“Today’s my birthday,” I say out loud because I can’t help myself. When I was little, we would go out to dinner on my birthday and I would get to pick the restaurant. I picked Red Lobster every year for nine years in a row. I wonder if some Cheddar Bay Biscuits would make me feel better right now.
“Shut up,” Amanda says.
“No, I’m serious.”
“For realsies? It’s your actual birthday?! Why didn’t you tell me before?”
“It’s not a big deal. I didn’t really want to celebrate this year.”
“HAPPY BIRTHDAY!!”
She looks at me and grins, pulling over onto the shoulder, wheels spinning a little on the gravel. She picks up the keys from the center console, spins them on her finger, then holds them out to me.
“Wanna drive?”
What?
“I can’t,” I say. Then, pushing back the whole truth, “I mean,I don’t have my permit yet or anything. And you’re not exactly adult supervision.”
“Technicalities. Anyway, who’s going to tell on you,” she says, sweeping her hand toward the endless snowy fields, “the cows?”
She’s right. There’s no one for miles. We’ve got so much roadway to ourselves, it’s like we’re in a car commercial. I look at the keys.
“For chrissake, birthday girl. Live a little.” She pops her door open and jumps out. A second later, she opens mine and offers to help me up, like we’re on a date in a black-and-white movie. I find myself giggling.
“You’re so freaking weird,” I say, taking her hand.
She settles into my spot. “Thank you. Now hurry up; it’s cold.”
I walk around the car, my legs feeling a little wobbly, my breath coming in quick, visible puffs. Is this fear or excitement? Is there even any difference? These days, good and bad are all mixed up together, like pain is the main ingredient of pleasure somehow, and vice versa. Would the show last night have felt like such a success if it hadn’t almost been canceled? For that matter, would Amanda seem like such a supercharged friend right now if I hadn’t been putting her on the top of my enemy list for months? Well, if I’m scared, that’s probably a good thing; it’ll up my focus. Let’s do this.
I press the ignition, and the engine thrums through the seat in a way that it doesn’t when I am a passenger, like it’s connected to my nervous system. I shift the car into drive, my foot still on the brake. Then, stupidly, I go to flick on the turn signal,even though we’re alone in the hills. Instead, the wipers spring to life with a squeal that makes us both jump.
“Oops,” I say. I move the arm back to its starting position and the wipers settle.
“Do you want to adjust your mirrors or something?” Amanda says to me with a smirk. I can’t tell whether her joke is that I’m being too careful or not careful enough, so I try to laugh it off while glancing at the mirrors.
“I think we’re good,” I say.
I press evenly on the gas, and I’m driving. I’m driving! It’s the easiest thing in the world. It feels so much easier than all the pretend driving I’ve done in my life, easier than bumper cars, easier than go-karts, and way easier than any simulated, video game version of driving. The lane is wide, and the double yellow line at the center of the road is solid and supportive, like the railing on a staircase.
It’s so natural and intuitive that I start to feel angry. Why would anyone think I couldn’t do this? How fucking stupid do they think I am? An orangutan could do this! I speed up, so that as we crest each rolling hill, the next descent feels a little like a roller coaster, like we left our stomachs at the top. I’m dominating.
“How about some music?” I say.
“DJ Amandazing is here and fierce!” Amanda rolls through the channels, pauses at the “garage band” station, and cranks it. Heavy bass shakes the windshield in its frame. I touch the brakes to ease us around a bend, then give it gas to pick up speed again. The sun’s feeble winter rays manage to breakthrough the wall of clouds, and it looks as though someone dropped a warm filter over the entire landscape, like maybe Mother Nature wants to wish me happy birthday, too. I start to feel good.
“Amandazing? Did you just make that up right now?” I ask.
“Um, yes?”
“Oh no, no you didn’t. You’ve been waiting months to use that!” I look over at her for a moment, and she’s covering her face with her hands, a silent laugh shaking her body. I’ve caught her. I start laughing, too. “You’ve probably been doodling that name in glitter pen all over your diary.”
In mock outrage, she takes one of her mittens out of her lap and starts slapping my arm with it. “OMG, I don’t have a diary,” she says, snorting. “And I definitely don’t have a fucking glitter pen!” She hits me once more for good measure.
I hold up my right hand to block the surprisingly strong sting of the wet fabric. “Hey! Hey, I’m driving here! You don’t want me to scratch your precious baby, now, do you?”
“That’s right, you better concentrate. More focus, less roasting, before my mitten gets a mind of its own.”
