No Right Turn by Terry Trueman Read Free Book Online Page B

know what a lying piece of shit you are yet.”
    Wally definitely has a special gift for buzz kills. I say, “I suppose that’s true, Wally.”
    â€œYou better tell her, right away, about the car.”
    â€œYeah, I know.”
    â€œYou better tell her soon.”
    I feel worse and worse the more we talk.
    I say, “Yeah, I’ll do that, Wal. Listen, I gotta go.”
    Wally says, “Just one more thing.”
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œBefore she dumps you, will you ask her if any of her cheerleader pals need a boyfriend?”
    In as nasty, sarcastic a voice as I can manage, I answer, “Sure, Wally, no problem—I’ll pimp you up big-time.”
    Wally, totally not even noticing my tone or maybe just ignoring it, says, “Thanks, man!”
    When I phone Becka tonight, we have a longer visit. It’s cool getting to know her better. She comes from a pretty big family, five kids all together. Her youngest sister, who is four years old, has Down syndrome, which doesn’t seem to bother Becka. In fact, Becka shares a bedroom with her. Becka’s the oldest kid in her family. She’s also a gymnast and a cheerleader-goddess. She’s a National Merit Scholar and incredibly beautiful. In other words, Becka Thorson is perfect.
    â€œBut can you cook?” I ask her, trying to be funny.
    â€œNot a thing.” She laughs. “I’ve burned water! Nope, prepare to spend the rest of whatever meager income you ever earn after ’Vette repairs on Caesar salads for moi.”
    I hesitate a second.
    She laughs. “Don’t worry, big boy, that wasn’t a marriage proposal.”
    Actually, marriage doesn’t sound like such a bad plan; that’s how totally gone I already am on her. I’ll never, ever meet a girl as cool as Becka again. We agree that our first date will be a walk in Riverside State Park followed by frozen yogurt.
    â€œHow’s the ’Vette?” she asks, smashing my marital fantasies to smithereens. It’s the car she’s hot for, not me; remember that, you idiot.
    â€œStill in the shop,” I answer—hey, I’ll take her any way I can get her.
    â€œDo they know what’s wrong with it yet?”
    â€œUh, not really. So you can drive us this Friday?”
    Becka says, “Sure, I’ll pick you up around six.”
    I give her my address and hope like hell that Don won’t be home that evening working on my … I mean … his Stingray in his driveway!

ELEVEN
    Mom is hopeless at advising me about my date. Not that I’ve asked for or want any advice, but she has lots of it to offer anyway—all worse than useless.
    â€œGirls like to be treated special,” Mom tells me, like this is some big breakthrough in gender relations.
    â€œYeah, I got that. Thanks, Oprah.” I don’t mean to sound like such a smart-ass, but Mom’s been sitting on the edge of my bed for the whole time I’ve been trying on different shirts and trying to get my hair right. I can’t handle another suggestion.
    Mom starts, “If she asks about—”
    I interrupt, “Mom, that’s it. I can’t listen to this—will you please just leave it alone. It’s not like this is the first date I’ve ever had!”
    Actually, it is the first date I’ve ever had, other than meeting up with girls at school dances in the seventh grade. Were those really dates?
    Mom knows that since Dad died I’ve kind of gone into a shell. Hell, “kind of”? The average garden snail sees more action than I have. She’s tried to help me but failed miserably, since I won’t let her.
    Mom and I went to grief counseling for quite a while, and that seemed to help her some, but nothing has helped me. I know lots of kids whose parents have gotten divorced. Some of them lose contact with their dads. But having your dad die , especially the way my dad died, and knowing that