Page 47 of The Fast Lane
Giggling, I snatched the cookies back and searched through the bag again. “I think it’s hilarious.”
This time when I tossed something at Theo, he held it up and grinned. “Black licorice. Much better.”
“Disgusting,” I said, around the sour gummy worm I’d already stuffed in my mouth.
“The great people of the Netherlands eat more black licorice every year than any other country.” He chewed thoughtfully. “Those are my people.”
“How are we even friends?” I asked the sky.
He pressed his shoulder a bit more into my knee. It would have been so easy to reach down and run my fingers through all that unruly hair. I wondered if it was as soft as it looked.
Theo pulled out his phone to check his email. From my position, I could see the subject line of the message he opened and began to read.
SUBJECT: re: re: Current address and contact information.
And while I knew it wasn’t my business, I still leaned in a little more, to see if I could make out any of the message itself when Theo seemed to remember I was there.
He stood abruptly and pressed his phone to his chest, tapping his fingertips on it. “I need to take care of something.”
I nodded and watched him as he wandered off toward the car. Yet another thing to add to the increasing list of weirdness. In the span of a day, we’d already ended up at a nudist resort, I’d woken up in Theo’s arms, and discovered Theo could flirt (and do it well).
Maybe that was the theme of this whole trip: Weird. Tomorrow, things were about to get even weirder. I rubbed my chest, trying to dislodge the uneasiness there.
By tomorrow morning, I would be looking my brother in the eye, and I had no idea the sort of reception I should expect. He could resent me. He should hate me. Although he’d never even once hinted at any such feelings over our phone calls and texts and emails, I had to believe my actions the day of that car accident replayed in his mind.
It had been a normal Tuesday, nothing out of the ordinary. I’d gone home with Mae on the bus, which sixteen-year-old Ali hated. But I’d had three seizures in the last four months. Legally, I wasn’t allowed to drive until I’d been at least six months seizure-free. So I was again stuck riding the bus. I had a real concern that, once that six-month mark finally arrived, my parents wouldn’t even allow me to drive. My overprotective mother had gone next-level after my epilepsy diagnosis, and I’d been forced to cut back on most of my activities.
No more soccer. No more driving. I wasn’t allowed to be alone. Walks by myself? No. A run? I had to take a brother with me. Embarrassingly, Mom had set up a baby monitor in my room in case I had a seizure at night. I’m surprised I was still allowed to shower without a safety officer.
The resentment had built quickly—with my parents and my body. Through the last few months of testing, the EEG, the photosensitivity and sleep deprivation tests, the introduction of daily medications and their side effects (hello, grumpy, tired, hungry Ali), I’d tried to stay positive. Most people lived perfectly productive lives with epilepsy. My new pediatric neurologist even said I may grow out of them. But sometimes, the frustration with a body I could not control was so overwhelming.
To make matters worse, living in a small town meant everyone knew everything. I had teachers, friends’ parents, the school janitor asking me if I felt okay, if I needed to sit down, if I needed water. I just wanted everything to go back to before the seizures started.
On the day of the accident, my parents had refused to let me sleep over at Mae’s because they’d wanted to “keep an eye on me.” By the time Abe had picked me up, all my teenage emotions, all the restrictions, all the lack of control had bubbled over.
“You okay?” he’d asked when I’d slid into the car. “You look like you want to punch someone.”
I’d scowled. “Are you volunteering?”
Grinning, he’d leaned away from me. “Okay, then. Someone’s not in a good mood today.”
Back then, Abe had been quite the flirt. Girls had loved his dark, messy hair, big smile, easy laugh, and the ever-growing collection of tattoos. He and Theo had been quite a pair. Abe, all dark and flirty. Theo, with his blond hair and quiet, thoughtful way. Somehow the two of them had been the very best of friends.
“Whatever,” I’d muttered.
“Ooo-kay.” He’d pulled onto the quiet, country road Mae’s family lived on. With my arms crossed, I’d leaned against the passenger window and sulked.
Five minutes of uncomfortable silence had been his limit. He’d pulled over next to the Richardsons’ pasture. “Alright, start talking. We aren’t moving until you do.”
I’d turned to him and vomited every frustrated, angry, annoyed, angsty feeling I had in me. When I was done, I’d swiped at the tears on my cheeks. “I’m sixteen but I can’t do anything. I can’t spend the night at my best friend’s house. I can’t play soccer anymore. I can’t even drive.” I threw myself back against the seat in disgust. “I hate my life.”
“It’s just that everyone’s w?—”
“Worried about me. Yeah. Yeah. I just want a little freedom. I feel like I can’t breathe some days.”
“What can I do to make it better?”
I still don’t know where the idea came from. There I was in Abe’s car, and he’d asked me so earnestly and I’d blurted it out. “Can I drive the car? Just for a little while?”