No Right Turn (6 page)

Lying on my bed at home, I dig into my pocket and find the slip of paper on which Becka has written her name and phone number. I study her handwriting and try to sniff the ink, which is bright pink. I say her name about ten million times. “Becka Thorson, Becka Thorson, Becka Thorson …” I touch the writing, rubbing the scrap of paper, reading the message over and over. Becka Thorson, 555–7778, Becka Thorson, 555–7778.

In other words, this girl has turned me retarded.

At some point I flip the piece of paper over and see what's on the other side. It's a recent receipt for pool chemicals: five gallons of chlorine and some stuff called pH reducer. In the corner it says that the chemicals are for “Thorson gas-heated pool, 20,000 gallons, 1123 W. Indian Canyon Road.”

So what am I facing here? Becka Thorson drives an almost-brand-new Nissan Pathfinder, and she lives in one of the swankier neighborhoods in Spokane. She has a swimming pool—hell, she has
everything
! Her life is perfect.

Perfect, perfect, perfect—she's going to be thrilled to find out that not only do I
not
own a Corvette, but that I'm a lying sack of shit (“I've been out of the country”) and that I'm half an orphan.

I look at her handwriting again: Becka Thorson, 555–7778. And again. Becka Thorson 555–7778, Becka Thorson, Becka …

I grab the phone and call Wally. I tell him about meeting Becka.

“Yeah, right,” he says, laughing.

“Really, Wally, it's true.”

Dragging out the words like he's talking to a lying four-year-old, Wally demands, “
You
met Becka Thorson …
the
Becka Thorson?
You
met her and she
likes
you?”

“I swear to God.”

Wally laughs again. “She loved the car, right?”

“Yeah.”

“Your 'Vette.”

I get quiet.

“Yeah,” Wally says. “This is gonna work out real good for you.”

As usual, Wally, in his own demented way, is probably right; I'm screwed.

When Mom gets home from work tonight, I'm still super high about meeting Becka. The hell with Wally and all his negativism—Becka liked me, I could tell.

Mom comes through the front door, and I holler out, “Yo, Mommy-o!”

She laughs and answers, “Well, hi, J-boy.”

These are nicknames from like a thousand years ago, back when Dad was still alive and we were this big, happy family. Or at least we thought we were.

“Why are you so festive?” Mom asks.

“Sorry,” I answer.

Mom laughs again and says, “You know I didn't mean it like that. I'm just glad to hear you sound so full of beans.”

“Full of beans?” I tease her. “That's really hip, Mom; no, really, you are one cool mack mommy, so in touch with the youth—”

Before I can finish, Mom, a fake anger in her tone, says, “That's it, smart aleck! Yer getting smacked down … smacked down hard …
now!!!”

Like I mentioned before, Mom's got a good straight right; she has a good left hook, too. I'm outa here! If I can reach my room before she catches me, I'll be saved....

The next day at school, Wally and I sit together in second period, Current World Problems. He can't wait to ask me more about Becka. She's such a somebody at our school, and we're such nobodies.

Wally, still straining to believe the whole thing, asks, “Are you actually going to phone her?”

“Yeah.”

“When?”

“Soon, probably tonight.”

“Are you going to tell her the truth?”

I've foolishly admitted to Wally my dumb-ass “man of international intrigue” horseshit. I consider his question for a second. “If we actually go out, I'll tell her the truth, face-to-face. Not on the phone before we even see each other again.”

Wally ponders this for about a second. “Yeah,” he says, “that's a good idea—you should actually be with her when she dumps you.”

“Thanks, Wal.”

Don and I are working on the 'Vette in his driveway when I bring up the nitro for about the hundredth time.

Don looks at me. “You sure got a hard-on about this nitrous booster, don't you?”

I say, “Sorry if I'm bugging you....”

“No.” Don laughs. “It's fine. I haven't even tried the nitrous myself yet. Nitrous is not a toy. It causes incredible strain and can make a car old before its time—nitrous is the methamphetamine of the internal combustion engine.”

I ask, “So why have it?”

“So that this bad girl, admittedly mild by classic Corvette standards, won't just look good but can deliver if the demand ever arrives.”

I flash back to my drag race with the guys in the Honda, the rush of beating them and of them appreciating and respecting the 'Vette. “I know what you mean.”

“Oh yeah?” Don asks, looking at me kind of funny.

I stutter, “I mean, I get what you're saying.”

Don nods.

“Hi, is Becka there, please?”

“I'm sorry, Becka's been called away on a matter of national security. She's been arrested and—”

I hear a loud grunt and a muffled, brief struggle.

“Hello!”

I recognize her voice right away, having played it over in my head maybe ten billion times since we met.

“Hi, Becka, it's Jordan, the Corvette guy—”

Her laughter interrupts me. “I know who you are. How you doin' ?”

I ask, “National security?”

She asks, “Do you have any little brothers or sisters?”

“No.”

“You're so lucky, you have no idea—they're so cute when your mom first brings them home, but then they start walking and talking and learning to answer the phone.”

I laugh.

Becka, in a voice so sweet that I feel almost dizzy, says, “But enough about my tragic plight. How are you and how's the 'Vette?”

I'm ready for this. “I'm good, great really, but the 'Vette's in the shop.”

“Bummer,” Becka says. “When do you get it back?”

“Uhhh … I'm not sure really.... Maybe a week.”

“Geez,” Becka says. “What's wrong with it?”

I have an entire explanation that involves motor mounts and valve covers and the alternator—suddenly it all sounds like way too much, so I just say, again, “I'm not really sure.”

Becka laughs. “Does it appear to be a gas or an electrical problem?”

At first I think she's serious, but now I remember that I asked her the same thing that first night we met.

I laugh. “You think maybe I might be out of gas?”

“I don't know—stranger things have happened.”

I love this, I love her voice, her sense of humor;
Becka Thorson
is kidding around with
me
! It seems impossible.

Finally I suck it up and spit out the reason for my call. “I was wondering if you'd like to go out.”

“Stop it!” Becka snaps.

I stutter, “Ex-excuse me?”

Becka quickly says, “Not you,” then pulls her mouth away from the phone and yells, “Billy, you're
such
a dead man!”

I hear a boy's laughter in the background.

Becka says to me, quickly, “Call me later in the week; I'll be able to talk better after I've finished hiding my brother's body. I can drive if your 'Vette isn't ready—you drive the next time. By the way, did you know that nobody at school even knows you have a Corvette?”

Surprised, I ask, “What?”

“Yeah,” she says, obviously a little distracted, probably planning her brother's murder. “Don't you ever drive it to school?”

I stammer, managing to mumble, “I … uh … no, it's not insured for daily driving.”

I'm not sure if this even makes any sense, so I change the subject. “How do you know about me at school?”

She laughs. “I have my sources, although I have to admit you're a bit of a mystery—most kids don't know you.”

I ask, “Is that right?” Then, quickly, “You still want to go out, though?”

Her final words as she hangs up are “Call me tomorrow.”

I can't believe my luck.

I phone Wally, because I've promised him I'll keep him up to speed on the Becka situation.

I say, “She told me to call her back.”

Wally says, “Good, that's a good sign.”

I laugh. Trying to be funny, I say, “You really think so?”

Wally, sounding totally serious, says, “Well, it means she probably doesn't know what a lying piece of shit you are yet.”

Wally definitely has a special gift for buzz kills. I say, “I suppose that's true, Wally.”

“You better tell her, right away, about the car.”

“Yeah, I know.”

“You better tell her soon.”

I feel worse and worse the more we talk.

I say, “Yeah, I'll do that, Wal. Listen, I gotta go.”

Wally says, “Just one more thing.”

“What?”

“Before she dumps you, will you ask her if any of her cheerleader pals need a boyfriend?”

In as nasty, sarcastic a voice as I can manage, I answer, “Sure, Wally, no problem—I'll pimp you up big-time.”

Wally, totally not even noticing my tone or maybe just ignoring it, says, “Thanks, man!”

When I phone Becka tonight, we have a longer visit. It's cool getting to know her better. She comes from a pretty big family, five kids all together. Her youngest sister, who is four years old, has Down syndrome, which doesn't seem to bother Becka. In fact, Becka shares a bedroom with her. Becka's the oldest kid in her family. She's also a gymnast and a cheerleader-goddess. She's a National Merit Scholar and incredibly beautiful. In other words, Becka Thorson is perfect.

“But can you cook?” I ask her, trying to be funny.

“Not a thing.” She laughs. “I've burned water! Nope, prepare to spend the rest of whatever meager income you ever earn after 'Vette repairs on Caesar salads for moi.”

I hesitate a second.

She laughs. “Don't worry, big boy, that wasn't a marriage proposal.”

Actually, marriage doesn't sound like such a bad plan; that's how totally gone I already am on her. I'll never, ever meet a girl as cool as Becka again. We agree that our first date will be a walk in Riverside State Park followed by frozen yogurt.

“How's the 'Vette?” she asks, smashing my marital fantasies to smithereens. It's the car she's hot for, not me; remember that, you idiot.

“Still in the shop,” I answer—hey, I'll take her any way I can get her.

“Do they know what's wrong with it yet?”

“Uh, not really. So you can drive us this Friday?”

Becka says, “Sure, I'll pick you up around six.”

I give her my address and hope like hell that Don won't be home that evening working on my … I mean …
his
Stingray in his driveway!

Mom is hopeless at advising me about my date. Not that I've asked for or want any advice, but she has lots of it to offer anyway—all worse than useless.

“Girls like to be treated special,” Mom tells me, like this is some big breakthrough in gender relations.

“Yeah, I got that. Thanks, Oprah.” I don't mean to sound like such a smart-ass, but Mom's been sitting on the edge of my bed for the whole time I've been trying on different shirts and trying to get my hair right. I can't handle another suggestion.

Mom starts, “If she asks about—”

I interrupt, “Mom, that's it. I can't listen to this—will you
please
just leave it alone. It's not like this is the first date I've ever had!”

Actually, it
is
the first date I've ever had, other than meeting up with girls at school dances in the seventh grade. Were those really dates?

Mom knows that since Dad died I've kind of gone into a shell. Hell, “kind of”? The average garden snail sees more action than I have. She's tried to help me but failed miserably, since I won't let her.

Mom and I went to grief counseling for quite a while, and that seemed to help
her
some, but nothing has helped me. I know lots of kids whose parents have gotten divorced. Some of them lose contact with their dads. But having your dad
die
, especially the way my dad died, and knowing that you'll
never
see him again, is different from having him just move out. I don't know how else to explain it.