in fifth period. He looked like he was crapping his pants.”
I rest my chin on my fists. “I broke into his locker.”
Vandy’s head whips back. “Reyn!”
I roll my eyes. “Relax, I just transferred everything into his gym locker. He’ll spend most of the day tomorrow freaking out, but he’ll find it. If anything, I did him a favor. That shit was a pig sty.”
Emory laughs. “This is awesome. It’s like V’s got five more big brothers now.”
Inwardly, I cringe. Does that mean I’m going to have to deal with four other angry jocks if this gets out? As if Emory isn’t bad enough.
“Great,” Vandy mutters, echoing my thoughts. “Just what I need.”
“Aw, come on.” Emory reaches out to pat her wrist. “Look at it like this; more people to haul you around, right?” His expression turns pensive. “Not that I’d trust Carlton to drive you around. Or Ben. Or Tyson. Probably not Sebastian, either.”
“Or,” I suggest as the hottest take yet, “she could just get her own car and drive herself.”
Emory shakes his head. “V doesn’t know how to drive. She can’t learn.”
I push back in my seat, suddenly feeling ill. “Because of…?” I drop my gaze to her leg. Jesus. Had I really taken that away from her, too?
She must see the dread on my face because she gives a sharp shake of her head. “No, I probably can.” She looks away, cheeks blooming a warm pink. “I’m just not allowed to.”
I cut my eyes to Emory, voice full of disbelief. “She’s not allowed to learn to drive?”
I’ve learned a lot about Vandy over these last few weeks, and one of the subtler wisdoms I’ve gained is that she’s terrified of not being able to move. Of being unable to get away fast, if she needs to. Of being trapped. Of needing other people to save her. They have no idea what they’re taking away from her with that.
Emory shrugs, hapless, and I’d push it—I really would—but look what that little Stairway to Hell disagreement had caused.
Just then, the timer dings for the cornbread. Vandy looks grateful when she hops off her stool and goes to the oven to get it out. She’s embarrassed. I can tell in the redness of her cheeks and the way she won’t meet my eyes. I think back to my dad’s words—give you time to become an eighteen-year-old—and wish that Vandy could have that, too.
While Vandy’s prodding the cornbread, Emory leans in to say, “Look, my truck’s too big, anyway.” I watch as he thumps his knuckles onto the counter, three soft raps. “We’ll have to use the Jeep.”
My eyes snap up to his, dubious. He can’t really be saying…
Emory smirks back at me. “Yo, V. Wrap some of that up, then we’re AIS.”
I let Emory take the passenger seat.
Vandy’s looking at the dashboard like it’s something out of a NASA control center as she jerkily pulls the seat belt around her torso.
I’m in the backseat, pitched forward between them. I spin my cap around backward, watching her face. “Move the seat up if you need to,” I instruct, watching as she follows. “And adjust the mirrors.”
She fiddles with the rearview mirror, eyes meeting mine in the reflection. There’s fear there, but also something else.
It’s energized and excited.
Emory says, “Press down on the brake.”
“Okay,” Vandy says, glancing down. After a beat of silence, she asks, “Which one is the brake?”
Emory and I both look at her, wide-eyed.
Emory opens his door. “Okay, get out.”
I grab his arm. “No, just—it’s the one on the left, V. The bigger one.”
She shoots her brother a glare, but he sinks back into his seat, closing his door. He shoots me a nervous look over his shoulder. “Maybe we should have given her a strictly stationary primer first.”
Deadpan, I say, “Gas makes it go, brake makes it stop.”
“What now?” she asks, foot planted firmly on the brake pedal.
“Now, you put it in drive.”
I watch as Emory points out the gear selector, instructing her to press in the button. She plants both hands back on the steering wheel, waiting.
“Okay, ready to move it?” he asks. “Just ease your foot off the brake. Don’t press the gas, just coast for a bit.”
I’d taken us back to the Kmart parking lot, which is awkward as fuck—V and I had shared a glance when I pulled in that had made me half hard—but it’s deserted and perfect for the task.
She lets her foot off the brake and the car slowly begins rolling forward.