Read Online Infinity by Sarah Dessen - Free Book Online Page A

distracting her on purpose. And we were
merging, pretty well, slowly easing into traffic. In fact, we were almost relaxed when we had to try and get back out, no
easy trick, as there were many cars merging in. We got stuck on the inside track for two more turns, watching our exit go
by, before my mother panicked and just sort of jerked the wheel, sending us in its general direction. And that was when the
station wagon hit us.
    The scene ensued the way you would expect: dents all around, tears (my mother), angry muttering (the
guy who owned the station wagon), plus everyone else driving past rubbernecking and jawing to each other while I sank down
as far as I could in the passenger seat, wishing there was a way to meld permanently with the pleather beneath me. The entire
episode ended with a ticket, our insurance rates rising and my mother swearing to never do the roundabout ever again, which
seemed somewhat overly dramatic, until we realized that she meant it.
    What this means, essentially, is that she has spent nine years taking the longest possible route
everywhere
, because the roundabout is the hub of our town. Avoiding it takes work. And maps. And no end of secret shortcuts, long detours
and general embarrassment. Even a trip to the Quik Zip, basically about four miles from our house, requires getting on the
highway, cutting (illegally) through the senior-citizen compound and three left turns against oncoming traffic.
    My father calls this ridiculous. He is a roundabout
champ, folding easily in and out, even while chatting on his cell phone or fiddling with the CD player. He is also a mathematician,
something that my mother always brings up whenever the Roundabout Argument commences, as if his proficiency with numbers is
somehow involved in his mastery of the traffic circle. What all this has meant to me is that when it comes to going anywhere
I’m usually hoping it’s my dad who grabs the keys to the sedan off the hook by the door first. Which is going to be a moot
point, now that I’m about to turn sixteen and get my own licence.
    My boyfriend, Anthony, is a year older than me. He’s good at the roundabout too, but understands my hesitation. In fact, since
I got my permit, we’ve spent a lot of time going in circles together, practising. We started late at night, when it was pretty
much deserted.
    ‘Okay, now the first thing you’re gonna do is stop and look to the left here,’ he instructed me one night.
‘There’s someone coming, so unless they merge off before they get here, we’ll wait for them to pass.’
    We waited. It was a Cadillac, moving slowly. They had the whole roundabout to themselves.
    ‘Okay now,’ Anthony said. ‘Just ease out.’
    I did. Just as my mother had, all those years ago. But this time there was no one coming; it was dark. No problem. But still
my heart was beating hard, thumping against my chest, even as I picked up speed.
    ‘See?’ Anthony said, reaching over to squeeze my leg. He left his hand there, warm on my skin, as we eased round the circle.
‘Piece of cake, right?’
    ‘Right,’ I said. We passed all the exits once, then started through again. Of course this was okay, I thought. Like a merry-go-round,
only faster. But it was a trial run. And trial runs are always easier.
    After a few more turns we were starting to get dizzy. Finally Anthony pointed towards the beach route exit, and I took it,
following the bumpy road past subdivisions and marshes before finally hitting the turn-off
to the shore parking lot. I slowed down, remembering the potholes, pulling up into a space right behind the lifeguard stand.
Then I cut the engine.
    ‘You did good tonight,’ Anthony said.
    ‘Thanks,’ I said.
    And then he leaned over and kissed me. I knew he would. I knew it just like I knew after a few minutes he’d reach up and undo
my shirt, then slide off my bra straps, easing me back against the seat behind me. He’d tell me he loved me, kiss my neck,
run his hand down my back