School of Fortune (12 page)

“That slut should be strung up,” the woman commented, noticing Pippa staring at the rack.

“It was all arranged by the mother.” The beanpole at the register spoke with the accumulated wisdom of fifty years in front of a television set. “So she could get Rosimund's money.”

“That poor boy,” the first woman clucked, departing with four floor fans. “Have a blessed day.”

The beanpole began whipping Pippa's tank tops past the bar code reader. “You buying that box or just reading it, hon?”

Keeping her chin down, Pippa handed over the Clairol kit. “Sorry.”

“That comes to seventy-eight fifty.”

Something was seriously out of whack. Pippa's cheapest skirt at Neiman's had cost three times as much as the entire cartload here. She might be a fugitive, but she wasn't a thief. “Are you sure?”

The woman checked. “Dang! That code didn't read right.” Now everything came to seven
ty-one
fifty. “Out of one hundred cash.”

Pippa hardly dared breathe as the woman studied the bill from many angles, making sure it wasn't counterfeit. She accepted her change and ran into the withering heat of the parking lot. Her cab was idling in a handicap space. “Get me home,” she cried, diving into the back seat.

Each time the cab passed a newsstand, drugstore, or supermarket, half of her wanted to leap out and buy every tabloid in sight. The other half of her wanted to join a monastery in Tibet. When the driver finally stopped at Ginny's place, Pippa gave him a hundred dollars and rushed inside like a vampire singed by the light. She triple-locked the door and pulled every drape shut. She sat in the dark, numbly waiting for someone to turn the lights on and tell her this was all a bad dream.

D
riving school met in the function room of Happy Hour Motel on Harry Hines Boulevard. Situated next to train tracks, it got poor online reviews for noise and fumigation. Local hookers were the motel's biggest clients; the Texas Department of Public Safety ran a close second. State officials thought of it as a de facto penal institution and hoped, correctly, that after a week in a classroom reeking of roach bomb and fried eggs, miscreant drivers would do anything never to go back.

Officer Vernon Pierce glanced up from the lectern as his final student rushed through the door at one minute before nine. “Perfect timing,” he said as she slid into a front row chair and flipped down the writing table. Nice legs! The rest was pretty atrocious, though. He had never seen such a bad hair dye job. She may as well have stuck her head in a bucket of tar. Tattoos disfigured her arms and the bluish-gray nail polish looked straight out of the morgue. She was wearing two halter tops, each covering a couple of inches that the other one missed. The white skirt with little cherries on it, stiff as cardboard, was obviously brand-new. Wal-Mart special. The girl's footwear looked like a wedge of Dunlop tire. The heavy gold ankle bracelet didn't fit with anything at all. “And you are?”

“Perdita Rica.”

Strange, she didn't look Hispanic. In fact her eyebrows were blond.

“Good morning, everyone. My name is Officer Pierce. We're going to be best friends for the next five days, so let's get started by telling each other why we're here.” He pointed to a gangly teenager in overalls in the front row. “Billy. You first.”

“I didn't commit no offense. I'm innocent.”

“Then tell us what offense you were unjustly accused of.”

“Driving my tractor.”

Officer Pierce studied his printout. “Billy is correct. He was driving his tractor. What he neglects to mention is that he was driving it in downtown Dallas although his father's peanut farm is in Abilene. The laws of Texas forbid operating a tractor over one hundred and fifty miles from one's farm.”

“My pickup broke and I had to get to a prom.”

“Your date must have loved that.” Pierce passed on to the next student. “How about you, Tom?”

A paunchy man who looked shortchanged by life said, “It's really unfair that I should lose my driver's license when I wasn't even driving and causing any danger.”

“My heart bleeds for you.” Pierce consulted his printout. “Unfortunately you dropped two empty Whopper cartons, two supersized Cokes, a bag of Reese's Pieces, a package of Pringles, and half an ice cream cone out the window of your car although you were in a rest area not thirty feet from a trash bin.”

“That is disgusting, man.” Billy twisted around in his seat. “You ate all that?”

“No sermons, please,” Pierce interrupted. “If one chooses to litter in the beautiful state of Texas, one will lose one's driver's license and incur a fine. How about you, Gordon?”

A thirtysomething redneck muttered, “I was in my boat, minding my own business.”

“Perhaps so, but you had a blood alcohol level of point one seven. According to the laws of Texas, those who choose to go boating while intoxicated will lose their driver's license.”

“Everyone drinks a few beers while they're fishing,” Gordon protested. “Otherwise it's not fair to the fish.”

Pierce addressed an elderly black woman in the rear row. “Hattie! Tell us why you're here.”

“I don't know, Officer. I've been driving for seventy-five years and never so much as hit a jackrabbit. Then the other day this officer came up out of the blue and pulled me over.”

“Let me explain, then. You were going twenty-five miles per hour on an interstate highway where the maximum speed limit is seventy and the minimum speed limit is forty. You were therefore driving fifteen miles per hour under the minimum.”

“You mean I'm being punished for going too slow?”

“Correct. Let's hear from you, Seymour.”

A skinny black teenager wearing pants that would have been voluminous on Humpty Dumpty said, “I'm an urban artist, man. That's all I'm gonna say here.”

“Artist? The police report states you were defacing private property. According to the laws of Texas, if you choose to cover other people's walls with graffiti, you will lose your driver's license.”

“That's so white,” Seymour fumed.

“And you, Carrie-Jo?”

Scrawny trailer trash answered, “I was just talking on my phone.”

Pierce perused a few sentences in his printout. “If we gave a prize for understatement, you'd win. In the state of Texas it is illegal to follow a fire truck at a distance of less than five hundred feet. It is also illegal to cause a crash while talking on a cell phone. Carrie-Jo managed to crash into the rear of a fire truck while talking on her cell phone.”

“It was an important call,” she pouted.

“How about you, Lola?”

A bodacious young woman minimally dressed as Santa Claus replied, “I'm a professional valet.”

“You were going thirty miles an hour in reverse and T-boned a Jaguar. According to the laws of Texas, reckless driving will cost your license.”

“Give me a break! He should have had his lights on.” Shaking his head, Pierce focused on his last student. Cute little face, if you could get past the hair. “Perdita. What brings you here?” “I was speeding.”

The class erupted in cheers. “You go, girl! Glad to know we got one legit criminal here!”

“Quiet! You were also driving without your license and you ignored the flashing blue lights behind you for twenty miles.”

“I'm sorry. I was singing along with Josh Groban.”

Pierce passed a hand over his eyes. This class made skid row look like Princeton. “As I listen to your stories, I detect a common thread. NOT MY FAULT! I DIDN'T DO NUTTIN'! Let me set the record straight. You are not victims. You broke the law. That's why you're here. Rule number one: driving is a privilege, not a right. Any questions?”

He waited a full ten seconds for an answer. Finally Perdita finished scribbling in a spiral notebook. “No, sir.”

“In order to pass this course you're going to show up on time every day. You're going to do your homework. You're going to score seventy percent or better on a rules test, a signs test, a vision test, and a driving test. That's four tests! Do you think you can handle that?”

Eight coconuts would have responded with more animation. Officer Pierce finally detected movement in the front row, in the form of a teardrop rolling down Perdita's cheek. “What's the problem, Perdita? Surely you've taken tests before.”

“I'm sorry, Officer Pierce. It's just that you look like my ex-fiance.” She removed a lace handkerchief from her purse.

Carrie-Jo ceased chomping her bubble gum. “Sweetie! Did he dump you?” Women never cried if they did the dumping.

“Quiet! In this room you open your mouth if I ask you a question. Otherwise you keep it shut tighter than the trunk of a Cadillac.” Pierce walked up and down the rows, dropping a little booklet on everyone's desk. “Here is your own personal Texas Drivers' Handbook. Consider it your Bible for the next five days.”

“For shame, sir,” Hattie gasped.

“I was speaking figuratively.” As he dropped a manual on Perdita's desk, Officer Pierce noticed her perfume: heavy but intriguing. “Open to chapter one. ‘Your License to Drive. Who May Operate a Motor Vehicle in Texas. One: residents who have a valid Texas driver license.'“

Gordon, the beery fisherman, raised his hand. “Are we going to sit here and read to each other all week? I can read the book at home and come back for the test.”

Excellent suggestion, but this course wasn't about making life easy. “Since you claim to be literate, Gordon, why don't you read the manual for us right now. Start on page one.”

Gordon began reading a soporific text describing the nine types of driver who could legally operate a motor vehicle in Texas. Officer Pierce observed the class as Gordon droned on. He already knew who would pass and who would fail. Old Hattie would pass, if she got through the vision test. So would Perdita, who was underlining nearly every sentence in the manual with her yellow highlighter. The guys would mostly fail because they all thought they knew this stuff and could wing it on test day. Carrie-Jo's passing depended on her ability to cheat. Lola wouldn't finish the course.

Pierce let Gordon read for thirty minutes then asked Tom the lit-terer to take over at the Anatomical Gifts paragraph. Having eaten a large breakfast, Tom didn't enjoy reciting about organ, tissue, and eye removal but did as he was told. As his monotone pushed the class further into narcosis, Pierce's gaze returned to Perdita. Her parts didn't add up to the whole. She looked smart but lost. She didn't seem the type to have a drug problem. Runaway was possible, but who in her right mind would run away to Dallas? Pierce studied her tattoos. The blobs on her left arm looked like Minnie Mouse; everything else was a blurry mess. He wondered if she sported a few rings on her nether body parts, as did many women with tar-black hair. She wore a huge ring on her left hand. Pierce presumed it was one of those cubic zirco-nia monstrosities because he knew that rich people never took this course. They hired lawyers instead.

When Tom's voice gave out, Pierce asked Lola to come to the front of the class and read about Court-Ordered Suspensions, Alcohol-Related Offenses, and the Point System for Moving Violations. After thirty minutes Pierce turned to the young man who had never removed his eyes from Lola's microscopic Santa costume. “Seymour, tell us the fine for a first DWI.”

The graffiti artist replied, “I never heard of a dwee. Is that a bird or something?”

“D.W.I. That's shorthand for driving while intoxicated. Drunk driving.”

“Oh, that,” Seymour pooh-poohed. “What about it?” “What is the fine?” Pierce repeated through clenched teeth. “Fifty bucks?”

Pierce tapped his fingers on his desk. “Let's take a ten-minute break,” he suggested. “Fresh air. Coffee. Bagels. Don't forget to use the litter basket, Tom.”

The classroom emptied except for Perdita, who seemed eager to tell him something. “The fine for a first DWI is one thousand dollars a year for three years.”

“Very good, Perdita. I notice you've been paying close attention to everything.”

“That's because I really need to pass this course. My whole life depends on it.”

When women confided such things to him, they usually shoved their decolletage in his face. Apparently Perdita's mind didn't function that way. Pierce was relieved because in her case, the temptation to barter would be great. “I'm sure you'll do very well,” he replied. She had pretty green eyes, he noticed. Soft and trusting. “May I ask what is that perfume you're wearing?”

“It's called Thayne. There are only fourteen bottles in existence. It was custom blended in Paris.” Pippa almost showed him the flacon in her purse before realizing that a waitress would barely possess hand lotion, let alone French perfume. “I got it at a garage sale for ten cents.”

“I see.” Not really. “Why does your life depend on passing the course?”

“My grandfather will—” Her face went cherry red. “Increase my allowance. I'm a waitress,” she added for no reason whatsoever.

He watched her skitter out of the room. Perdita's rap sheet said she was driving a Lexus SUV when she was pulled over: that was a hell of a lot of tips.

When class resumed, Carrie-Jo the trailer trash got things off to a rocky start by hoisting her boobs in Officer Pierce's face and asking, “Is parallel parking going to be on the driving test? Like, it's not my particular favorite thing to do in the car, if you know what I mean.”

“Just for you, Carrie-Jo, I'll make parallel parking fifty percent of your driving test.”

“That's not fair! I won't do it!”

“You'll automatically fail if you refuse to follow instructions.”

Pierce turned to the class. “FYI, you'll fail the course if you have a crash between now and your exam.” He noticed Perdita scribbling furiously in her notebook. “It's all on page fifteen, Perdita. You don't have to recopy the entire manual.” She put down her pen. “Sorry, sir.”

He made her read two chapters covering Vehicle Inspection and the Liability Insurance Law, written in English but incomprehensible to anyone but a judge or William Shakespeare. Finally his wristwatch beeped: noon. “Let's break for lunch. See you at one o'clock sharp for a review of road signs.”

Pippa followed Pierce down the hallway. All was dead quiet except for the embarrassing squish of her flip-flops as she gained on him. Although she was sure he could hear her, Pippa saw Pierce walk faster and faster away. “Officer Pierce! Stop!”

He obeyed, of course. He'd have to be made of stone not to. “What can I do for you?”

“Do you tutor?”

Every molecule of testosterone screamed in protest as he answered, “Absolutely not.”

Humiliated, Pippa fled to the parking lot. Her cell phone rang as her key turned in the ignition. She recognized Lance's number. If he was calling for sympathy, this was not a good time. “Let me guess,” she snapped. “You want your SMU varsity pin back.”

“Pippa?” a man asked.

“Yes!” Wrong answer, in case it was an enemy. “No!” Wrong again, in case it was a friend. “Maybe! Who is this?” “Woody. Lance's physical therapist.” “Emphasis on physical.”

He let that pass. “If it's any comfort to you, Lance is catatonic with grief and guilt.”

“That's the best thing I've heard all day.” “What rage!”

“Just shut up, okay? You two weasels deserve it.” Woody sighed. “Yes, we do. Pippa, you're the most selfless woman we've ever met. Mother Teresa doesn't even come close.” “What is the purpose of this call?” “How would you like to have Lance's Maserati?”