No Right Turn

by Terry Trueman

I give her my address and hope like hell that Don won’t be home that evening working on my … I mean … his Stingray in his driveway!

  ELEVEN

  Mom is hopeless at advising me about my date. Not that I’ve asked for or want any advice, but she has lots of it to offer anyway—all worse than useless.

  “Girls like to be treated special,” Mom tells me, like this is some big breakthrough in gender relations.

  “Yeah, I got that. Thanks, Oprah.” I don’t mean to sound like such a smart-ass, but Mom’s been sitting on the edge of my bed for the whole time I’ve been trying on different shirts and trying to get my hair right. I can’t handle another suggestion.

  Mom starts, “If she asks about—”

  I interrupt, “Mom, that’s it. I can’t listen to this—will you please just leave it alone. It’s not like this is the first date I’ve ever had!”

  Actually, it is the first date I’ve ever had, other than meeting up with girls at school dances in the seventh grade. Were those really dates?

  Mom knows that since Dad died I’ve kind of gone into a shell. Hell, “kind of”? The average garden snail sees more action than I have. She’s tried to help me but failed miserably, since I won’t let her.

  Mom and I went to grief counseling for quite a while, and that seemed to help her some, but nothing has helped me. I know lots of kids whose parents have gotten divorced. Some of them lose contact with their dads. But having your dad die, especially the way my dad died, and knowing that you’ll never see him again, is different from having him just move out. I don’t know how else to explain it.

  Mom starts to say, “When your dad and I—”

  Even before she sees my expression, she catches herself. “Sorry, honey.” She knows better than to mention Dad to me. We made an agreement at the end of our counseling sessions that I didn’t have to talk about Dad until I’m ready. Mom’s been really cool about honoring this; I know it’s made her nuts sometimes, wanting to help me, wanting to make it better; I mean, she’s a nurse, for crying out loud; it’s her job to help people! But she respects that I don’t want to talk about Dad; she knows that I can’t … that I won’t talk about him.

  She says, again, “Sorry.”

  I look away from her and say, “Never mind. Anyway, I’m good here—can I have a little privacy?”

  I slip on my gray SPOKANE CORVETTE CLUB T-shirt that Don gave me. “Okay,” Mom says, “I’ll let you finish getting ready.”

  She starts to head for my bedroom door but pauses and turns back. “Don asked me to go out for dinner and a movie again tomorrow evening—you still doing okay with that?”

  I laugh at her. “Of course. I’m the kid, Mom—you’re the adult.”

  “Yeah, Jordan, I know that—every time I write a check for the mortgage, pay the bills, and bring home groceries, I recall that little fact.”

  I say, “Sorry. Of course I’m fine with you guys going out. I hope you crazy kids have a groovy, wacky time.”

  “Smart-ass,” Mom says, but she’s smiling.

  In my head I’ve gone through my plan for this first date with Becka about a thousand times. We’ll walk in the park, and I’ll overwhelm her with my wit and charm (or at least I’ll avoid saying anything too stupid). I’ll ask her lots of questions about herself and show her how interested I am in her, proving that I’m not some typical guy with a one-track mind (even though I’ll probably be thinking the whole time about what she looks like naked—yeah, one-track mind). We’ll have some frozen yogurt at TCBY and I’ll pick some exotic flavor so she’ll know I’m cool (like that’ll do it). Then it’ll be getting dark and maybe she’ll want to park someplace, maybe down at Arlington Park, where kids go to make out. We’ll get hot and passionate and she’ll fall madly in love with me, and when I’m sure she can handle the truth, I’ll say, “There’s something I have to tell you....” I’ll admit to being a social nobody who’s been at school the whole time, just invisible and worthless, and I’ll tell her the truth about the ’Vette. Maybe the shock of my not owning the car will be offset by the fact that I’ve got the guts to steal it—girls love that outlaw, bad-boy stuff.

  Six o’clock has come and gone. In fact, six twenty has also come and gone. I sit on our couch in the living room trying, unsuccessfully, not to stare out at Northridge Road like the obsessed, stood-up geek that I am. The only things going right are that Mom is smart enough to leave me alone and Don and the ’Vette are out of sight.

  I phone Wally. “Becka isn’t coming.”

  “Did you actually think she would?” he asks, laughing, like he’s known all along how crazy I was. He says, “Maybe you hallucinated the whole thing. Or maybe she’s just been playing you—you know, acting nice, but probably she’s really like that psycho woman in Fatal Attraction. You don’t own a pet rabbit, do you?”

  I glance at the clock on the living-room wall: six forty-five.

  I say, “She’s probably busted me. She’s probably on the phone with her cheerleader pals right now, laughing about the dork in the ’Vette T-shirt who’s actually a nobody and who doesn’t own a Stingray and who’s sitting on his couch like an idiot, just staring out at an empty street!”

  Wally, suddenly sounding very worried, asks, “You didn’t mention me to her, did you?”

  I say, “I thought you wanted me to.”

  Wally laughs cruelly. “Not once she’s on to you.... How stupid do I look?”

  I’m considering my answer to his question when, stunned, shocked, and then totally juiced, I see Becka’s gold Pathfinder cruising slowly down the street toward my house.

  I yell at Wally, “She’s here.”

  Wally asks, “Where?”

  “On Northridge, right here, right now!”

  Wally quickly starts, “Ask her about the cheerleaders, tell her about me, ask her if—”

  I interrupt. “I gotta go!”

  “Ask her!” I hear Wally yelling, “We’re in, man! We’re cool! Listen, ask her about—”

  “I gotta go, Wal, I’ll ask, I promise.”

  “We’re in, man!” I hear Wally screaming; then, “Be sure and smile at her once in a while—”

  I hang up.

  TWELVE

  Not until I open the passenger door to climb in do I notice Becka’s sister Lori, the Down syndrome four-year-old, sitting in a car seat in the back.

  “Sorry,” Becka says. “That’s why I’m so late. My mom had to go out and my dad was supposed to be home early but he couldn’t get away from work. He didn’t even call until after six. I’m really sorry!”

  I force a smile. “No, it’s cool.” I look back at Lori. She’s little and blond and cute.

  “Hi, Lori, I’m Jordan.”

  She smiles and makes a happy gurgling noise that sounds a little bit like “hi.”

  Obviously, my date with Becka isn’t coming off quite as planned. The main missing ingredient is the groping I’ve fantasized. I didn’t expect to score, but it would have been nice to get a little physical. That’s obviously not gonna happen.

  After we go to the park and take our walk, Lori scrambling all over the place and Becka taking my hand in hers as we go along one of the flat trails out near Seven Mile, we go to TCBY for frozen yogurt. I end up with chocolate and M&Ms topping, not exactly the exotic cuisine I’d planned on ordering.

  It’s a nice night, so we sit outside at one of the white plastic tables. A tiny percentage of Lori’s dessert, strawberry frozen yogurt with sprinkles, served in a waffle cone, actually makes it into her mouth. Most of it smears all over her face. But she’s a sweet enough little kid; I don’t really mind having her along.

  I still need to come clean with Becka and tell her the truth about myself. Maybe with her sister here, she’ll be looser. I figure I have a bit of an advantage, being so nice and noncomplaining about Lori being with us, so after some small talk, without any decent diplomatic setup at all, I just spit out, “I’ve actually been around since the ninth grade. I wasn’t really out
of the country.”

  “I know,” Becka says.

  “I’m sorry I lied to you, but I’ve never been to Paris. I’ve been around forever.”

  Becka looks serious. “I know.”

  A little surprised, I ask, “How did you find out?”

  “I told you, I have my sources.”

  I can’t tell if she’s mad or waiting for me to say more, but I just shut up.

  Finally Becka asks, “Why’d you lie to me?”

  I’m ready for this. “I was afraid you might not give me a chance if you knew that I was just some invisible geek.”

  She smiles.

  I have my next lines all ready, my admission that the ’Vette isn’t really mine. I take a deep breath and am ready to tell her the truth when Becka laughs and says, “Well, an invisible geek with a ’Vette is different than an invisible geek without one, right? It’s a good thing you own that Stingray.”

  I force a smile.

  But then Becka says, “Just don’t lie to me again, all right? I really hate lies!” She pauses a second, and then smiles and says, “Berlin?”

  My face turns bright red and I say, “I know … sorry.”

  She grabs a napkin and reaches over and wipes some of the mess off of Lori’s chin.

  I can’t tell for sure what Becka’s thinking about me, but in another few seconds she looks up and smiles.

  I think I’m all right.

  THIRTEEN

  Don can tell something is bothering me.

  “What’s going on?” he asks as we polish the chrome wheels, front and back, on the driver’s side of the ’Vette. We’re getting ready for the coming weekend’s Show and Shine. Don works on the front wheel and I take the back.

  Obviously I can’t tell Don my specific problem, that my girlfriend—well, not exactly “girlfriend,” but the girl I’m going crazy over—believes that his ’Vette belongs to me and that the only reason she’s giving me the time of day is for “my” car.

  So I talk in general terms. “This girl I like thinks I’m somebody different than I really am.”

  Don asks, “Like James Bond or something?”

  When I don’t laugh, he says, “Sorry. I’m not that great with ‘relationships.’” He pauses, blushes, and adds, “Well, thanks to your mom, I’m getting a little better.” He asks, “You like this girl a lot?”

  “Oh, yeah. She’s perfect.”

  Noticing the way I’m working with the metal polish on the chrome beauty ring, Don says, “Let that stuff stay on there a little longer before you wipe it off, Jordan; give it time to do its thing.”

  I look at the chrome on his wheel, and then back at mine; his is far shinier.

  “Okay,” I say.

  Don asks, “This girl, you say she thinks you’re somebody different than you really are. I’m guessing you either lied or let her believe some stuff that wasn’t true.”

  “Both, really.”

  “Can you tell her the truth?”

  I say, “I did tell her part of the truth, but she said that if I was lying any more, she wouldn’t like it much … and there was one part I couldn’t admit to. She doesn’t like being lied to.”

  Don smiles. “Yeah, unlike the rest of us who get such a big kick out of it.” Then he says, “Seriously, though, when I want to tell somebody the truth, I know it’s easier if it feels safe to do it—but at some point, safe or not, you gotta just take the risk of being honest.”

  I think about that. “Yeah, maybe so.”

  Don glances at my chrome wheel and says, “See how much better that looks?”

  I nod, but I’m thinking about the phrase Don just used. “The risk of being honest.”

  I don’t even know where to start with Becka—the car would be only the beginning. I can’t tell her about my dad—I mean, I don’t talk to anybody about that. What good would it do anyway, except to convince her that I’m a total loser, from a total loser family?

  Monday morning at school walking to our first classes, Wally is slightly more direct. “You’re screwed,” he says.

  “Yeah, I know.”

  “I mean totally screwed.”

  “Yeah,” I say, annoyed. “I should have told her.”

  Wally, without missing a beat, asks, “Did you ask her about …” But catching my killer glare, he shuts up.

  “I’m screwed,” I say.

  Wally says, “Is there an echo in here?”

  Don’s invited me to go with him to a local Show and Shine, a car show where he’s taking the ’Vette. There are dozens of these kinds of shows around Spokane, matching the dozens of car clubs in town: classic Mustangs, classic Fords, classic Chevys, any number of hot-rod groups. There are two major Corvette clubs in Spokane, and Don’s joined both of them. I decided it might be kind of cool to go.

  I’ve never gone to a car show before, and Don has taken the ’Vette to only a couple. We’re driving up Cedar Road, toward the top of the hill to the Five Mile Grange, where the show is being held.

  I glance over at the dashboard and pretend to just notice that the speedometer is working.

  “You fixed the speedo.”

  “Yep,” Don says. I can tell that he’s almost as nervous as I am about showing the car.

  “So what happens at this show thing?” I ask. “Is it a competition, like with awards and stuff?”

  “Yeah,” Don answers, “but a small one—probably just a few dozen cars.”

  As we turn the corner onto Strong Road, I remember the first time I ever rode in the ’Vette, along this very stretch at 110 mph. That seems like a long time ago. During the weeks since then, so much has happened: the car, Becka, Don and my mom (they’ve had, like, half a dozen more dates), Don and me … things are changing faster now than they have in a long time … in the last three years anyway, for sure. I know that I’m feeling better: I’m even starting to listen a little in some of my classes at school. My life doesn’t totally suck now—I’m not sure what to think about that, so I try not to think about it at all. I mean, before, I had nothing … I was nothing … so what was there left to lose? Now, it’s like … well … like I just said, I try not to think about it.

  The closer we get to the grange, the more cars I see. There are classics of every make and era, and lots of cars I don’t even recognize: hot rods, customized so that you can’t even tell what they once were.

  We pull up to a sign that reads ENTRIES AND REGISTRATION, and Don checks us in.

  He asks the lady at the registration table, “Where do you want me to park?”

  She points across Strong Road to the old redbrick schoolhouse. “The restoration classes are over there, in front of the school. Just find any place. Class winners are announced at three, and all ballots are due back as soon as you fill ’em out, no later than two-thirty.”

  She hands Don his ballot, with a listing of all the cars in the show arranged by class.

  Don smiles and says thanks, and idles slowly over to the lawn in front of the school.

  He explains to me about the ballot. “Judging of cars is done by the participants. We look at one another’s cars and pick what we think are the nicest rigs in the various classes—best restoration, best modified, best classic; the categories are all listed right here. Course, I don’t have to worry about that today.”

  “Why’s that?”

  Don smiles. “Because today you’re going to judge.”

  “Me?” I hesitate. “I don’t know anything about these cars.”

  “Sure you do. You know that our ’Vette’s the prettiest rig here, right?”

  I laugh and look around. “There’re a lot of pretty cars here, Don.”

  He smiles. “See, you’re already judging. Most guys at small shows like this don’t know much more than we do, and it’s all for fun anyway. I’ll show you what to do.”

  We’ve been at the show for about half an hour and I’m trying to do a fair and good job at being a car judge. I’m looking closely at the Modified Pick-Ups and Sport-Utility
Vehicles when I feel a tap on my shoulder. I turn around, assuming Don will be standing there since he’s the only person that I know here.

  “Hi,” Becka says, smiling.

  My first reaction is to smile back and to feel a rush of excitement at getting to see her.

  She asks, “What’re you doing here?”

  Before I know what I’m going to say, I blurt out, “Showing the ’Vette.”

  Now comes my second reaction—pure panic!

  Becka beams. “The Corvette’s here? It’s finally back from the shop?”

  The impossibility of my situation hits me. I begin to stutter and mumble, “Yeah, um, it’s here … I … um …”

  “Where?” Becka asks excitedly, looking all around. She’s got two kids with her. I’m thinking they’re her brothers.

  “You brought your brothers along,” I say, trying stupidly to change the subject, stalling for time.

  “Where’s the Corvette?” Becka asks again.

  “Yeah,” one of the boys adds.

  I’m trapped. How can I explain Don to Becka, Becka to Don? What if she says something about riding in the car? About its being mine? What if she says anything about … anything? A rush of hopelessness and despair crashes through my gut. I’m so screwed!

  “Well?” Becka insists.

  I have to answer her. “We’re over in the In-Progress Restoration group.”

  “Where’s that?” Becka asks.

  I point across the street to the front of the school.

  Becka looks over and spots the car. She also sees Don, sitting in a folding chair next to it.

  “Is that your dad?” Becka asks.

  “My dad’s dead.”

  “What?” she says, her face surprised and a little shocked.

  “He died when I was thirteen.”

  “God,” Becka says softly, touching my arm. “I’m sorry, I didn’t know.”

  “It’s no big deal. He was a jerk anyway. And I don’t talk about him....”

  Becka gives me an even stranger look when I say this, but she touches my arm again and squeezes it a little.