Finally Mine

by Anne Hansen

  She even let me take the wheel of her beloved Thunderbird, sky blue and fast as a whip. We pulled onto a back street after the sun went down and she showed me how to sit and feel the car, listen to the engine, focus on letting go. She let me peel out, so fast it made my heart hammer, over and over until it felt like I was lifting free of the metal and rubber, until I was just pure speed.

  It was the same way she and Grandpa taught me later that summer, when they held their stomachs, laughing like crazy every time I beat some cocksure grown man. Their friend Red said he had never seen anything funnier than the looks on the faces of those arrogant drivers when they realized they’d been beaten by a gawky teenage girl.

  It got addictive, that feeling of moving too fast. Vin doesn’t realize that I know what it’s like, to crave adrenaline. Mom was more like that than I was, even. She kind of led this double life; a nice, settled housewife and mother when she was around Dad and an edgy, reckless adrenaline junky when she was on the track. I loved seeing both sides of her. Now that I’m here, away from the safety of my old life, I feel like I understand even more how torn apart she must have felt.

  She said I drove like a natural, and I loved that she never cautioned me to slow down—she just tilted her head back and laughed when I pushed on the gas a little harder than I knew I should. She pushed me to step beyond my fear.

  I took the picture of her that day on the beach—hair tossed by the wind, smile wide and wonderful, eyes laughing with fun—and it’s my alltime favorite.

  When I look at it, I can tell why people used to say I was my mother’s twin, and it makes me feel close to her, like she’s still living in me.

  I sit up in bed, stretch my arms over my head, and smile through the tears running down my face.

  Mom would be proud.

  Smile through the tears was one of her life mantras, right up to the end.

  “Good morning, Mom,” I say into the silence of the room, bright with pale early light. If I close my eyes, I can almost feel her presence, like she’s sitting on the bed next to me. “Vin talked to me yesterday. After three weeks. I tried so hard to play it cool. Not care. I feel like you’d tell me there are plenty of other guys out there. But Vin is…different. I guess it hurts so much because I feel blindsided. I feel like the guy I know and love is still in there somewhere, and I see these glimpses of him now and then. But he’s so stubborn. He’s so guarded.”

  I give the photograph of her a watery smile. “I bet you would have loved him. He’s an onion. Remember when we watched Shrek together, and Shrek said ogres were like onions? And you said, ‘Baby, that’s what all good men are like. Onions. You’ve got to peel back those layers.’ That’s Vin in a nutshell.” I laugh and kiss my fingertip, pressing it over her face. “I wish you were here now. I know you’d have the best advice for me. But I’ll figure it out. Don’t worry about me, Mom. I love you.”

  I get up and put my happiest dance mix on my iPod, even though my heart feels like a ball of lead. I look around at my room and try to see it in a positive light, like my mother would have encouraged me to.

  When I first saw it the day we moved in, I almost cried. But Dad was waiting in the hall to see what I thought, and his face was so guilty and anxious, I pasted on a big smile and got to work. Now—one can of soft blue paint, some pretty, inexpensive white linens, and a few of my own paintings in basic dollar store frames later—the room actually feels pretty nice.

  It’s not the rose and gold room with French furniture Mom and I designed together before she died. But I need to grow up. Stop holding onto the past. Things move on, and I need to find it within myself to move with them.

  I pull on jeans and my favorite tight green sweater, roll my hair into hot curlers, put on some makeup, and head to the kitchen, where I painted the walls a cheerful yellow and the cabinets a pale cream. I couldn’t do anything about the hideous brown linoleum floor, scratched laminate counters, or dinged appliances, but I try hard to keep things clean and add decorative touches where I can.

  Though Mom’s Waterford crystal bowl looks strange next to the dingy stainless steel sink and all the pretty art magneted to the fridge can’t keep the ancient appliance from constantly humming and running warm.

  I grab a glass of orange juice and finish it in a few gulps before I brush my teeth, take out my hot rollers, grab my backpack, and head out. When I get to the street, I stare at my truck for a few long seconds.

  I run my hand along the navy bed. It’s still beat up, dented, and painted a dull color. But those tires look brand new. I keel down and inspect them. Is it possible I’m just a complete bonehead who never noticed the tires on her own truck? I know I’ve been depressed about losing my BMW—which I loved taking on long drives and running a little fast on the highway—but surely I didn’t tune this ugly little truck out so much that I’d miss a detail like that?

  Maybe I’ve been in a deeper fog than I realized with the move and all the stress? Or maybe Dad had something to do with them and just forgot to mention it to me?

  Dad had hung his head and apologized over and over when he came back from the dealership having traded my BMW and his Volkswagen for the truck for me, a tiny, old Aveo for him. The leftover from the trade-in was enough money to keep us in groceries and rent for three months. He told me not to worry. He’d be working overtime like crazy so he could afford something safer and better-looking.

  I told him not to be ridiculous, that this was awesome. Retro is cool.

  Plus that, I’d already dealt with the gutted feeling of losing Mom’s pride and joy, her Thunderbird—the car we’d taken to mother-daughter mani-pedis and rom-coms and lunches out, the car she used to teach me to drive, the car she’d driven with dad up and down the coast of California for their honeymoon, and the car I’d snuck into the backseat with Toby Han and had my first kiss.

  Watching that car get sold felt a little bit like losing Mom in a brand new way, and I never opened our garage again without feeling a stab in my heart.

  But it was practical to sell it. The money we got for it kept me in Mallory for my entire junior year, and I don’t think Dad ever really understood just how much that car meant to me and Mom anyway. He was always so matter-of-fact about cars. As long as they drove, he could be sitting behind the wheel of the most boring car on earth, and he’d be totally happy.

  Mom and I just weren’t wired that way.

  Since Dad tends to panic about all things having to do with motors, I’d been too scared to mention the noises my truck made to and from school. I’m no mechanic, but I knew they were bad and needed professional help. But we couldn’t afford that, and I figured if things got too awful, I could just take the bus. Or ask David or Lily to pick me up if I really needed to be driven in for some reason.

  I decide to ask Dad about the mystery tires later, and slide into the driver’s seat. Everything looks normal at first glance.

  Then my heart stutters and my fingers can barely stop shaking long enough to grab hold of the photo.

  The one I’d stuffed in the glove compartment after the first day of school. Vin is smiling at me from the picture, like a trick. Like a broken promise. Like a wish that keeps going unfulfilled, day after day.

  I swallow hard and lean over, tripping the glove compartment open. I want to put the picture back, of course. I can’t stand seeing that face, the face of the man who was supposed to be there for me, but wound up dropping me the minute I got too close for comfort.

  I notice the roll of butterscotch Lifesavers I keep in there, the foil and paper ripped and unravelled. I pick it up and see there are only three left in a pack I know I only ate one out of. I toss Vin’s picture on the seat next to me and pull out, ready to…

  What?

  Confront Vin? Accuse him of putting new tires on my truck, moving a picture of himself, and eating some candy from my glove compartment?

  I lean my head on the steering wheel, wondering if I could be losing my mind.

  Whether I’m goin
g loony or not, I need to get to school. I cross my fingers, hoping my truck won’t give me the problems it’s been giving me lately.

  “I wanted to talk to you about that heap of scrap metal you’re driving to school,” Vin said, glaring at poor David and Lily.

  “My father bought me that truck,” I explained, feeling so damn embarrassed at the pitying look he was giving me. I hated feeling like crap because of what I was driving anyway. It just seemed entitled. But to have Vin point it out so callously was smashing salt in a fresh wound.

  Vin stared down at my shoes. The pink Converse he said were shoes for geeks and weirdos, all while laughing and kissing my neck one beautiful day this summer. Later that night, he’d watched me take a ballpoint pen and inscribe our initials in a heart. I asked him how he liked his initials being on a shoe for geeks and weirdos. He told me nothing could have made him happier.

  It hurt to scrub that ink away, but I wasn’t about to waste money on new school shoes when these fit perfectly.

  Too bad I couldn’t scrub the memory away with soap and water, the same way I had scrubbed the ink off.

  “He got you a lemon,” Vin had sneered, looking down his nose at my beater truck like he wanted to vomit. “You need new spark plugs, a new muffler, probably oil, trans fluid, the works.”

  He didn’t say anything about tires. Plus that, I’d have heard him working on it. Or seen him. This truck is loud. If he tried to start it, it would have woken the whole neighborhood.

  The drive to school is quiet and easy…surprisingly so. I can’t be sure, but it feels different somehow. I park in my usual spot and get out of my truck slowly, in a kind of daze. Nothing makes sense.

  Why would Vin break up with me, only to come over and fix my truck?

  Why does he act interested sometimes and other times act like I’m invisible?

  I’m so caught up in my thoughts, I’m not looking where I’m walking and wind up crashing into the solid wall of—

  “Vin!” My voice jumps out on a caught breath as my hands fly up to his chest. I try to back away, but I’m still off balance. His fingers hook around my wrists to steady me, and the feel of his skin on mine is something I’ve missed more than I want to admit. “I wasn’t looking.”

  “It’s okay.” He doesn’t move out of my way and keeps his hands linked lightly around my wrists, like shackles. I’ve never wanted to be locked up so badly…and never been so annoyed with myself either. “How was your drive in?” His mouth is tight, but those green eyes of his are filled with all the emotions I know he’s not about to speak out loud.

  I pull my wrists free from his grasp with a gentle tug and tuck my hair behind my ears, watching Vin’s eyes follow my every move.

  “I know this sounds strange, but my truck is driving better. I think.” I wait for him to give me some clue, admit something.

  He stuffs his hands in his pockets. “Good. I mean, sometimes problems with engines just fix themselves. I’m glad to know you’re driving safer.”

  I can’t believe we’re both playing this game. Is this seriously the guy who I laid myself bare for, body and soul, this summer? How did we go from sharing every intimate secret to barely being able to bumble through a single conversation?

  “I guess I got lucky.” I hesitate before the next words come out of my mouth. “Maybe I’ve got a guardian angel watching out for me?”

  His eyes meet mine and he holds my gaze for a few long ticks. Deep underneath the cool, laidback disdain, I can see hints of the fiery hot passion, the gentle care, the desperate love he swore up and down he felt for me this summer.

  Layers.

  Too many layers.

  He looks like he’s going to walk away, back out of this whole conversation, but something makes him change his mind. Instead of going in reverse, he moves forward, so close I can see the stubble on his strong jaw and the dark, purple circles under his green eyes. Like he didn’t get much sleep last night.

  Like he was busy being someone’s personal guardian angel.

  “You’re an amazing person, Keira,” he says, his voice so close to my ear, his breath tickles my skin and sends delicious shivers up and down my arms. “You’ll never run out of people who want to look out for you.”

  The air is pumping in and out of my lungs so fast, I can barely push the next words out. “That’s sweet of you to say. Too bad there’s only one person I ever wanted looking out for me. And he’s the one I can’t have.”

  I have no idea what I thought I’d gain by throwing that out there, but I don’t wait to witness the aftermath of my words. I rush past Vin and race to class, cursing my big, stupid mouth.

  Why did I have to antagonize him seconds before I would be stuck sitting in front of him for forty-five minutes?

  ***

  Mrs. Delani is passing back our in-class writing assignments. There is definitely some red ink on mine, but, for the most part, she’s impressed with my “organization and the clarity of the ideas.”

  She puts Vin’s on his desk and I hear the sound of paper being crumpled into a tight ball.

  “The in-class essays were, for the most part, well done,” Mrs. Delani says, picking up her copy of The Great Gatsby as she approaches the podium. “I’ll be passing out the guidelines for your final paper, which will be due two weeks from Friday. Remember to use your in-class assignments as touch points for the different themes.”

  She asks us to open our books and flip to a certain page, and she begins to lead a discussion that centers on what we think of Gatsby, Nick, Daisy, Tom, and Myrtle. The class is quieter today, and everyone realizes why that is.

  Vin isn’t raising his hand.

  When he’s in Mrs. Delani’s class arguing about character motivation or what he sees as the novel’s themes, I recognize the Vin I fell in love with this summer. The guy who vibrated with passion and desire to learn more and do better. It’s a totally different Vin than the cocky, belligerent guy who looks like he’s just biding his time in the halls of Eastside.

  But he stays tight-lipped the entire period. Mrs. Delani is totally baiting him, calling Jay Gatsby a liar and a coward when she knows Vin thinks he’s the only honest person in the whole book. But he doesn’t take the bait. Not so much as a nibble.

  When the bell finally rings, Mrs. Delani dismisses us, then says, “Vin, I’d like to speak with you. And Keira, if you could wait in the hall until I’m done.”

  I know I haven’t done anything to get myself in trouble, but I feel my heart race anyway. There’s something about having a teacher ask you to wait after class that always makes you feel like you’re guilty, even if you’re not.

  Lily and David flank me and practically carry me into the hall.

  “What is this all about?” David asks, adjusting the tortoiseshell glasses he doesn’t need to see with, but, he told me, he absolutely needs to accessorize with.

  “I have no clue,” I tell them. When they simultaneously raise their eyebrows like they don’t believe a word out of my mouth, I can’t help laughing. “Guys, I swear I’d tell you if I knew anything. Maybe Mrs. Delani just wants to talk about my paper?”

  “Maybe,” David drawls in an exaggerated falsetto. “Maybe she’s thinking of introducing a letter higher than an ‘A’ so she can finally give you the grade you truly deserve,” he teases.

  “Stop,” Lily says, batting at his arm. “Keira can’t help it if she’s a mad genius.”

  “I’m not a mad genius,” I say. “As Lily can tell you, I’ll be lucky if I get a C in pre-calc. I just happen to love English. Plus, don’t tell, but my junior thesis at Mallory was on Fitzgerald. So, I may have a tiny advantage.” I hold my thumb and forefinger a millimeter apart.

  David chuckles and ruffles my hair. “Rebel, rebel. Lily, we better scram. You,” he says, pointing at me. “You owe us a full report. Dirty details. Seriously. I know Vin Moretti is this unapproachable bad ass, but I feel like the fair Keira McCabe just might hold the key to his heart.” He spreads both his hand
s over his own heart and bats lashes so long, they’ve got to be false.

  I make an ‘x’ in the center of my chest with my index finger. “I promise I’ll tell if there’s anything to tell. I guarantee, it’s just going to be about class. Nothing exciting. Lily, can you tell Mrs. Albertson I’ll head to class as soon as Mrs. Delani is done with me?”

  Lily nods and blows me a kiss. The hallways clear and soon it’s so quiet, I can’t help hearing Mrs. Delani and Vin through the crack in the door.

  I swear I’m not trying to eavesdrop. I can’t just turn my ears off.

  “…just didn’t read it,” Vin’s low voice rumbles. It’s got that sharp, defensive quality I hate. It’s like he’s trying so hard to prove how little he cares, even when he really does, so damn much.

  “Now isn’t a great time to give up on the story, Vin,” Mrs. Delani says through a long sigh. I wonder how many students like Vin she’s had in her years as a teacher; students who are smart, capable, and have awesome potential if they’d just stop standing in their own way. “You were so invested in Jay Gatsby’s story. I’m very curious to hear what you think of the ending.”

  “Yeah, well, I guess I’ll try to read it if I have time,” he says, his voice making it clear he doubts he will.

  There are a few beats of silence before Mrs. Delani says in a gentle voice, “You look exhausted, Vin. I know so many students have to work full time on top of doing classwork.”

  “Not me,” Vin sneers. “I was out late, but, trust me, it wasn’t work.”

  I cringe at how suggestive he makes it sound, like he’s trying to throw Mrs. Delani’s concern back in her face. My thoughts flash right back to those new tires, the smooth way the truck drove, the picture of Vin, all smiles, all mine, all just a broken memory, left on my seat like a shocking reminder of what was.