Driving Lessons: A Novel (6 page)

“Go left, go left!” I mumbled. On cue, a head appeared there. And not just any head. Iris’s perfectly formed and naturally blond head—each wave in her hair a seemingly effortless S of bounce and shine.

“Hey there,” she purred. “How are ya?” She gave Josh a hug and reached down to squeeze my shoulder. I felt impossibly short and toadlike—perched, or rather slumped, over on the metal stool like an afterthought. I forced myself to sit up straight.

She and Josh launched into what appeared to be a passionate conversation, about what I could not say. I couldn’t hear a thing over the noise of the bar, which was comprised of raucous football conversation and a jukebox devoted solely to country music.

I shouldn’t have said that to Josh about New York,
I thought to myself as I watched Iris entrance him. Wait, was she not wearing a bra? Really? I narrowed my eyes and focused. A hint of nipple; a slight curve that suggested the French countryside—nope, she wasn’t. The nerve! I hated her. That was it. Immaculate white jeans and no bra? These were impossible friendship obstacles to overcome, lame or not. And where was Mac, by the way? Had he dodged Faculty Night? Lucky.

My purse vibrated. A phone call? For me? I hadn’t had one of those in what felt like years. I plumbed its depths like a deranged sand crab.

“Mona!” I yelled, temporarily jolting Josh and Iris out of their conversation. “Mona!” I uprooted myself from my stool, landing on wobbly feet.

“Sarah! Where are you? The rodeo? I can’t hear a thing.”

“I know! It’s so loud in here. Hold on a second.” I pushed through the crowd with no apologies. “Let me just get outside.”

“Sarah! I can’t hear anything. I’m going to bed, anyway. Call me back tomorrow, okay?”

“No, no! Please. It’ll be quiet in a second, I swear. Just give me one second.” The line went dead. Outside at last, I desperately tried to dial her, but it went straight to voice mail.

“What the hell?” I whined. Why was she being such a hardass? I looked at the time.
Midnight. Okay, fine. Bedtime. But still! Doesn’t she miss me like I miss her?

I wove my way over to the bench and plopped down dejectedly. A girl who couldn’t have been more than nineteen smoked a cigarette beside me and pouted.

“Want one?” she asked through the haze. I nodded hungrily and lit up.

7

To avoid last-minute moves, look down the road ten to fifteen seconds ahead of your vehicle so you can see hazards clearly.

I
lay in bed like a dehydrated zombie, fascinated by the ceiling fan
. Get up,
I commanded myself for the eleventh time, to no avail.
Get out of bed and get into the shower.
Round and round it went.

Josh slept soundly beside me, his body radiating heat like a well-tended fireplace. I curled toward him lazily and traced the outline of his right shoulder blade with my finger. His skin was impossibly smooth. A wave of affection washed over me, quickly followed by annoyance.
Get up and get me a glass of water,
I willed him silently. Nothing. Not even a stir of acknowledgment. I sighed loudly.

Okay, here we go. One-two-three.
I gingerly removed the sheet from my body and placed my feet on the floor. Already the room was spinning, and I was not yet vertical.
Brown alcohol is not your friend. It is the devil. Don’t forget that again.
I tried to open my mouth, but its dryness acted as a preventative lock. I stood, finally, and the room swiveled slightly beneath my feet. I shuffled to the bathroom like an octogenarian en route to a subpar early-bird buffet.

In the shower, I reflected on the night’s events. I didn’t think I had done anything grossly inappropriate. I hadn’t said anything catty to Iris, had I? I didn’t think so. But had I had any weird conversations with Josh’s colleagues? That was a distinct possibility. Or worse yet, his students? Had my cigarette bum turned into a conversation? This was ringing a faint bell and making me queasy in the process. I squirted a mound of soap onto my loofah and scrubbed myself absently. The bathroom door opened.
Clank
went the toilet seat. I peeked out from behind the curtain.

“Morning, sunshine,” I croaked.

“Hello,” he croaked back.

“Are you as hungover as I am?”

“Probably not.” I noticed a distinct lack of affection in his voice. This worried me. I closed the curtain and replayed the night’s events in my head. My memory seemed to end abruptly after I had bummed that cigarette.

The door closed as Josh left, and I turned off the water. Snapshots began to filter through the muddy waters of my brain as I squeezed the water from my hair.
Oh no.
I had been advising those poor girls on the harsh realities of the postcollege dating experience in my signature too-much-to-drink,
Let me tell you somethin’, girllll
way. It was not exactly Josh’s favorite persona of mine.

I wrapped myself in a towel and opened the door. Josh lay on his back on the rumpled bed, like an unmotivated, boxer-brief-wearing snow angel.

“Josh?”

He grunted in response.

“Josh, did I make an ass out of myself last night?”

“I’m afraid so,” he mumbled. “If ‘myself’ means me as well.”

“Oh no.” I sat on the bed beside him. His eyes remained closed. “What happened?”

“All I know is that when I came looking for you, you were holding court on the front porch with a gaggle of nineteen-year-old girls surrounding you, hanging on your every word.”

“Was I—?”

“Yes, you were definitely milking it.”

I rubbed my temples. “It’s coming back to me.”

“What were you saying to them? They were transfixed.”

“Oh, I think I was just answering some questions they had about New York.” This was not entirely untrue. “None of them were your students, right?”

“No, at least I don’t think so. But that doesn’t mean that they’re not friends with my students. Whatever you said to them could easily be passed on.”

I cringed. “I don’t think I did any real damage.”

“Okay, let’s hope not. Although, who knows, maybe this could lead to a new career for you.” I stood up too quickly and immediately sat back down. “A ‘Dear Abby’ for the college set.”

“Yeah, right. Speaking of, I have work in an hour. What a great impression I’m going to make. I haven’t been this hungover since I was in college myself.” I massaged my temples. “Which was around four thousand years ago. By the way, where was Mac?”

“He was on call.”

“He’s a doctor?” I asked incredulously.

“An orthopedic surgeon.”

“Of course he is. They’re like a human Ken and Barbie. How long have they been married, anyway?”

“Not sure. You can ask her yourself, though, on your coffee date today.” He yawned.

“Say what?”

“You asked her to coffee last night, as we were leaving.”

“Shut up.”

“You shut up. You did.”

“You’re fucking with me.”

“Sarah, why would I fuck with you about this? You made a big to-do about it, and she agreed to meet you. I was standing right there.”

“Why would I do that?”

“Beats me. Although I think it’s a good idea.” I put my head in my hands and peeked through my fingers. I needed a pedicure desperately. Mitzi would have a heart attack if she knew these puppies lurked underneath my shoes.

“Okay, well, do you know where I’m meeting her? Or what time?”

“You typed it into your phone.” He grabbed it from my bedside table and dropped it on the bed next to me. I picked it up and sure enough, there it was.
Coff w Ira aft work.

“I can’t think of anything I want to do less. Great.”

“Are you driving yourself?” he asked hopefully.

“Josh, I’m not ready.”

“Sarah, come on. It’s Sunday in the South. The roads will be empty. Everyone is at church.”

“I’m not ready. You’re going to have to drive me.”

“Fine.” I lay back on the bed beside him. “Maybe Iris can drive you home, though.”

Super. Not only did she reduce me to a thirteen-year-old in terms of physical insecurity, but now she would be coming here, to my home, and making me feel inferior about my interior-decorating skills as well. Me and my ridiculous driving phobia, not to mention my big mouth. Why in God’s name had I asked her to coffee? Guilt because I hated her, probably.

“I hope she wears a bra today. I’m too hungover for nipples.”

“She wasn’t wearing a bra last night?”

“Give me a break, Josh.” With his eyes still closed, he smiled slightly. I pushed him playfully, and he took my hand.

“How come you never see ceiling fans in Brooklyn?” he asked, opening his eyes to watch ours go round and round overhead.

“I’ve seen ’em before.”

“At rich people’s apartments?”

“Mmmm, not just.”

“I don’t believe you. The ceiling fan is Brooklyn’s Loch Ness monster. An urban legend.” He cleared his throat. “Speaking of Brooklyn, can we talk about what you said to me last night? About moving back to New York?”

“I said that?”

“Don’t play dumb. I know you remember that.” He was right. I did remember it.

“I’m just lonely, Josh. And that bar was depressing.”

“I know. It was depressing.” He held my hand. “What can I do to make this transition easier for you? I don’t want to move back to New York, Sarah. I sort of like it here. The pace is so . . . what’s the word I’m looking for?”

“ ‘Tranquilizing’?”

“I was going to say ‘refreshing.’ ”

“No, it is. I agree. I’m just going through some growing pains. Ignore me.” I hoped these were just growing pains and not permanent pangs of unhappiness. “If you get up and make coffee, I will give you a million dollars,” I said, changing the subject. He slowly sat up.

“Okay. That sounds fair.”

He got out of bed and I followed, heading to the bathroom resignedly. I had a half hour to spackle my face and emotionally prepare for what lay ahead.

En route, I opened the blinds and gasped upon my discovery of a virtual ladybug superhighway. The insects traveled like teeny-tiny red, yellow, and orange cars—up, down and across the entire double-paned expanse. I looked around, unsure of what to do. There were so many. One by one, I picked ten off of the glass, crushing them mercilessly between my thumb and forefinger before continuing on my way.

W
hat’s with the scarf?” asked Josh, glancing at me in the passenger seat.

“What? It’s ridiculous?”

“A little, yes. I mean, it’s roughly ninety-five degrees out.”

“Oh God, screw it!” I unraveled it from around my neck and threw it on the floor.

“Sar, are you okay?”

I covered my eyes with my hands dramatically. “No, I am not okay. I am hungover beyond belief. And, to add insult to injury, on my way to work at a place called Bauble Head.” I rubbed my eyes. “Oh fuck, I’m wearing mascara. I forgot.” I looked at him beseechingly. “Is it all over my face?” He glanced over again.

“No, you’re good. I think you are, at least.”

I pulled down the visor. “Great, no mirror. Anyway, remember I told you that Mitzi told me in no uncertain terms to jazz up my appearance? That’s what the makeup and this stupid scarf are about.”

“You know, when you came out of the house in it, I thought it was a bit weird. Especially considering how adamant you were in New York about the hipster summer-scarf trend being ridiculous.”

“I know. I’m ashamed. I panicked.”

“Sarah, you’re beautiful. You don’t need jazz.”

“Thanks, Josh. Mitzi, however, disagrees with you.”

“You don’t have to do this,” said Josh again as he pulled into a parking spot to drop me off.

“If you say that one more time, my head is going to explode and you will have to clean my brain fragments out of the air-conditioning vents. I accepted the job because hanging around the house all day is a bit too Little Edie for me. Even I’m tired of myself.”

“Who’s Little Edie?”

“Never mind. Okay, here we go. No more complaining. Time to hawk some rhinestones.” I leaned over to give him a kiss. “Do I really have to ask Iris for a ride home tonight?”

“No, I’ll come get you. Just text me when you’re ready.”

“Thanks.” I stood up, feeling immensely relieved, and waved good-bye. The coffee date itself was bad enough without the thought of an awkward ride home and invitation inside haunting me.

In New York, you said to someone,
Oh, we should definitely get together for coffee,
and that someone nodded politely while replying,
Definitely!
and then you never made any plans. There was a mutual understanding of the social code wherein sure, you wanted to get together, but in all honesty, wasn’t it just too much effort? Here, apparently, you said something like that and the person on the other end of it answered with,
Great, what about tomorrow?

Bauble Head’s front window glittered in front of me like a bedazzled pocket square. I forced a smile and opened the door, setting off its cacophony of bells as I did so.

“Hey there, ladylou!” Mitzi’s head popped up from beneath the cash register. “Just organizin’ this mess. The good news is that I found my stash of Peppermint Patties!” She held up the silver bag proudly.

“Yum,” I replied. “I love those.”

“Me too. Just don’t tell Nancy.”

“Who’s Nancy?”

“She runs my Weight Watchers meetin’s. Total stickler.” She shoved the bag back underneath the register. “Let’s just say that I’m not exactly one hundred percent honest about my points. You ever done Weight Watchers?” She looked me up and down. “Prolly not, you old skinny thang, you.”

“Oh no, I have. Before my wedding.”

“Oh right, the tried-and-true skinny-bride maneuver. I pulled that card too! Except I survived on celery and Tab for three months.” I raised my eyebrows in response. “It was the seventies, darlin’. I am tellin’ you, me and Clyde look at those pitchers now, and it’s like lookin’ at someone else’s photo album.”

“Clyde is your husband?”

“Thirty-eight years and countin’. Anyway, welcome, welcome. Your first day!”

“I know, I’m excited.” I clapped my hands like a seal in an attempt to distract from the monotone in which I had delivered my reply.

“Okay, first things first, let me show you the merchandise.” She flip-flopped away from me toward the front of the store.

“Do you possibly have a notepad and a pen I can use? I should have brought my own, but things were a little hectic this morning—”

“This isn’t Harvard, sweetie. All you have to do is watch and listen.” I scrambled to join her, willing my brain to cooperate despite the fact that it was sloshing around in a fishbowl of whiskey.

For the next hour, Mitzi expounded on the differences between crystals, rhinestones, and cubic zirconia. She extolled the virtues of faux (
Never say fake!
) versus real (
You can buy more of it; you can wear it to the pool and if you lose it, you’re not up shit creek
) and schooled me on the varied rainbow of hues (
This may look like it’s just blue, but it’s cerulean, honey, and that’s what you tell the customer. Take it up a notch
). She tried on tiaras and brooches and earrings, urging me to do the same. (
You’re the salesperson and the model. Show them purty and they’ll want purty.
)

By the end of my tutorial, I was wearing giant, dangling, silver-plated (
Not silver, we don’t want to lie, now
) earrings in the shape of sailboats, a strand of faux pearls and a pink-gemstone-and-cubic-zirconia ring that swallowed my knuckle. I felt like a Christmas tree.