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Authors: Paullina Simons
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coming with you all the way to Bakersfield?” I asked, not so carefully.
“Shh! Don’t be silly. No, no,” Gina quickly said, not looking at me.
Molly, as it turned out, was even less prepared than Gina. She had gone to get her toothbrush, a book to read (though she didn’t look like the type that read books; that read period ), her rather large cassette player, and her makeup. What else did a twelve-year-old bring to her aunt’s? What else was there? Miniature golf clubs? She said she had to sit in the front. “I get dizzy in the back.”
Gina agreed! Gina was going to sit in the back?
I shook my head. “Molly, do you know how to read a map?”
“Yes,” she said defiantly.
“Oh, good. Because I don’t know where your aunt lives, so you’ll have to direct me out of New York, all right?”
“I can’t read in the car. It makes me dizzy,” said Molly.
“I see.” I nodded. “Perhaps best to sit in the back, then.”
“I can’t sit in the back. It makes me dizzy. Besides, backseat’s too small.”
“Well, that’s perfect, because you’re small, too.”
“No, I can’t.”
“Moll, give Sloane a break, will you?” said Gina with hostility. I suddenly remembered that Gina hated Molly. They never got along. Gina said Molly was spoiled and selfish. Why in the world would she invite her with us to Baltimore? Like children, we stared at Molly, and then pleadingly at Molly’s mother, who pointed a finger at her daughter. “You’ve got one second to get in the back or march right upstairs, young lady.”
Mrs. Reed’s words made no impression on Molly other than to cause a hysterical fit, during which she stormed off upstairs screaming she wasn’t going “Anywhere!” Mrs. Reed soothingly followed. I, for lack of anything to do, other than feel like a dumb ass, brushed my hair. My hair is thin and easy-care, and takes no time at all to brush out. I keep it fairly short for running. I brushed for fifteen minutes. Everyone by this time had left the lawn: the cane-carrying grandmother had gone inside, and Gina had forgotten “one more lipgloss.” Only me and the Pomeranians remained. They had stopped barking and were whimpering now. I knew how they felt.
It was noon. Taking out my spiral notebook, I adjusted my schedule, wrote down the mileage from Larchmont to Glen Burnie (about 250 miles, measured by my pin-point scientific thumb), noted the time, the starting mileage …
By about twelve-thirty, when I had pulled out all of my thin, light, straight as a pin, easy-care-for hair and was debating picking up Gina’s eyelash-tearing habit, a wet-faced Molly reappeared onthe grass, mollified. She would sit in the back, “like a good girl,” and would get a hundred dollars for her trouble.
“Ready?” I said to Gina, through my teeth. Molly and the mutts were squeezed in the back. “How about if I drive this leg, and you take the next?”
“What do you mean, take the next?” said Mrs. Reed, leaning in to kiss her daughter goodbye. “Gina doesn’t know how to drive.”
We were on the New England Thruway, and I was yelling. Me, yelling. “You don’t know how to drive? Gina, you told me you had your license! You told me you’d share the driving!”
“I know, I know,” Gina said guiltily. “I’m sorry. I did have my permit, just like you.”
“So what happened? You still have it?”
“Well, no. You know how we’re not supposed to drive at night. In April, I had a little mishap. Drove at night, very slightly teeny bit buzzed. Got stopped. Hence, no license.”
“Oh.” I brightened. “But you do know how to drive, then?”
“No. This wasn’t this past April, but a year ago April. I hadn’t even started my driver’s ed. Sorry, Sloane.”
“Unbelievable. But I kept saying how we would share the driving!”
“I know. I thought you meant that metaphorically.”
“ Metaphorically ? How do you mean something like that metaphorically?”
From the back the twelve-year-old
“Shh! Don’t be silly. No, no,” Gina quickly said, not looking at me.
Molly, as it turned out, was even less prepared than Gina. She had gone to get her toothbrush, a book to read (though she didn’t look like the type that read books; that read period ), her rather large cassette player, and her makeup. What else did a twelve-year-old bring to her aunt’s? What else was there? Miniature golf clubs? She said she had to sit in the front. “I get dizzy in the back.”
Gina agreed! Gina was going to sit in the back?
I shook my head. “Molly, do you know how to read a map?”
“Yes,” she said defiantly.
“Oh, good. Because I don’t know where your aunt lives, so you’ll have to direct me out of New York, all right?”
“I can’t read in the car. It makes me dizzy,” said Molly.
“I see.” I nodded. “Perhaps best to sit in the back, then.”
“I can’t sit in the back. It makes me dizzy. Besides, backseat’s too small.”
“Well, that’s perfect, because you’re small, too.”
“No, I can’t.”
“Moll, give Sloane a break, will you?” said Gina with hostility. I suddenly remembered that Gina hated Molly. They never got along. Gina said Molly was spoiled and selfish. Why in the world would she invite her with us to Baltimore? Like children, we stared at Molly, and then pleadingly at Molly’s mother, who pointed a finger at her daughter. “You’ve got one second to get in the back or march right upstairs, young lady.”
Mrs. Reed’s words made no impression on Molly other than to cause a hysterical fit, during which she stormed off upstairs screaming she wasn’t going “Anywhere!” Mrs. Reed soothingly followed. I, for lack of anything to do, other than feel like a dumb ass, brushed my hair. My hair is thin and easy-care, and takes no time at all to brush out. I keep it fairly short for running. I brushed for fifteen minutes. Everyone by this time had left the lawn: the cane-carrying grandmother had gone inside, and Gina had forgotten “one more lipgloss.” Only me and the Pomeranians remained. They had stopped barking and were whimpering now. I knew how they felt.
It was noon. Taking out my spiral notebook, I adjusted my schedule, wrote down the mileage from Larchmont to Glen Burnie (about 250 miles, measured by my pin-point scientific thumb), noted the time, the starting mileage …
By about twelve-thirty, when I had pulled out all of my thin, light, straight as a pin, easy-care-for hair and was debating picking up Gina’s eyelash-tearing habit, a wet-faced Molly reappeared onthe grass, mollified. She would sit in the back, “like a good girl,” and would get a hundred dollars for her trouble.
“Ready?” I said to Gina, through my teeth. Molly and the mutts were squeezed in the back. “How about if I drive this leg, and you take the next?”
“What do you mean, take the next?” said Mrs. Reed, leaning in to kiss her daughter goodbye. “Gina doesn’t know how to drive.”
We were on the New England Thruway, and I was yelling. Me, yelling. “You don’t know how to drive? Gina, you told me you had your license! You told me you’d share the driving!”
“I know, I know,” Gina said guiltily. “I’m sorry. I did have my permit, just like you.”
“So what happened? You still have it?”
“Well, no. You know how we’re not supposed to drive at night. In April, I had a little mishap. Drove at night, very slightly teeny bit buzzed. Got stopped. Hence, no license.”
“Oh.” I brightened. “But you do know how to drive, then?”
“No. This wasn’t this past April, but a year ago April. I hadn’t even started my driver’s ed. Sorry, Sloane.”
“Unbelievable. But I kept saying how we would share the driving!”
“I know. I thought you meant that metaphorically.”
“ Metaphorically ? How do you mean something like that metaphorically?”
From the back the twelve-year-old
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