Driver's Dead (4 page)

“Maybe someone else stole it, and forced him to go along,” Kirsten suggested.

“That's what the Trangs said,” Maria replied. “But the cops couldn't get fingerprints, because everything was burned.”

“Ohhhh …” Kirsten felt her stomach turn.

“And besides,” Maria continued, “Nguyen was in the driver's seat.”

The phone went silent for a moment.

“How … awful,” was all Kirsten could think to say.

“Yeah. It got worse, too. The poor Trangs. They started out making these polite, sad statements to the press. But they slowly went nuts—insisting there was a conspiracy, prejudice against Asians, he was kidnapped, blah, blah, blah. They kept saying they would find Nguyen's diary, and that would give all the clues to what really happened.”

“And then they just gave up?”

“Well, all these movie and TV people started showing up at their house, trying to get the rights to their story, and that pushed them over the edge. Last June they finally just moved. They said they were devastated and wanted to live out their lives anonymously.”

“End of story.”

“Yeah.” Maria laughed. “Hey, maybe those producers are sneaking around your house, fighting over the Trangs' mail.”

Actually,
that
didn't seem far-fetched to Kirsten.

“Listen,” Maria went on, “Virgil's getting lonely. I better go. Don't worry.”

“Yeah, okay. I'll see you tomorrow.”

“Bye.”

“Bye.”

Kirsten hung up and slumped back into the kitchen seat. It was definitely time to lighten up. Send the letter on and stop worrying.

She took a red pen and wrote ADDRESSEE MOVED. PLEASE—

She stopped when she heard the creaking.

Eeeeeeeeeee …

She put the pen down. It was coming from the porch.

Kirsten swallowed. Slowly she got up from the chair and walked toward the kitchen entrance.

“Kirrrrrr-sssten
…”

The voice was low and growly.

In the dining room.

Just past the kitchen door.

Kirsten froze. Her hands shaking, she reached for the letter opener on the table.

Then, with a blood-curdling shriek, a hooded figure leaped into the kitchen.

“A
AAAAAAAAH—!”
K
IRSTEN SCREAMED.

But she swallowed it.

Her attacker was on the floor, laughing. Holding a piece of paper that had been folded into a cone, like a megaphone.

Kirsten caught her breath. The feeling was beginning to return to her extremities.

And anger to her brain.

“I hate you, Nat,” Kirsten snapped. “You are a total, hateful, worthless dork.”

“Whatever you say bounces off me and sticks to you!” Nat replied.

“And immature, too!”

Kirsten stormed off and wished her mom had given birth to a toad twelve years ago.

Then again, maybe she had.

Rrrrrrrrommmm … rrrrrrrommmmm!

Kirsten and Maria were early for driver's ed on Wednesday. As they waited for everyone else, they watched the auto shop class busily testing the car they were working on. Someone inside it was gunning the accelerator while another two had their heads in the engine. The rest of the class stood by, nodding knowingly.

“Why do boys like cars so much?” Kirsten asked.

“One word: testosterone,” Maria said. “Named after a famous Italian scientist, Giovanni Testosterone. It is secreted by the hormonal gland and makes males interested in loud, pollution-causing objects and unable to follow a beat on a dance floor. You can look it up.”

Kirsten laughed. The boys were arguing about something over the drone of the engine—gravely tossing around words she had never heard, as if the future of the world depended on it.

The car's front door opened. The guy in the driver's seat had been hidden behind dark-tinted windows. Now Kirsten could see it was Rob.

As he casually stepped out and shut the door behind him, he seemed worlds away from the grubby, yammering guys around the hood. He was no Tom Cruise, that was for sure, but he had something the others didn't have. A coolness, a sureness—a
grace.
He, Kirsten knew, would be able to follow a beat on a dance floor.

This time, when his eyes met Kirsten's, they stopped. Before she could look away, she saw the expression change on his face.

He smiled.

No doubt about it. He had remembered her from yesterday.

The smile sent a chill through Kirsten—cool, sharp, almost icy. She felt stung. Shivery. She wasn't sure she liked it.

But she wasn't sure she didn't.

When she looked back, he was hunched over the engine with the others. They were hanging on his every word.

“Okay, let's look lively!”

Mr. Busk was trotting toward the driver's ed car. Gwen had already climbed into the front seat, Maria and Sara into the back.

Kirsten ran to the back door, but Sara pulled it shut. “Would you mind using the other side? I'm tired of sitting on the hump.”

“Oh. Okay,” Kirsten replied. She raced around to the other door.

As she was getting in, she heard a distant low-pitched chuckle.

She looked over to see Rob, watching her with a grin. This time she returned the smile.

When Kirsten sat down, Maria glared at her. “Ah-hem. I saw that.”

“Stop,” Kirsten said, rolling her eyes.

Gwen took off a bit suddenly. She steered the car out of the lot and past the school.

“Turn left,” Mr. Busk growled.

“You bet,” Gwen chirped.

“Cross Sunrise and make your first right.”

“Okey-dokey.”

Gwen signaled, made full stops at the stop signs, accelerated and decelerated gently, and made pleasant chitchat with Mr. Busk.

When Gwen was done, she parallel-parked perfectly and thanked Mr. Busk for his pointers.

“No problem,” Mr. Busk replied. “You're my easiest student.” Over his shoulder, he said, “I don't know, girls, I think we got a front-runner for that Escort.”

“Oh, please,” Maria muttered.

Kirsten wanted to puke.

Sara took her turn next.

As Gwen climbed into the backseat, she was smiling triumphantly. A
just-try-to-beat-that
kind of smile.

After Sara, Kirsten drove. She ran a stop sign, bumped the curb on a wide turn, and was cursed at by one driver. Mr. Busk said he was pleased at the improvement.

Later, walking away from class with Maria, Kirsten felt morose. “I swear, I will never learn to drive.”

“Well, Kirsten, let's face it—you will probably
not
win the contest,” Maria replied. “But between you and me, that's okay. What Gwen doesn't realize is that the winner of the Escort has to marry Mr. Busk.”

“Gross!”

“You'll get the hang of it. Don't worry. Everybody does. My
grandmother,
who grew up in the city like you, learned how to drive at age fifty.”

“Now I'm inspired,” Kirsten said dryly.
“I'll
do it by forty-nine.”

“That's the spirit!”

At their usual turn-off spot in front of the school, they said good-bye.

Kirsten hadn't gotten a half block away before she heard a car horn blowing “Taps.”

She turned to see an old, beat-up Mustang on Oversized wheels. “Want a ride?” called a deep, throaty voice.

Rob was inside. He was leaning clear across the seat to talk to her through the passenger window—and was still driving straight.

Alligator eyes. That's what they were like, Kirsten decided. She had once seen a photo of an alligator-filled swamp at night. The photo was almost pitch-black, except for what looked like tiny pairs of floating green fireballs. That was how you knew alligators were there.

“Um … yeah, I guess,” Kirsten answered.

He pulled up to the curb and stopped. The car was a wreck. Rob was moving the soda cans, magazines, and plastic wrappers from the passenger bucket seat and tossing them in the back. Billows of shredded foam stuck out of the seat's ripped seams. Rob quickly covered them with an old T-shirt he took off the floor. “Come on in.”

He's got to be kidding,
Kirsten thought.
He expects me to sit on that?

“The shirt's clean,” he said. “Don't worry.”

Oh. Well. In that case.
Kirsten pulled open the door.

She took a quick look behind her. Maria was a block away, staring in intense disapproval.

With a shrug and a guilty smile, Kirsten sat in the car.

It was a
ride,
for God's sake, not an elopement.

Maria would get over it.

The T-shirt bunched down around the small of her back, but Kirsten didn't mind. “Thanks,” she said.

“No problem.” He glided to a smooth stop at a red light.

He was a
very
good driver.

Kirsten sneaked a look at him as he watched the light. His brows were dark and coffee-brown, slanting upward, chiseling his forehead with neat parallel lines of concern.

“I'm Rob Maxson,” he said, still staring straight ahead.

“Kirsten Wilkes.”

“Hm. Nice name.” Rob made a right turn onto Merrick Road, then a quick left onto Burnside. “I … I'm sorry for that trick I pulled on you yesterday. I hope I didn't scare you too much.”

“Well, it was a little … scary.”

Ugh. Nothing like disagreeing, and not even finding original words to do it with.

Rob nodded. “I can be a jerk sometimes. A crazy idea pops into my head, and something gets into me. I say, ‘Go for it' without thinking. I don't know why.”

“That's okay.” Kirsten was impressed. Boys and apologies usually didn't go together. Especially boys like Rob. This was a nice surprise. “I get that way, too. I mean, I'm here, right?”

Rob's laughter was sudden and explosive. “Riding with me is a crazy idea, that's true.”

Kirsten realized something. “Do you have a license?”

“Yeah. I turned seventeen in June, and I took my test this summer. Mr. Busk's an old buddy—well, he
was,
anyway—and he gave me free private lessons.”

“Lucky you.”

“He had to. He owed me a favor.”

Rob didn't explain. Kirsten had the strong feeling she shouldn't pursue it.

They rode silently down Anchor Street, until Rob pulled up into Kirsten's driveway. “Well, nice getting to know you,” he said.

“Me, too.” Kirsten squeezed the door handle, then stopped. “Hey, how did you know where I lived?”

“Oh! Uh …” A look flashed across Rob's face, blank and inward. Then, slowly, he turned away with a sheepish smile. “I saw you out front … last week, mowing the lawn. I guess you stayed in my mind.”

Kirsten felt herself turning hot. He was lying—well, sort of. She had never mowed this lawn. But what was the difference? He probably saw her doing something else. “Well, thanks for the ride,” she said, squeezing the door handle to let herself out. “Um, I'd invite you in, but no one's home.”

“Oh, yeah?” Rob's eyes lit up.

Kirsten felt a jolt of fear.
Why did you say that, you fool?
she said to herself.
You don't know him. You don't know what he wants.

“Then let's switch,” Rob added.

“What?”

“Switch. You drive and I coach.”

“Oh, I don't know… .”

“Why not? You don't want to go into an empty house, right? Besides, I'm a better teacher than Mr. Busk.”

“I'm sure you are, but I
stink,
Rob. I already crashed my dad's car.”

Rob quickly got out and walked around to the passenger side. “May I have your jacket, please?” he asked in a mock British accent.

Coming from Rob, this sounded ridiculous. “My
jacket?”
Kirsten asked with a giggle.

“It's warm. We want you comfortable and free to move your arms.”

“Oh,
okay.”
Kirsten reluctantly got out, gave him her jacket, and dragged herself to the other side. “I hope this car is insured,” she muttered.

She slid in, then nervously went through each necessary step:
Put on seat belt. Adjust mirrors. Pump the gas a few times. Start engine.

Rawwwr
…
rawwwr … rawwwr… .
It wouldn't catch.

“Uh, you flooded the engine,” Rob said. “You gave it too much gas. Try starting it with your foot off the gas.”

Kirsten did what he said, and the engine started perfectly. Immediately she began backing up.

“Kirsten,” Rob said softly, “always look over your shoulder before you back out. Don't trust your mirrors.”

With one hand on the steering wheel, Kirsten turned to look behind her as the car rolled backward.

Into her line of vision, from behind a hedge, rode a small girl on a bike with training wheels.

Kirsten screamed. Her foot slipped off the accelerator and flailed aimlessly.

“Susan!”
shrieked a woman's voice.

The little girl stopped behind the car and froze.

S
CRREEEEEEEK!

Kirsten jammed her foot down so hard, her thigh ached.

The car jolted to a sudden stop.

The girl's mother swooped her daughter up off the bike. “Oh, thank God!” she said. “Susie, you
see
why you have to be careful?”

Kirsten's heart felt like a pounding sledgehammer. Her stomach clenched into a knot.

“Sorry!” the mother called out. “Thank you!”

Kirsten took a moment to catch her breath. “If I hadn't looked back,” she managed to say, “I would have killed her.”

Rob nodded. “You did great, Kirsten. Now you'll always know.”

“I don't think I can go on.”

“You have to now. Or you'll always be scared.”

Kirsten collected herself and continued backing out, extremely slowly.