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Authors: Maria E. Andreu
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parents agreed. But they did.
“So here’s what I think we should do today. How about we go to the DMV so you can take your written test? We can practice driving all weekend and see if they’ll take you for a driving test before we go on the road trip. We should have two drivers, just in case.”
I can’t get a driver’s license, but I can’t explain why to Chelsea. I’ve looked at the list of “points” you need even to apply to take the test. I don’t have any of them. Social Security card. Passport. Birth certificate. I take a moment to throw little hate daggers in the general direction of my parents. For the thousandth time.
As we all started turning sixteen and a half, everyone began to take their driver’s test. When my turn came, I blew it off with lame excuses. Chelsea was relentless for a while, but then she got old enough for her license and got her Beemer as a reward. She had dropped it. Until now.
“There’s no way I can take the test before next weekend,” I say.
“You never know. Let’s go and ask.”
“I haven’t studied for the test.”
“Oh, please, M, you helped me study so much you probably have that book memorized.”
“Yeah, yellow means speed up, right?”
“I’ll drive you by your place and you can get your birth certificate.”
Why is Chelsea being a pitbull all of a sudden? My heart is pounding so hard I am afraid I might pass out.
“I don’t think my mom keeps it there. I . . .”
“You wanna call her? We can drive her to the bank deposit box if she doesn’t keep it at home.”
Bank deposit box. That’s funny. She’s both my best friend and also someone who lives on a completely different planet. It’s like she’s a native and I’m trying to explain where I come from to her, but she’s got no words for “road” or “building.”
“Chels, seriously, I just don’t want to.”
“I don’t get it. You can practice in my car.”
She looks at me for a minute, then goes further than she’s gone before. “M, you act like it’s this big difference, that because my parents have more money than yours do it’s, like, a thing.”
“An ironic conversation to be starting over a slab of marble that took six guys to carry in here. And we’re talking about cars and licenses anyway.”
“You think this stuff means anything? This is my parents’ stuff. When I leave here, it stays with them. I’m probably going to go into the Peace Corps or Teach for America or something and live in a ratty apartment and eat ramen noodles. I just happen to have this car right now that you could just happen to drive so I don’t have to drive the whole time there and back. Whose stuff is whose doesn’t matter.”
“Jeez, Chels, can you just drop it? I don’t want to, okay? ‘Whose stuff is whose doesn’t matter’ is the kind of condescending bullshit only people who have money say, first off. And second off, not everyone wants to drive around in a BMW terrorizing old ladies, okay?” As soon as I say it, I regret it. I’m such an idiot. It comes out so much meaner than I intended it to sound.
“Okay, fine, M, fine. I just thought it would be fun sharing the driving. You don’t have to be snippy.”
“I’m sorry,” I say.
“Forget it.”
CHAPTER NINE
O ne of the many good things about Chelsea is that after the very few times we’ve had a fight, she is over it fast. Like it never happened. Plus, Chelsea is Excited with a capital E about this college visit. After school on the Thursday of the drive, Chelsea is like a kindergartener who has just gotten a bag full of candy. I feel like I’m about to take a whole lot of gross-tasting medicine. For three straight days.
“Okay, I’ve gotten an oil change, had the tires rebalanced, my phone’s fully charged, I have my car charger, jeans, a skirt, makeup, road trip food. Have I forgotten anything?”
We’ve had this conversation eighteen times in the last week, and given the NASA-level charts and
“So here’s what I think we should do today. How about we go to the DMV so you can take your written test? We can practice driving all weekend and see if they’ll take you for a driving test before we go on the road trip. We should have two drivers, just in case.”
I can’t get a driver’s license, but I can’t explain why to Chelsea. I’ve looked at the list of “points” you need even to apply to take the test. I don’t have any of them. Social Security card. Passport. Birth certificate. I take a moment to throw little hate daggers in the general direction of my parents. For the thousandth time.
As we all started turning sixteen and a half, everyone began to take their driver’s test. When my turn came, I blew it off with lame excuses. Chelsea was relentless for a while, but then she got old enough for her license and got her Beemer as a reward. She had dropped it. Until now.
“There’s no way I can take the test before next weekend,” I say.
“You never know. Let’s go and ask.”
“I haven’t studied for the test.”
“Oh, please, M, you helped me study so much you probably have that book memorized.”
“Yeah, yellow means speed up, right?”
“I’ll drive you by your place and you can get your birth certificate.”
Why is Chelsea being a pitbull all of a sudden? My heart is pounding so hard I am afraid I might pass out.
“I don’t think my mom keeps it there. I . . .”
“You wanna call her? We can drive her to the bank deposit box if she doesn’t keep it at home.”
Bank deposit box. That’s funny. She’s both my best friend and also someone who lives on a completely different planet. It’s like she’s a native and I’m trying to explain where I come from to her, but she’s got no words for “road” or “building.”
“Chels, seriously, I just don’t want to.”
“I don’t get it. You can practice in my car.”
She looks at me for a minute, then goes further than she’s gone before. “M, you act like it’s this big difference, that because my parents have more money than yours do it’s, like, a thing.”
“An ironic conversation to be starting over a slab of marble that took six guys to carry in here. And we’re talking about cars and licenses anyway.”
“You think this stuff means anything? This is my parents’ stuff. When I leave here, it stays with them. I’m probably going to go into the Peace Corps or Teach for America or something and live in a ratty apartment and eat ramen noodles. I just happen to have this car right now that you could just happen to drive so I don’t have to drive the whole time there and back. Whose stuff is whose doesn’t matter.”
“Jeez, Chels, can you just drop it? I don’t want to, okay? ‘Whose stuff is whose doesn’t matter’ is the kind of condescending bullshit only people who have money say, first off. And second off, not everyone wants to drive around in a BMW terrorizing old ladies, okay?” As soon as I say it, I regret it. I’m such an idiot. It comes out so much meaner than I intended it to sound.
“Okay, fine, M, fine. I just thought it would be fun sharing the driving. You don’t have to be snippy.”
“I’m sorry,” I say.
“Forget it.”
CHAPTER NINE
O ne of the many good things about Chelsea is that after the very few times we’ve had a fight, she is over it fast. Like it never happened. Plus, Chelsea is Excited with a capital E about this college visit. After school on the Thursday of the drive, Chelsea is like a kindergartener who has just gotten a bag full of candy. I feel like I’m about to take a whole lot of gross-tasting medicine. For three straight days.
“Okay, I’ve gotten an oil change, had the tires rebalanced, my phone’s fully charged, I have my car charger, jeans, a skirt, makeup, road trip food. Have I forgotten anything?”
We’ve had this conversation eighteen times in the last week, and given the NASA-level charts and
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