I attempt to open the car door, but there’s no handle. Instead, there’s a little sliver of chrome. After much inspection, I realize the chrome rectangle is a button, which opens the door.
The interior of the car is about as familiar as an intergalactic spaceship. There are no buttons or dials. Instead, there’s a massive, shiny touchscreen down the middle of the console.
Renner clears his throat. “Um, are we going? Or are we just gonna sit in the driveway all day?”
“Relax, Renner. I’m just taking it all in.” Frankly, I have no idea how to start the car. But I’m certainly not about to admit that.
As if he can read my mind, he leans over and presses a button near the triangular-shaped steering wheel, which starts the engine. It’s impossibly quiet as it purrs to a start, just like the car that nearly crushed me this morning. A backup camera pops up at the bottom of the screen. Unlike Mom’s sedan, it’s not grainy and covered in dirt. It’s clear as day, like an HD movie.
When I tighten my grip on the steering wheel, a pleasant voice filters through the speakers. “Good morning. Are you on your way to work?”
Renner and I stare at each other, startled. “Uh, yes?” I squeak. “Are you ... a person?”
“I am Raina. Your vehicle’s software. Would you like to drive yourself today?”
Renner runs his hand over the dash, eyes sparkling like he’s discovered a pile of gold. “Holy crap, it’s a self-driving car. This is so freakin’ cool. This makes the DILF Mobile look like a steaming pile of junk.”
I death-grip the steering wheel. “No. Give me the mom-van over this any day. This is terrifying,” I whisper. “Drive myself,” I yell,panicked at handing my life over to a robot. I once watched a YouTube documentary about artificial intelligence taking over the world. I’ve been haunted ever since.
Renner pouts. “You’re such a killjoy. It’s probably a hundred times safer to have the robot drive.”
I ignore him, trying to figure out how to adjust all the mirrors and the seat. After ten minutes of scrolling, we realize the car has two profiles, mine and Renner’s, which automatically adjust to our customized settings. Satisfied and comfortable behind the wheel, I tap the button to put the car into reverse.
As we roll out of the driveway, Renner lets out a shriek.“Stop.”
I brake, and we come to a grinding halt as a tomato-red car whizzes by behind us.
“You almost T-boned that car! Even with a huge backup camera,” he says, gesturing to the massive screen.
“I’m sorry! I’m not used to this!” I shriek, heart hammering. “There are so many things to look at and—”
He unfastens his seat belt and opens his door. “Nope. Nope. Nope. I decided I don’t wanna die today. Get out, I’m driving.”
We manage to get to the school in one piece, thanks to Renner. He handles the new car like a boss, managing the interior lights, the AC, and the music while driving. The music is difficult to digest. I barely recognize anything other than a Justin Bieber song on a “throwback hits” playlist. Disturbing, to say the least.
Maplewood High looks exactly the same. Unlike the rest of Maplewood’s charming historical aesthetic, the high school is drab. There are few distinguishing features, unless you count the spray-paint graffiti along the front wall that magically changes every few months. No one knows who the culprit is.
I’m halfway out of the car when I notice that Renner’s hands are still locked on the wheel.
“You coming?” I ask.
His lip twitches and he fumbles to unfasten his seat belt. “I, uh ... we work here. And we have no idea what we’re doing.” His face is all red, and I’m fairly certain there’s a bead of sweat on his forehead. I don’t know that I’ve ever seen Renner flustered before. He’s usually maddeningly calm in every situation.
“Look. Maybe we won’t have to see anyone. School doesn’t start for half an hour. All we need to do is get to the gym before anyone sees us. Nori’s plan will work,” I say. It has to.
He nods silently and gets out of the car like he’s heading down death row. But his mood lifts when we pass the marquee sign that reads:
CONGRATULATIONS GRADUATING CLASS OF’37.
ANAL EXAMS—JUNE1–5
Renner can’t help but snicker at the typo and missing letters. Of course he does. He can’t resist a butt joke.
“I can’t believe you work here. In a position of authority,” I mutter, entering ahead of him.
“Only the best of minds for the next generation,” he says, whistling. Nothing like teenage humor to shift his dour mood.
As the heavy doors close behind us, a mixture of antiseptic, rubber erasers, and BO hits my nostrils. At least it smells exactly the same.
