Driving Lessons: A Novel by Zoe Fishman Page A

afternoon; flipping from front to back at timed intervals; sharing cigarettes, gossip magazines, and outrageously expensive margaritas brought to us by dutiful cabana boys. All day, we’d flexed our manicured feet and considered the prospect of matching (tasteful, of course) navy stars between our big and second toes—mine on my right foot and hers on her left. Finally, after the nine thousandth time we presented the pros and cons of such a venture, Mona had had it.
    “Enough already with this! It’s a tattoo, not a mortgage.”
    “But both of them are forever,” I had replied, watching her in disbelief as she began to gather her things.
    “So what? Let’s go, we’re getting tattoos.”
    “We are?”
    “Yes, first we’re going to do a shot of tequila each, and then we’re getting tattoos. I can’t talk about it for another second.”
    “But what if we hate them?” I had whined, wobbling after her in my margarita-and-sun-induced stupor.
    “We won’t.”
    “But what if we think they’re cheesy?”
    “We might. But we also might not. We’re talking about tiny stars here, Sarah, not ‘Thug Life’ across our shoulder blades. Besides, it’s a story.”
    “That is true.” I paused to readjust my bathing suit. “When we’re old and gray and living in Boca together, we can show them off to our grandkids.”
    “Exactly. And you might be old and gray, but I plan to be old and fabulous. Like Blanche Devereaux fabulous.”
    “Well duh, obviously.”
    And so, we had done it. Mona had gone first, lying to the tattoo artist about our alcohol intake with ease, and I had held her hand as she stoically received her permanent South Beach souvenir.
    “Does it hurt?” I had asked nervously.
    “Like a bitch,” she had replied calmly. And just then, the Beatles’ “With a Little Help from My Friends” had wafted from the shop’s speakers.
    “You hear that?” I had asked, my mouth agape.
    “Yeah,” she had replied with a grin.
    “Fate,” I had whispered. I could still hear her laughing at my drunken proclamation. I glanced at my foot now, with its small and faded navy star, and smiled. Oh, Mona, I miss you.
    Outside, a car pulled into the driveway. Shit. Ray is here . Time for my driving lesson, of all things. I closed the album and ran to put on my shoes.
     
    I thought we might try a little lane changing today,” announced Ray as we cruised the neighborhood.
    “Already?”
    “Sure, why not?”
    “But we just started,” I whined. “Can’t we just stick to rights and lefts for a little bit?”
    “You serious?”
    “Yes.” I rolled up to a stop sign in front of the elementary school.
    “Girl, ain’t nothin’ to be scared of. I’m right here with you. You see this brake?” He gestured to the foot pedal underneath his Nike. “I got your back.”
    “Ray, I hear you, but I have a lot on my mind today. My focus is off.”
    “You think that every time you get behind the wheel your mind is gon’ be clear?” He shook his head. “You trippin’. My head may as well be Seattle for all of its cloudiness. That don’t mean I can’t check my rearview mirror and change a damn lane, Sarah. You’re makin’ this harder than it is.”
    “All due respect, Ray—duh. I know that I’m making driving harder than it is. That’s why I’m here.”
    “You’re testy today, huh? Go ’head and go around the neighborhood again if you really think you need more of a warm-up. I know better than to argue with a woman when she has that tone to her voice. There’s a reason I’ve been married for twelve years.”
    “I don’t have a tone,” I halfheartedly argued. “Well, maybe a little bit of a tone. Like I said, I’m not a hundred percent today.”
    “You want to talk about it?” Ray asked.
    I glanced over at him. “Ray, you’re already putting your life on the line by getting into the car with me. I don’t want to bore you to death as well.”
    “Suit yourself. But I doubt I’ll find it boring.