I took the paper from her, not answering, and turned back to the door. Before I could push it open, though, he reached around and did it for me. “After you.”
My first thought was to just stop in my tracks, right where I was. The next was how petulant I was acting, like a child. Strange how you could barely know a person and they were still able to bring out the worst in you. I took a breath, nodded at him, then stepped through the door. Up close, I saw there was another tiny pink boa feather in his hair.
He would not. Stop. Touching. Everything.
It had started with the vents, which he spent the first five minutes of the drive—I was watching the dashboard clock—turning this way and that to achieve what he referred to as “maximum cooling velocity.” Then he moved on to his side of the dual thermostat dial, turning it to basically Arctic, followed by loosening and tightening his seat belt. Now it was the radio.
“Stop,” I said, as he changed the station yet again. When he’d asked if he could, I’d said yes, thinking he’d do it once or twice. This was our fourth round of my presets, and myheadache was increasing with each push of a button. “Just leave it on one thing, would you please?”
“I can’t listen to bad music,” he explained. “It’s like a thing with me.”
“Fine.” I hit the AM/FM button. “Talk radio it is.”
I realized my mistake almost instantly. As it was the top of the hour, the national news was on.
“Authorities have released the names of the five victims of yesterday’s shooting in California.” The reporter’s voice, seemingly like everyone on public radio, was level and calm. “All were students at Riverton High School, as was the gunman, a sixteen-year-old male who was a sophomore. Classmates and teachers have stated he was quiet, but showed no previous signs of violence.”
I took a breath, focusing on my hands on the wheel. Ambrose was messing with his seat belt again.
“Fifteen-year-old Lacey Tornquist was a neighbor of the shooter,” the voice continued. Then that of a girl, speaking quickly, breathless. “He wasn’t a bad kid, but he did get picked on some. I never thought he’d do something like this, though. Never in a million years.” The reporter again. “The shooter’s name has not yet been released to the media. In Russia, government officials—”
I hit the button again, bringing us back to music. Ambrose looked over. “Nowwho’s messing with the radio?”
I didn’t answer, instead just focusing on breathing and driving. He reached out to turn the A/C down another notch. “Crazy about that shooting, huh? I watched some ofthe coverage with Milly’s mom this morning, when she made us pancakes. Heavy stuff.”
A truck switched lanes in front of me, and I hit the brakes, giving it space. “Who’s Milly?”
“Oh, just this girl from last night. I crashed on her couch.” He tugged at his belt again. “They were saying the kid had a fixation on other school shootings.”
I realized I was gripping the steering wheel. Ten and two, I thought, moving my hands on the wheel.
“Like, he’d done a report on that one in Brownwood. Stood up in front of a current events class and talked all about it. How creepy is that?”
I swallowed, suddenly aware of the prickly feeling space between my ears. The truck switched back to the other lane. “I can’t—”
“Seriously. Me neither. I mean, I didn’t love high school either, but come on. No need to take it out on everyone else.” A pause. “Hey, are you okay?”
I wasn’t. But I was also behind the wheel, in heavy traffic, and knew to acknowledge this would be the worst thing I could do. “Why...” I began, then heard a crack in my voice. I swallowed. “Why didn’t you like high school?”
He pushed the curl aside. “Well, it was really myriad reasons. First, I don’t do well in standardized learning environments. Also, I have problems with conventional forms of authority and a compromised attention span, and can be super annoying.” As if to underline this, he changed the radio station again. “Those are direct quotes, by the way.”
“From counselors?”
“And teachers. Psychiatrists. Peer evaluations.”
“Your peers said you were annoying, I assume?”
“Nope, that was one of my shrinks.” I raised my eyebrows. “I know! I was like, wait, that’s not a doctor term! Is annoying a diagnosis now? And if so, can I get meds for it?”
He laughed then, in a can-you-even-believe-it kind of way, shaking his head. Then he looked out the window, drumming his fingers on one knee.
I could see my exit now, the one that would take us onto the two-lane road that made up the rest of the trip. I put on my blinker, switching lanes so carefully you would have thought I was taking the driving test with a DMV worker beside me. Only when we reached the top of the ramp, the heavy traffic now a distant roar below, did I realize I’d been holding my breath.Keep talking, I told myself.
“Did you really go home with one of those girls last night?”
He stretched the seat belt away from him, then let it snap back. “Well, yes, in the technical sense. But nothing really happened. I crashed on her couch, and in the morning her mom came out in her bathrobe and offered me breakfast.”
“Doesn’t Bee worry when you don’t come home?”
