No Right Turn (8 page)

We pull up to a sign that reads
ENTRIES AND REGISTRATION
, and Don checks us in.

He asks the lady at the registration table, “Where do you want me to park?”

She points across Strong Road to the old redbrick schoolhouse. “The restoration classes are over there, in front of the school. Just find any place. Class winners are announced at three, and all ballots are due back as soon as you fill 'em out, no later than two-thirty.”

She hands Don his ballot, with a listing of all the cars in the show arranged by class.

Don smiles and says thanks, and idles slowly over to the lawn in front of the school.

He explains to me about the ballot. “Judging of cars is done by the participants. We look at one another's cars and pick what we think are the nicest rigs in the various classes—best restoration, best modified, best classic; the categories are all listed right here. Course, I don't have to worry about that today.”

“Why's that?”

Don smiles. “Because today you're going to judge.”

“Me?” I hesitate. “I don't know anything about these cars.”

“Sure you do. You know that our 'Vette's the prettiest rig here, right?”

I laugh and look around. “There're
a lot
of pretty cars here, Don.”

He smiles. “See, you're already judging. Most guys at small shows like this don't know much more than we do, and it's all for fun anyway. I'll show you what to do.”

We've been at the show for about half an hour and I'm trying to do a fair and good job at being a car judge. I'm looking closely at the Modified Pick-Ups and Sport-Utility Vehicles when I feel a tap on my shoulder. I turn around, assuming Don will be standing there since he's the only person that I know here.

“Hi,” Becka says, smiling.

My first reaction is to smile back and to feel a rush of excitement at getting to see her.

She asks, “What're you doing here?”

Before I know what I'm going to say, I blurt out, “Showing the 'Vette.”

Now comes my second reaction—pure panic!

Becka beams. “The Corvette's here? It's finally back from the shop?”

The impossibility of my situation hits me. I begin to stutter and mumble, “Yeah, um, it's here … I … um …”

“Where?” Becka asks excitedly, looking all around. She's got two kids with her. I'm thinking they're her brothers.

“You brought your brothers along,” I say, trying stupidly to change the subject, stalling for time.

“Where's the Corvette?” Becka asks again.

“Yeah,” one of the boys adds.

I'm trapped. How can I explain Don to Becka, Becka to Don? What if she says something about riding in the car? About its being mine? What if she says anything about … anything? A rush of hopelessness and despair crashes through my gut. I'm
so
screwed!

“Well?” Becka insists.

I have to answer her. “We're over in the In-Progress Restoration group.”

“Where's that?” Becka asks.

I point across the street to the front of the school.

Becka looks over and spots the car. She also sees Don, sitting in a folding chair next to it.

“Is that your dad?” Becka asks.

“My dad's dead.”

“What?” she says, her face surprised and a little shocked.

“He died when I was thirteen.”

“God,” Becka says softly, touching my arm. “I'm sorry, I didn't know.”

“It's no big deal. He was a jerk anyway. And I don't talk about him....”

Becka gives me an even stranger look when I say this, but she touches my arm again and squeezes it a little.

I don't know what else to say, so I nod back toward the Corvette and Don. “That's Don Lugar, a neighbor guy. Kind of a grumpy character, but I needed him to enter the show.”

“Why?” Becka asks.

“You have to be eighteen or older.” I'm not even sure if this is true, but I haven't see any other guys my age with cars here.

“So you had him enter for you?”

“Yeah,” I answer, sinking deeper and deeper in the quicksand of my lies. “Like I said, he's kind of unfriendly, but I needed him to help me, to pretend the car's his so that I could enter the show. He has to act like it's his rig.”

I'm amazed at how easily these lies unfold and feed off one another, growing with each second, with every word.

Becka doesn't say anything for a while, then asks, “Can we go look at your car?”

I answer quickly. “I can't now. I'm judging, and I've gotta finish.”

I think for a second about encouraging Becka not to go over to the 'Vette at all, but I can tell already that her little brothers will never allow that. If Becka says something to Don about riding in the car, I'm dead. I'll have to take my chances. Becka and I chat back and forth for a few more seconds; I can't help but notice how incredibly beautiful she is.

I glance back at the Corvette and, as if by some kind of miracle, Don is gone! I look all around the area where the car is parked, and he's nowhere in sight. Maybe he's using the restroom? Maybe he's gone to the refreshment stand? Wherever he is, he isn't near the 'Vette right now!

“You guys should go over and look at the car right away!” I encourage them, a little too aggressively.

“We could wait until you're free,” Becka suggests again.

But the younger of her two brothers whines, “I'm tired. Let's go now!”

Becka looks at me, exasperated.

I quickly say, “No, you guys go ahead. I'm gonna be a while finishing this.”

The whiny kid says, “Come onnnn....”

Becka smiles at me and squeezes my arm again. “Sorry, but the brat rules can only be stretched so far.”

I smile back.

As they walk across the street in the direction of the Corvette, she looks back at me and smiles. “Call me.”

There's still no sign of Don.

“I will,” I answer, wondering whether my luck will hold long enough for her to ever want to talk to me again.

I beat it around the far side of the grange building, out of sight of the Corvette, where they can't see me. I hide among the Modified/Customs, specifically near a 1953 Mercury hot rod, chopped and painted deep burgundy, except for bright red and yellow flames on the fenders and hood. It's a beautiful car, and it gets my vote in its class, although, to be honest, I'm so nervous that I don't even look at any of the other cars in that group.

I kill as much time as I can. Finally, maybe half an hour later, I peek around the corner. Becka and her brothers are nowhere in sight. Don's back in his folding chair, sitting next to the Corvette.

Standing right in front of him, talking, is Wally.

What's he doing?

I told Wally last night that we were bringing the 'Vette here, but I didn't really expect him to come by.

First Becka and now Wally? At least Wally knows not to mention anything about my stealing the car.

I approach Don and Wally and say, “Hi, Wal. What're you doing here?”

Wally laughs. “Nice to see you, too, butt-munch.”

Don laughs too.

Wally says, “I just came by to look at this 'Vette you've been telling me about. You're right—it is beautiful.”

Don smiles and says, “Your buddy showed up about half an hour ago and asked me to look at a couple of the Mustangs with him and answer a few questions.”

Wally says, “Yeah.” Then he adds, “Did you know Becka Thorson was here?”

“Oh yeah?” I act surprised.

“Yeah,” Wally says. “She and a couple little kids.”

I say, “Her brothers.”

Don says, “I thought you didn't see her.”

I stutter, “I didn't, but probably … you know … little kids … I don't know....”

I look at Don. “Did you meet her?”

“No, I was showing Wally the Mustangs.”

I glance over at Wally. His expression is totally obvious, and he might as well be screaming out, “You owe me one!”

“Right,” I say, half smiling.

“Yeah,” Wally says. “Right.”

My palms are sweaty, and my heart pounds in my chest. My throat is dry, and I feel the dampness under my arms as beads of perspiration roll down my sides. I silently promise myself that I'll never steal the 'Vette again, I'll tell Becka the truth and come clean and just be thankful that I've managed to not get busted. I swear that I'll be an honest, upright, law-abiding citizen from now on.

Wally saved my ass—how weird is that?

After Wally leaves, Don and I stick around for another hour.

The 'Vette wins a prize for second place in class.

As Don and I cruise back down the hill, he asks, “What was your favorite part of the day?”

For some reason I flash instantly to the moment when Becka squeezed my arm and the look on her face when I told her about my dad. I also think about Wally saving me; a hundred images of great cars rush through my skull, too. I look at the award that I'm holding in my lap and I feel the rumble of the 'Vette as we drive toward home.

I turn to Don. “My favorite part of the day? This, right now, just cruising.”

He smiles. “Me too.”

I'm feeling great. Great enough that I decide I'm going to tell Becka the truth about the 'Vette. I'm definitely going to tell her!

Becka and I are going on our second date tonight. And I'm driving the 'Vette—yeah, that's right, the 'Vette.

Nope, I didn't fess up.

It's a Wednesday, of course, and I told Becka that I can't stay out late on school nights with the car, and she bought it. It's true, both for the reasons I explained to Becka and for the other,
real
reasons that I haven't admitted yet.

I didn't want to take the car again; I wanted the lies and the fear of being caught and all of that to stop—but I can't give it up. Things are going good now; for a change I'm actually having fun.

So I'm just riding the wave.

I've gotten so good at grand theft auto that it's scary—it almost feels like I'm not even doing anything wrong.

When I get to Becka's house and pick her up, we cruise down Indian Trail Road; I ask what she wants to do.

“Let's go park at Arlington,” she says.

I laugh. “What, are you getting all scandalous?”

She laughs too. “There's nothing scandalous about parking at Arlington. But of course, you're a geek, right, you wouldn't know that.”

I punch the 'Vette and we roar forward for half a block. She grabs the black plastic grip on the door, just like I did that first time I felt the Stingray's power.

“Don't make me turn on the nitrous,” I tease her, easing off the accelerator.

“Dang,” Becka says. “This sucker goes, doesn't it?”

“She,” I say.

“Excuse me?”

“She's not an it, she's my baby,” I say.

“Hmmm?” Becka smiles. “Is that right? Your baby, huh? Your one and only?”

I smile but don't say anything.

Becka says, “
She's
the one who's scandalous.”

“Oh, yeah,” I agree.

Becka, a soft, sexy tease to her voice, says, “Get us to the park … and we'll talk about scandalous.”

When we get there, we do more than just talk about it.

After I get back home, I phone Wally; I have to tell somebody what's happened. It's like a dream. If no one else knows, it won't even feel real.

Wally can't believe it. “She actually kissed you?”

“Yeah, we made out.”

“How far did you get?”

“I'm not gonna go into details, Wal. We kissed and made out.”

“Did you feel her up?”

“A little bit.”

“What do you mean, a little? On top of her shirt? Under her shirt? On top of her bra? Under her bra? How far did you get?”

“No comment, Wally.”

“You made out with Becka Thorson—you!!” His voice sounds like he's in a trance. “You kissed her and felt her up—”

I interrupt: “A little.”

“Yeah, whatever. This is incredible. Amazing. My best friend is gonna nail a cheerleader.”

“Let's not get carried away here, Wal.”

But Wally, on a roll, can't stop himself, “Come on, man, this is how these things start—some kissing, some making out, and the next thing you know you're buying condoms by the jumbo pack. And she must have some cheerleader girlfriends, right? She must—”