The Driving Lesson Page 9

  The truth was, I missed them both a lot. And Matt, too, and all my other friends. I was a little bit homesick. I wanted to grab my phone and let all of them know everything was fine. There was no reason to worry. Even tell them I was sorry. It would mean a lot to hear Mom’s voice. It really would.

  For the first few minutes, anyway. I could picture how the conversation would go. She’d be so sweet and happy and, well, motherly, at first. But that would slowly change. She’d start to chastise me for doing what I’d done. Then she’d start to say angry things about Opa.

  Why was I thinking about this? What purpose did it serve? All it did was stress me out. Besides, I’d already made my choice.

  I woke up for a second time. Now it was ten-fifteen. Opa’s bed was empty. I waited, expecting to hear water running in the bathroom, or just the sound of him moving around.

  Nothing.

  Several minutes passed.

  Then I heard an unmistakable sound. Opa was throwing up. I got out of bed and approached the closed bathroom door.

  “Opa?”

  “Yeah?” His voice was weak.

  “You okay?”

  “Can you do me a favor?” It barely sounded like him.

  “Yeah, sure.”

  “I think my pills are out in the car.”

  That’s right. I’d put them in the little storage compartment under the armrest.

  “I’ll go get them.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Need anything else?”

  “Just the pills.”

  “Be right back.”

  I quickly pulled on my shorts, a shirt, and my sneakers, then grabbed the room key and the car keys off the credenza. I stepped outside and found myself looking at mountaintops in the distance. We’d gotten in too late last night for me to get a good look. Now they stretched across the horizon, set sharply against the blue sky, with snow still visible on some of the peaks. I didn’t know which mountains they were, but they were pretty awesome.

  Our room was set back from the parking lot, so I had to walk past the small fenced-in pool to get to the car. The weather was incredible. Warm, but not hot. The air was dry. Back home, it would probably be one hundred degrees by mid-afternoon.

  I stepped off the curb beside Opa’s Honda and came to an immediate stop, because something was wrong. Majorly wrong. Horribly, unthinkably wrong.

  The driver’s side door was open.

  Not all the way. Just a few inches. But it was open. Either I’d forgotten to close it last night, which didn’t seem likely at all, or someone had been inside the car. A thief had been inside the car.

  I looked around the parking lot. Nobody. Just a couple dozen cars and trucks scattered here and there. None of their doors were open.

  My gut told me this wasn’t going to end well. There was very little of value inside the car. My bike was still in the back. I’d taken most of our other things inside last night — but not the pills. I had forgotten about them.

  I eased the car door all the way open and slid into the driver’s seat. The glove compartment was open, and I didn’t see Opa’s handicapped parking permit, so I had my answer. Somebody had been inside the car. Then I realized my new cell phone was also gone. I’d left it out here, because there was no reason to keep it on me. Not like anyone was going to be calling me. But the loss of those two items didn’t bother me. In the scheme of things, they weren’t important.

  Now I hesitated. Please God. Let Opa’s medicine be there. I lifted the armrest cover so I could check underneath. I really didn’t even want to look, but I finally did.

  The storage compartment was empty.

  The goddamn prescription bottle was gone.

  “Hey!”

  It took me a couple of seconds to locate the person who had just called out. Then I spotted her on the far side of the pool — a girl in a lounge chair, stretched out just as comfy as you please. Wearing a red bikini top, white shorts, and flip-flops. Plus sunglasses with red frames, and a floppy straw hat with a wide brim. A magazine was lying across her thighs. I hadn’t noticed her on the way out, but only because I hadn’t glanced that direction. Believe me, if I had glanced that direction, I would have noticed her. She gestured with her arm, like Come over here, so I walked over to the fence.

  Before I could say anything, she said, “That your car?” Apparently she could see the parking lot from where she was sitting, even with the sun caressing her skin the way it was.

  “Yeah,” I said, because I’m such a skilled conversationalist.

  “Anything get stolen?” she asked.

  “Yeah. How did you know?”

  “I saw the guy that did it.”

  “When?”

  “About thirty minutes ago. I was watching him, but he didn’t see me. He’s long gone.”

  “Well, Jesus, why didn’t you do anything?”

  Suddenly, like I’d flipped a switch, she looked pissed. “Because I didn’t know it wasn’t his car, genius.” A real snotty tone. “Not until after he left.”

  I held up my hands. “Okay. You’re right. I apologize.”

  That seemed to satisfy her. “So what’d he take?”

  I shook my head. “My grandfather’s medicine.”

  She wrinkled her nose. I have to mention that it was a very cute nose. I could see some blond hair poking out from underneath her hat. “Why would he want that? What kind of medicine?”

  “Just, you know, medicine. Look, I have to go. Thanks for letting me know what happened.”

  She shrugged and went back to her magazine.

  He was back in bed. His eyes were shut, but I could tell he was awake. He had the blanket pulled up tight to his chin. It was very cold in the room. He’d turned the AC down. I sat down on the edge of my bed.

  “Opa?”

  “Yeah, Bud.”

  “I think I really screwed up last night. Something bad happened and it’s all my fault.”

  His eyes opened. “What’s wrong?”

  I didn’t want to say it, but I finally did. “I left the car unlocked. Some guy got inside and took your medicine.”

  I wish I hadn’t seen what I saw next, but an expression flashed across Opa’s face before he could stop himself. It was a look of desperation. A look that said, What the hell am I going to do now? I can’t tell you how incredibly stupid and irresponsible it made me feel. Burglarizing that empty house with Matt — and having that fact broadcast on national TV — was nothing compared to this. Letting him down like this was as bad as it gets.

  “He took the parking pass, too,” I said. “And my phone. A girl at the pool saw it happen, but she didn’t know it wasn’t his car, so she didn’t stop him. I’m really sorry.”

  He shook his head a little. “Not your fault.”

  “Yeah, it was. If I’d locked the doors...”

  “Stop it. These things happen, Bud.”

  I didn’t know what else to say. What an idiot. Imbecile. Moron.

  Opa said, “I think I might have one pill stashed away in my shaving kit. Would you check?”

  I did, and he was right. One last pill. Better than nothing, but not nearly enough. I brought it to him, along with a glass of water. Even swallowing seemed to cause him some discomfort, and now he’d have to face it without any medicine, thanks to me.

  But I was about to feel even worse, if that was possible, because Opa said, “You know, maybe this is for the best. I’ve been doing some thinking.”

  “About what?”

  “Well, I think maybe we’ve reached the end of the road.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  He took a deep breath and slowly let it out. “I never meant for you to see me like this. I thought I could hold out longer, until we reached Seattle. But this is too much. I can’t ask you to do this anymore.”

  Once again, like in the car with Dad on Sunday, and in the Amarillo motel room with Opa, my eyes were beginning to water. “But we’re more than halfway there,” I said. “If we get a real
early start tomorrow morning, we could be there late tomorrow night.” But even I could hear the defeat in my voice. It was over, and I knew it. Opa didn’t want me to see him in misery, and even though I knew I could handle it, I shouldn’t have been asking him to keep going. What kind of selfish jerk does something like that?

  “We got a chance to spend some time together,” he said, giving me a weak smile. “That’s the important thing. And it meant a lot to me. You’re the best traveling buddy I’ve ever had.”

  Hot tears were streaming down my cheeks. It seemed like I’d cried more this week than I’d cried in my whole life. I didn’t care. If this wasn’t a good reason to bawl like a little kid, what was?

  “What’re we gonna do?” I asked, wiping my eyes with the back of my hand. “Call Mom and Dad?”

  But Opa was already drifting off again.

  12

  “Hey!”

  It was her. I’d come back outside, because I didn’t know what else to do. I didn’t want to stay cooped up in the freezing motel room. Now the blond girl by the pool was waving me over again. Kind of pushy. I walked over to the fence. It was even warmer now than it had been just twenty minutes ago. I’d left my sunglasses inside, so I was squinting. That was fine, because it would prevent her from seeing my red eyes.

  “What’d he say?” she asked.

  “Who? My grandfather?”

  “Yeah. Are you in trouble?”

  It was an unexpected question. In trouble? With Opa? I couldn’t remember ever getting in trouble with Opa. He wasn’t the kind of grandfather who ever made you feel like you were in trouble. “Not really.”

  “Is he gonna call the cops?”

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “You said it yourself. The guy’s long gone.”

  She nodded, as if she were agreeing that she was pretty wise. Then she stopped nodding, but was still staring at me. “So are you gonna go swimming or what? Come join me. I’m bored.”

  I can tell you this much: If a girl like that had invited me swimming at any other time, I would’ve been doing back flips. Not literally, but you know what I mean. It would have made my day.

  “I don’t have a swimsuit.” She must’ve thought I was a real loser. How often does a hot girl like her invite a guy like me to go swimming?

  She said, “Who cares? Swim in your shorts.”

  I was going to say no. I mean, sure, I was tempted. But it just seemed wrong, under the circumstances. I shouldn’t be out here having fun, right? But then she sat up, took off her hat, and removed a clasp that was holding up her hair. Remember Mr. Gardner, my English teacher? If I were describing this scene in a paper, he’d want me to find just the right verb for what this girl’s hair did. And that word would be —

  Cascaded.

  Yep. No better way to describe it. Her long, wavy, blond hair cascaded over her shoulders and down her back. She looked like a model in a shampoo commercial.

  I opened the gate and followed the concrete apron around the pool. I sat down on the lounge chair next to hers. Up close like this, she was even prettier than I had first thought. Like prom queen kind of pretty.

  “What’s your name?” she asked. Now she was messing around with her iPhone. I hoped she wasn’t one of those girls who sends a text every thirty seconds. That drives me crazy.

  “Dylan.”

  “Where are you from?” Not looking at me. Still busy with her phone. Kind of rude.

  “St. Petersburg, Florida,” I said. Same thing I’d told the librarian in Santa Rosa. Might as well be consistent.

  “What are you doing in Salt Lake?”

  What was this, a pop quiz?

  “On our way to see a sick aunt. She’s having her spleen — ”

  “Ha! I knew it!”

  She suddenly held her phone up and showed me the screen. She hadn’t been sending a text at all. She’d been surfing the web. Logging on to CNN. On her phone was that same old photo of me in my football uniform. “Dylan, my ass,” she said. “You are totally busted.” She was grinning, like she’d solved some big mystery. Proud of herself for being clever.

  I just sat there. What the hell else could I do? She’d nailed me. That’s why she’d invited me over. To get a closer look. And there was no point in freaking out about it anyway, was there? Not since Opa had decided it was time to call it quits.

  “Well, that’s not the reaction I was expecting at all,” the girl said, wrinkling her nose. “This is you, right?”

  “Yeah.” Why deny it?

  “Aren’t you worried I’m gonna turn you in?”

  “Not really.”

  She gave me a funny look, then lowered the phone. “It’s Michele, by the way. My name.”

  “I’m Charlie.”

  “Well, duh. Charlie Dunbar, from Abilene, Texas. Everybody’s looking for you.”

  “I know. I’ve seen the news.”

  “You cut your hair.”

  “Opa did it.”

  “What’s an opa?”

  “That’s what we call him. My grandfather. Opa.”

  She tilted her head, studying my hair. “It looks good like that.”

  “Thanks. But you still recognized me.”

  “I’m very observant. Plus, the Honda was a giveaway. Texas license plates and everything. I’m surprised nobody has spotted you guys yet. You’re all over the Internet. Here, check this out.” She tapped some more keys on her phone, found what she was looking for, then passed it to me.

  The screen showed a Facebook fan page. It was called Let Charlie and his grandpa make it to Seattle.

  “You see how many fans you’ve got?” Michele asked.

  I couldn’t believe it. The total was 963,277. Nearly a million people. I started reading some of the comments.

  Charlie and his g-pa are awesome!

  The government should butt out. It’s none of their business!

  So cool, it shd b a movie.

  This is a very touching story and I hope it ends as well as possible. Godspeed Charlie Dunbar.

  I scrolled down. There were more comments. Lots more. Thousands in just a few days. People from across the country and around the world were throwing their support behind Opa and me. It was really amazing. These total strangers wanted us to complete our journey. The bummer was, we were going to let all of them down. Well, I was, not Opa. I gave the phone back to her.

  “Pretty awesome,” I said.

  “Then why do you look like someone just ran over your puppy?”

  This Michele was a character, as my mom would say.

  “We’re not going to make it to Seattle,” I said.

  “Why not? I’m not going to tell anybody. You were right not to be worried about that, because I think what you’re doing is way epic.”

  “Thanks.”

  “So what’s the problem?”

  I shook my head. “Long story.”

  She snorted. “Summer break just started, Chuck. Anyone ever call you Chuck? I’ve got nothing but time.”

  I could tell that Michele was the kind of girl who probably got all the answers she wanted — not just because of her looks, but because she was funny and easy to talk to. So I talked. I told her some details about Opa’s condition, and that he was in a lot of pain, and that he had to take medicine to make it manageable.

  “Let me guess,” she said. “That was the medicine that jerk stole from your car.”

  “Yep.”

  “Major suckage.”

  “Yep.”

  “And it’s not like your grandpa can just call the local Walgreen’s for a refill.”

  “Nope.”

  Then she got this odd look on her face. Like an idea had popped into her head. “Whoa,” she said.

  “What?” I asked.

  “I just thought of something.”

  I waited.

  “I might have the answer,” she said.

  “Are you going to tell me, or do I have to pry it out of you?” I was losing my patience
.

  She grinned again. Not a smile, definitely a grin. Mischievous. “You’re gonna love me, Chuck. You’re gonna think I’m the greatest girl on the planet.”

  “I — ”

  “You know what a prolapsed disc is?”

  “Not really.”

  “Well, my dad sure does.”

  The next thing I learned — after Michele told me that her father, who worked in a warehouse, had been dealing with a lower-back injury for more than eight years — was that she lived about a block away.

  It turned out she wasn’t a tourist, she simply liked to use the motel pool because it was close to her house. She swam there whenever she wanted. The manager didn’t seem to care, as long as she didn’t get rowdy or bring more than one friend at a time. Preferably another pretty girl, the manager had told her. “He’s a little creepy, but basically harmless,” Michele said.

  Now we were walking up the steps to her house. It was a small brick house, but it looked okay. The lawn was mowed and all that stuff.

  “My dad is at work and my mom is shopping,” Michele said, unlocking the front door.

  That helped me relax a little, but the situation still reminded me of the disaster with Matt and the empty house. I felt like I wasn’t supposed to be here. We stepped inside and Michele closed the door behind us.

  “Got any brothers or sisters?” I asked, because I didn’t want any surprises.

  “Just Tim. He’s away at BYU.”

  “What’s that?”

  “You don’t have to whisper. There’s nobody here. You’ve never heard of BYU?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “The Mormon college in Provo?”

  “Oh, Brigham Young. You’re Mormon?”

  “I guess. Well, my parents are, sorta. I guess that makes me one, too, doesn’t it?”

  I thought that was a strange way to look at it, but I didn’t say anything. I especially didn’t mention that my mom wouldn’t approve of me hanging around with a Mormon. Mormons were almost as bad as atheists.