Drumbeats into My Heart

13. Seth Wants to Drive

I am totally a broken record. As I recline in my desk chair in my bedroom, hands laced behind my head, all I can think about is her. Talking to her. Hearing her voice. Now more than ever. She's an enigma. I want to learn more about her, what makes her tick. Or in the case of school, what makes her not tick.

I should've asked for her phone number. Why didn't I do that? Because you're a scared little turtle afraid of rejection.

I frown and regard my wall calendar again. What would Worf do?

I would take the woman I wanted right then and there!

Okay, maybe Worf and his Klingon tactics weren't the best role model.

I spin around in my chair. I'll just have to wait until Saturday when she plays at the market six miles away in the DMV parking lot.

Six miles to get there. Then I'd have to get home.

Twelve miles.

I can probably make it on my bike, but I've never gone that far before. Is it hard? Aren't there a lot of hills between here and there? An athlete wouldn't even blink twice at it, I'm sure. But me?

I spin around again.

Does resisting motion sickness count as a sport?

I lean forward and bonk my head on the desk, leaving it there. What I really need is to borrow Mom's car. Or Dad's truck. Any motor vehicle will do. Heck, even a scooter.

Last year I asked Mom if I could learn to drive. She'd said no, it was too dangerous. When I asked my dad, he said to ask Mom. What a jaw-clenching, frustrating day that had been. Not surprisingly, I've been reluctant to ask again since.

I'd given up easily then. Today, I have much stronger motivation for wanting to drive, and I find myself at a crossroads. What am I, a man or a mouse?

I get to my feet with enough force to roll my chair backward. If I'm going to be the type of guy Jordi might want to date—meaning not a wimp—then I need to make a stand, and I need to start doing it now.

I march to the kitchen where Mom is chopping vegetables. Along the way, I tell myself I'm not going to ask, I'm going to inform her of my intention. Just tell her what I'm going to do. "I'm going to get a learner's permit," I announce.

I like the way it sounds. Confident, like I go after what I want. A brand new me.

"Can you get me another zucchini from the fridge? I think we'll need one more." She doesn't even look up from the cutting board.

My brow furrows. "Did you even hear me?"

"Yes, now get that zucchini."

My sigh is short and quick, but I turn around and comply.

"Did you know that over three thousand teenagers die each year in car accidents? Three thousand! That's not a number I feel comfortable with."

I stare at her, zucchini in hand. "Among millions! There are, like, forty million of us. Three thousand out of forty million is like—" I do some quick mental calculating. "—less than one percent! Do you know how minuscule that is?"

"Eight percent of all accident fatalities are caused by teenage drivers," she replies.

I grip the zucchini harder. "So, you're convinced I'm going be part of that tiny eight percent? I'm an honor student, Mom! Why can't you assume I'd be part of the other ninety two percent?"

Chop. Chop. Chop.

"Do you even listen to me?" I slam the zucchini onto the counter. "All I want is a driver's license like any other Californian."

Her knife hand stills and she glares at me.

That look. That don't you dare talk to me like that look.

A white hot streak of fear shoots through me and I take an involuntary step back. "Forget it," I mumble and leave the kitchen.

I slam the door to my room and cringe, half expecting her to burst in here and yell at me for slamming the door.

Scaredy-cat. Pansy. Loser.

My hands clench and unclench as I pace within the confines of my suddenly stifling room. I'd tried and failed. Miserably. Horribly. Instead of standing my ground and reasoning with her like a normal human being, I'd run away like a frightened little kitten. Why can't I stand up to her? Why can't I just talk to her? Any sign of conflict and I clam up. Go skittering off like a cockroach. This can't be normal.

Pathetic mama's boy.

Who am I trying to kid? I'll never be able to stand up to her. Why do I even bother? I should just stop trying and save us both the headache.

Worf mocks me from the wall calendar again, his Klingon stare radiating with disapproval. You are a poor excuse for a man.

I growl and tear the calendar off the wall, hurling it across the room, my last act of rage before dissolving into embarrassingly helpless, unmanly tears.

Aww facing authoritarian parents isn't easy. He should get a vote for trying.