Becka Thorson, 555–7778, Becka Thorson, 555–7778.

  In other words, this girl has turned me retarded.

  At some point I flip the piece of paper over and see what’s on the other side. It’s a recent receipt for pool chemicals: five gallons of chlorine and some stuff called pH reducer. In the corner it says that the chemicals are for “Thorson gas-heated pool, 20,000 gallons, 1123 W. Indian Canyon Road.”

  So what am I facing here? Becka Thorson drives an almost-brand-new Nissan Pathfinder, and she lives in one of the swankier neighborhoods in Spokane. She has a swimming pool—hell, she has everything! Her life is perfect.

  Perfect, perfect, perfect—sh
e’s going to be thrilled to find out that not only do I not own a Corvette, but that I’m a lying sack of shit (“I’ve been out of the country”) and that I’m half an orphan.

  I look at her handwriting again: Becka Thorson, 555–7778. And again. Becka Thorson 555–7778, Becka Thorson, Becka …

  I grab the phone and call Wally. I tell him about meeting Becka.

  “Yeah, right,” he says, laughing.

  “Really, Wally, it’s true.”

  Dragging out the words like he’s talking to a lying four-year-old, Wally demands, “You met Becka Thorson … the Becka Thorson? You met her and she likes you?”

  “I swear to God.”

  Wally laughs again. “She loved the car, right?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Your ’Vette.”

  I get quiet.

  “Yeah,” Wally says. “This is gonna work out real good for you.”

  As usual, Wally, in his own demented way, is probably right; I’m screwed.

  When Mom gets home from work tonight, I’m still super high about meeting Becka. The hell with Wally and all his negativism—Becka liked me, I could tell.

  Mom comes through the front door, and I holler out, “Yo, Mommy-o!”

  She laughs and answers, “Well, hi, J-boy.”

  These are nicknames from like a thousand years ago, back when Dad was still alive and we were this big, happy family. Or at least we thought we were.

  “Why are you so festive?” Mom asks.

  “Sorry,” I answer.

  Mom laughs again and says, “You know I didn’t mean it like that. I’m just glad to hear you sound so full of beans.”

  “Full of beans?” I tease her. “That’s really hip, Mom; no, really, you are one cool mack mommy, so in touch with the youth—”

  Before I can finish, Mom, a fake anger in her tone, says, “That’s it, smart aleck! Yer getting smacked down … smacked down hard … now!!!”

  Like I mentioned before, Mom’s got a good straight right; she has a good left hook, too. I’m outa here! If I can reach my room before she catches me, I’ll be saved....

  NINE

  The next day at school, Wally and I sit together in second period, Current World Problems. He can’t wait to ask me more about Becka. She’s such a somebody at our school, and we’re such nobodies.

  Wally, still straining to believe the whole thing, asks, “Are you actually going to phone her?”

  “Yeah.”

  “When?”

  “Soon, probably tonight.”

  “Are you going to tell her the truth?”

  I’ve foolishly admitted to Wally my dumb-ass “man of international intrigue” horseshit. I consider his question for a second. “If we actually go out, I’ll tell her the truth, face-to-face. Not on the phone before we even see each other again.”

  Wally ponders this for about a second. “Yeah,” he says, “that’s a good idea—you should actually be with her when she dumps you.”

  “Thanks, Wal.”

  Don and I are working on the ’Vette in his driveway when I bring up the nitro for about the hundredth time.

  Don looks at me. “You sure got a hard-on about this nitrous booster, don’t you?”

  I say, “Sorry if I’m bugging you....”

  “No.” Don laughs. “It’s fine. I haven’t even tried the nitrous myself yet. Nitrous is not a toy. It causes incredible strain and can make a car old before its time—nitrous is the methamphetamine of the internal combustion engine.”

  I ask, “So why have it?”

  “So that this bad girl, admittedly mild by classic Corvette standards, won’t just look good but can deliver if the demand ever arrives.”

  I flash back to my drag race with the guys in the Honda, the rush of beating them and of them appreciating and respecting the ’Vette. “I know what you mean.”

  “Oh yeah?” Don asks, looking at me kind of funny.

  I stutter, “I mean, I get what you’re saying.”

  Don nods.

  TEN

  “Hi, is Becka there, please?”

  “I’m sorry, Becka’s been called away on a matter of national security. She’s been arrested and—”

  I hear a loud grunt and a muffled, brief struggle.

  “Hello!”

  I recognize her voice right away, having played it over in my head maybe ten billion times since we met.

  “Hi, Becka, it’s Jordan, the Corvette guy—”

  Her laughter interrupts me. “I know who you are. How you doin’ ?”

  I ask, “National security?”

  She asks, “Do you have any little brothers or sisters?”

  “No.”

  “You’re so lucky, you have no idea—they’re so cute when your mom first brings them home, but then they start walking and talking and learning to answer the phone.”

  I laugh.

  Becka, in a voice so sweet that I feel almost dizzy, says, “But enough about my tragic plight. How are you and how’s the ’Vette?”

  I’m ready for this. “I’m good, great really, but the ’Vette’s in the shop.”

  “Bummer,” Becka says. “When do you get it back?”

  “Uhhh … I’m not sure really.... Maybe a week.”

  “Geez,” Becka says. “What’s wrong with it?”

  I have an entire explanation that involves motor mounts and valve covers and the alternator—suddenly it all sounds like way too much, so I just say, again, “I’m not really sure.”

  Becka laughs. “Does it appear to be a gas or an electrical problem?”

  At first I think she’s serious, but now I remember that I asked her the same thing that first night we met.

  I laugh. “You think maybe I might be out of gas?”

  “I don’t know—stranger things have happened.”

  I love this, I love her voice, her sense of humor; Becka Thorson is kidding around with me! It seems impossible.

  Finally I suck it up and spit out the reason for my call. “I was wondering if you’d like to go out.”

  “Stop it!” Becka snaps.

  I stutter, “Ex-excuse me?”

  Becka quickly says, “Not you,” then pulls her mouth away from the phone and yells, “Billy, you’re such a dead man!”

  I hear a boy’s laughter in the background.

  Becka says to me, quickly, “Call me later in the week; I’ll be able to talk better after I’ve finished hiding my brother’s body. I can drive if your ’Vette isn’t ready—you drive the next time. By the way, did you know that nobody at school even knows you have a Corvette?”

  Surprised, I ask, “What?”

  “Yeah,” she says, obviously a little distracted, probably planning her brother’s murder. “Don’t you ever drive it to school?”

  I stammer, managing to mumble, “I … uh … no, it’s not insured for daily driving.”

  I’m not sure if this even makes any sense, so I change the subject. “How do you know about me at school?”

  She laughs. “I have my sources, although I have to admit you’re a bit of a mystery—most kids don’t know you.”

  I ask, “Is that right?” Then, quickly, “You still want to go out, though?”

  Her final words as she hangs up are “Call me tomorrow.”

  I can’t believe my luck.

  I phone Wally, because I’ve promised him I’ll keep him up to speed on the Becka situation.

  I say, “She told me to call her back.”

  Wally says, “Good, that’s a good sign.”

  I laugh. Trying to be funny, I say, “You really think so?”

  Wally, sounding totally serious, says, “Well, it means she probably doesn’t know what a lying piece of shit you are yet.”

  Wally definitely has a special gift for buzz kills. I say, “I suppose that’s true, Wally.”

  “You better tell her, right away, about the car.”

  “Yeah, I know.”

  “You better tell her soon.”

  I feel wor
se and worse the more we talk.

  I say, “Yeah, I’ll do that, Wal. Listen, I gotta go.”

  Wally says, “Just one more thing.”

  “What?”

  “Before she dumps you, will you ask her if any of her cheerleader pals need a boyfriend?”

  In as nasty, sarcastic a voice as I can manage, I answer, “Sure, Wally, no problem—I’ll pimp you up big-time.”

  Wally, totally not even noticing my tone or maybe just ignoring it, says, “Thanks, man!”

  When I phone Becka tonight, we have a longer visit. It’s cool getting to know her better. She comes from a pretty big family, five kids all together. Her youngest sister, who is four years old, has Down syndrome, which doesn’t seem to bother Becka. In fact, Becka shares a bedroom with her. Becka’s the oldest kid in her family. She’s also a gymnast and a cheerleader-goddess. She’s a National Merit Scholar and incredibly beautiful. In other words, Becka Thorson is perfect.

  “But can you cook?” I ask her, trying to be funny.

  “Not a thing.” She laughs. “I’ve burned water! Nope, prepare to spend the rest of whatever meager income you ever earn after ’Vette repairs on Caesar salads for moi.”

  I hesitate a second.

  She laughs. “Don’t worry, big boy, that wasn’t a marriage proposal.”

  Actually, marriage doesn’t sound like such a bad plan; that’s how totally gone I already am on her. I’ll never, ever meet a girl as cool as Becka again. We agree that our first date will be a walk in Riverside State Park followed by frozen yogurt.

  “How’s the ’Vette?” she asks, smashing my marital fantasies to smithereens. It’s the car she’s hot for, not me; remember that, you idiot.

  “Still in the shop,” I answer—hey, I’ll take her any way I can get her.

  “Do they know what’s wrong with it yet?”

  “Uh, not really. So you can drive us this Friday?”

  Becka says, “Sure, I’ll pick you up around six.”