Getting Schooled (Getting Some 1)

But . . . Mrs. Jenkins and the great-grandkids thought it’d be safer for her to learn on the car she’ll actually be driving, so she won’t get confused. I thought it was a valid point. Besides, she’s not a speed demon.

After we’re both buckled in, Mrs. Jenkins turns on the radio. That’s another thing—according to her, background music helps her concentrate. She doesn’t play with the buttons while she drives; she picks one station beforehand and sticks with it. Today it’s an ’80s channel with Jefferson Starship singing about how they built this city on rock’n’roll.

And then we’re off.

“That’s it, Mrs. Jenkins, you want to turn your blinker on about a hundred feet before the turn. Good.”

I make a note on my clipboard that she’s good on the signaling, and then I have to hold back from making the sign of the cross. Because we’re about to hang a right onto the entrance ramp to New Jersey Parkway—home to the biggest assholes and most dickish drivers in the country. As we merge into the right-hand lane, traffic is light—only two other cars are in our vicinity.

And the speedometer holds steady at 35.

“You’re going to have to go a little faster, Mrs. Jenkins.”

We reach 40 . . . 42 . . . if there was a car behind us, they’d be laying on their horn right now.

“A little bit faster. Speed limit’s fifty-five.”

Over in the left lane, a car flies by, doing about 80. But Old Mrs. Jenkins doesn’t get rattled—she’s like the turtle in “The Turtle and The Hare” . . . slow and steady, humming along to “Take Me Home Tonight” by Eddie Money on the radio.

We make it to 57.

“There you go, Mrs. J! You got this.”

She smiles, her wrinkled face pleased and proud.

But it only lasts a second—and then her expression goes blank—her mouth open, eyes wide and her skin gray.

“Oh dear!”

Because there’s something in the road straight ahead of us. It’s a goose with a few tiny goslings behind it—dead center in the middle of our lane. Before I can give her a direction, or grab the wheel, Mrs. Jenkins jerks us to the left sharply, sending us careening across the middle and left lane of the fucking parkway.

“Brakes, Mrs. Jenkins! Hit the brake—the one on the left!”

“Oh dear, oh dear, oh dear . . .”

We fly across the median, with green and brown grass clipping, bursting around us and clinging to the windshield. And then we’re on the northbound side, heading the wrong way into three lanes of oncoming traffic.

Holy shit, I’m gonna die . . . .to an Eddie Money song.

How fucked up is that?

I’m not ready to go. There’s too much I didn’t get to do.

And at the very top of that list is: kiss Callie Carpenter again.

Not just once, but dozens, hundreds of more times. Touching her again. Holding her. Telling her . . . there’s so many fucking things I want to tell her.

If I don’t make it out of here alive . . . that will be my biggest regret.

In a hail of screeching brake pads and swerving tires we make it across the highway without being smashed to smithereens by another car. We dip and bounce jarringly over the grassy gully beyond the shoulder and finally roll to a stop in a thick line of bushes.

I breathe hard, looking around—fucking floored that we didn’t die.

Well . . . I didn’t die. Holy shit, did Old Mrs. Jenkins die?

I turn towards her hoping she’s not spiraling into a stroke or heart attack. “Are you all right?”

With almost Zen-like calm, she pats my hand on her shoulder. “Yes, Connor, I’m all right.” Then she shakes her head, thoroughly disgusted. “God damn geese.”

~ ~ ~

Almost dying really changes your perspective.

There’s no quicker way to light a big, blazing fire under your ass than almost biting the bullet. So, as soon as the paramedics check out Mrs. Jenkins, just to be safe, and I talk to the state troopers, fill out a report, see Mrs. Jenkins back home again, and get back into my own car, I only have one thought in mind.

Only one place I’m going.

Only one person who matters to me, in this moment.

I’m out of the car in front of Callie’s parents’ house before I even get it in park. I jog across their front lawn, pull open the screen door, and knock on the oak one. And I don’t stop, until it opens.

And then she’s there. Standing blond and beautiful in the doorway, the scent of roses and vanilla surrounding her. It’s what my youth, what love, smells like. Her smile is sweet and a surprised sparkle shines in those green eyes . . . the ones I want to drown in all over again.

“Garrett . . . I was just—”