Bailey is in the back next to him, and she’s smashed up against the door, as far away from him as she can possibly get. But in true Bailey fashion, she’s wearing a determined smile. Mr. Dominguez, in all his manliness, is in the passenger seat. I’m behind the wheel, and I can’t help it—I’m excited. My hands are tingling and there is this crazy heat burning up from my feet, all the way up my legs, into my stomach, through my chest. I feel like I’m on fire, but in a way that lets me know I’m ALIVE.
You have to understand that for a long time there was a part of me that thought I would never drive or run or do any of the everyday things that people my age get to do. My world consisted of my bed and the sofa, and after a while, when I couldn’t move easily from one to the other, I stayed in bed all day and night, reading, watching show after show, surfing around online, and, yes, eating. Sometimes I would hear Dean, Sam, and Castiel outside, and if I sat up enough, I could see out my window into the street and watch them play tennis or soccer or tag. I saw Dean and Sam leave for dances and dates (in my mind, they were dating me). I watched the youngest, Cas, climb one of the trees that hugged the house. I overheard phone conversations and make-out sessions and arguments. Sometimes I’d see Cas in my yard, looking up at my window, and I would sit very still, hoping he’d go away because it was one thing to spy and another to be spied on.
So now I’m driving, which is why I don’t mind that Travis is nattering on or that Bailey is asking me about Jack and me and is there anything between us that means something and is there a Jack and Libby in any way, shape, or form that she should know about. Mr. Dominguez barks directions at me, and at some point yells at the two of them to shut up.
Even though this is my first time behind the wheel, I’m good at it. Like it’s effortless. I feel AT HOME here. And at some point it hits me—I’m driving.
As in I’m actually driving a car. Like a normal person. Like that person passing me on the other side of the road. Like the person in front of me. Like the person behind me. Like all these people walking down the street who probably have cars and licenses of their own. I AM DRIVING A CAR!
This is one more thing I’ll never get to share with my mom, and before I know it, I’m crying. I miss her, but look at me behind the wheel, steering us down the street. Look at me waiting at this stoplight. Look at me making this turn.
Mr. Dominguez says, “What the hell are you doing?”
Without taking my eyes from the road, I say, “I’m crying. And also driving. I’m crying and driving!” This makes me cry harder, and the tears are both happy and sad.
Bailey leans up and gives my shoulder a squeeze, and I can hear her sniffling. Dominguez goes, “Do we need to stop the car?”
“Never! I want to drive for days!” Suddenly I’m talking only in exclamation marks. And then I check my mirrors and, even though Dominguez hasn’t told me to, I go beelining for the highway entrance because I can’t hold myself back. I need to turn this car loose.
Travis yells, “Floor it!” And Bailey lets out a little squeal as she goes flying back against the seat.
I’m still crying, but now I’m also laughing because I’m free, and none of them can possibly understand. “You will never know what it’s like to be trapped in your house like a veal,” I say to Mr. Dominguez. “This is the best day of my life!” Even to me, my laughter sounds maniacal, but it doesn’t feel that way. It feels big and sincere and endless, like I could laugh from now until the end of my life without interruption.
And as ridiculous as it sounds, I mean it. This is the best day of my life. I’m on the highway now and everything is whooshing by, but then I start whooshing along with it all, just like everyone else, like I actually belong out here in this world. Like I could drive all the way up into the clouds, propelled by happiness and freedom.
Someone turns on the music—“All Right Now” by Free. In the rearview mirror I can see Travis air-banging his head, and poor Bailey clutching at my seat, blond hair blowing everywhere. The song plays on and on as I practice passing in and out of lanes, long enough that eventually all of us, even Bailey, sing the chorus.
Two blocks from school, Mr. Dominguez makes us roll up the windows and sit up straight. But as I pull into the parking lot, we’re all still singing.
After the Conversation Circle, Libby and I walk out of the gym together. We walk up the stairs and through the halls, side by side, and then we walk out to the parking lot. I want to hold her hand, but I don’t, and my brain grabs onto this with both fists. Why don’t you hold her hand? Keshawn, Natasha, and the rest of them are ahead of us, so it’s just Libby and me.
I say, “I was wondering, hypothetically speaking, if you’d go out with me this weekend.”
She either pretends to think about this or actually thinks about this.
“Take your time. You’ve got approximately two more minutes to respond.”
“Until the offer expires?”
“Until I ask you again.”
She gives me a smile that’s all slinky and seductive. In this low voice, she goes, “I think, hypothetically, it sounds like fun.”
Jack is five minutes early. His hair is as wildly gigantic as usual, but damp, as if he just stepped out of the shower, and I’m sitting next to him on the couch, and he smells like soap and so much man. I try not to stare at his hands, resting on his knees, at the way his skin looks even more gold against the dark blue of his jeans.