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It was a good evening. I thought that the borrowed earrings really helped.

Chapter 8

No. I couldn’t do it.

“You can do it,” Gramps said.

Now I voiced the words out loud. “I can’t. I can’t do it. No.”

“Now, now, Kat,” he told me, and I could tell that he was trying to be nice. “Now, now.”

“I can’t. I don’t want to. I don’t care if I never get my license, I don’t even plan to drive a vehicle again,” I announced. “Never.”

“It’s currently twenty-three degrees outside and this particular vehicle that we’re sitting in isn’t much warmer.” Now I heard the edge of testiness in his voice. “You made the appointment to take this road test because you felt like you were ready.”

“Well, I changed my mind,” I announced. “Now I don’t think so and anyway, I decided not to increase my carbon footprint and get behind the wheel.”

“So you’ll just have other people drive you?” He lost all the niceness. “Get your ass out of the car. Right now!”

I’d never had anyone talk to me that way, not when I was a kid (my mom didn’t believe in discipline or harsh words) and not when I was older (I hardly ever did anything wrong). I probably should have reacted poorly to the way he had just spoken but for some reason, it worked. I got out of the car.

Then I stopped. “Are you coming in with me?”

“I’m not waiting out here in the wind! And I happen to love the Secretary of State office. Really entertaining and fun, great atmosphere,” he told me. “Let’s march.”

Because it was slippery and he was old, I held his arm. I also needed moral support. “I should have waited for summer when I’m not worried about ice on the roads. I could have used a few more months of practice,” I said.

He yanked open the glass door. “Too late, because you’re here now. Go get it done and I’ll listen to that podcast you sent about the murder in California during the Gold Rush. Fascinating.”

It was nice that he also liked unsolved nineteenth-century crimes, because then we could discuss theories together. I started to try to do that now, but he nudged me toward the counter.

“Go, Kat. I’ll be here when you finish.” He opened his mouth again but then said, “You don’t need any more of my advice. You can do it.”

After the test was done, we drove back to the record store with me behind the wheel. “I can’t believe it,” I said again. I had repeated those words at least ten times since we’d left the Secretary of State. “I can’t believe that I have a driver’s license!”

“What’s not to believe? I’m an excellent teacher and I have a one-hundred-percent success rate with my students. You’re also a quick learner,” he told me.

“Am I?”

“Yes, but just remember not to get distracted. Did I ever tell you about the guy I knew who drove onto the tracks at Michigan Central Station?” He slapped his palms together. “That was what happened to his car. Flat as a pita bread.”

“Are there even trains there anymore?” I wondered, because I didn’t think so. He was already getting out and heading over to unlock the door to his shop. “Did you give more thought to sweet potato casserole?”

“I hate sweet potatoes and I won’t have them in my house,” he answered. “If you want to eat orange vegetables, go do it somewhere else.”

“The orange is from vitamin C. They’re very—” He tried to shut the door on me. “Ok, ok!” I told him. “What are we going to have instead?”

Planning was important since it would be our Thanksgiving meal. In the past, my mom and I had mostly let the holidays slide, without anything more than a brief mention. “Oh, it’s the twenty-fifth. Merry Christmas!” she had said on that occasion. A few times, her friends had wanted to have parties, like a champagne-fest on New Year’s Eve or a barbecue on the Fourth of July. She had mostly gone along with their ideas but she hadn’t been very involved.

“I never bothered about these days, the ones that are supposed to be special. We should celebrate every moment!” she had told me, throwing her arms wide. “We should savor every single second!”

That was true, but I had still been interested in decorating a tree or having a birthday cake.

She had shaken her head, rueful and disappointed in me. “When I was young, we always traveled rather than doing the conventional, boring, holiday things. I don’t want to be tied to tradition.”

Now that I was an adult, I wanted to do the traditional, boring, holiday things. One of them was a full Thanksgiving dinner with sweet potatoes, but I was willing to go without. I had ideas for other recipes to try instead and discussed them at length until the little bell above the door made its sad click, announcing a customer.

“Thank you, Jesus,” Gramps said, looking heavenward. “No more Thanksgiving talk. Go get ready for your dinner tonight instead.”