Speedway, a recent Carrie Mae purchase, hung as a backdrop to her delight.
“Do we get to do this again, Jorge?” asked Nikki, as the driving instructor bounded up, clipboard tucked under one arm, multiple sets of car keys jangling from his fingers.
“All next week,” he said, grinning back. “And motorcycles are the week after.” There was a groan from the group in general. Nikki looked around, surprised. She had to admit she felt a little on the tired and grimy side, but the exhilaration of learning how to drive backward at speed, forward through cones, slide the car, do 180s and burnouts, and just generally drive way too fast more than compensated for tired arms and a face full of track dust and exhaust fumes.
Nikki looked back at Jorge, and he shrugged. “Some people don’t like speed,” he said. Nikki chuckled, and he smiled at her artless enthusiasm. “Then again, some people do.”
The first question of the morning had been “How many of you know how to drive a stick?” Nikki had raised her hand and then glanced around, surprised to see Jenny intently studying the ground at her feet, hands firmly in her pockets. Four other girls had claimed ignorance, and the non-stick-shifters had been sent away with Mrs. Boyer and the guest instructor, Erica Elleson. Erica had her foot in a flexible cast, but was peg-legging it cheerfully along with a cane.
Nikki was dying to ask Jenny how her driving lesson had gone, but she wasn’t sure how she would react. They filed onto the bus, and Nikki slid into her seat and dangled over the back to look at Jenny, who was stretched out on the vinyl-covered seat.
“How was it working with Erica?” she asked, striving to bring up the subject tactfully.
“Good,” said Jenny. “She’s got the patience of Job. Mrs. Boyer was freaking out by the end of the first five minutes, but Erica was as just as calm as anything. Even when Heidi nearly ran into a light pole. Mrs. Boyer yelled, of course, and Heidi started to cry, and then she had mascara running down her face. Which is when Mrs. Boyer really hit the roof and started screaming about waterproof mascara. It was scary.”
“Mrs. Boyer is wound a little tight,” agreed Nikki.
“Truer words were never spoken. Although, she’s got a point about the mascara. I may have to invest in some: I know it’ll be my turn to cry soon enough. I’m just terrible at shifting, Nikki. I don’t get it at all!”
“I’m sure you’ll get it tomorrow,” said Nikki confidently. “How did Erica hurt her foot?” she continued, hoping a change of subject would lighten Jenny’s mood.
“She said she ‘dropped in on a bar fight,’ but I think she might have been making a joke. Or maybe not. It was hard to tell, and Mrs. Boyer told us not to be impertinent.”
“How do you hurt your foot in a bar fight?” asked Nikki, trying to visualize the scenario, picturing Erica John Wayne-ing up to a bar, all fists and swagger.
“Kick somebody wrong, I suppose,” answered Jenny.
“Yeah, I guess,” replied Nikki, revising her scenario to include Erica Jackie Chan-ing up to a bar, all flying feet and acrobatics.
“Hey,” Jenny said, interrupting Nikki in the midst of her fight choreography. “I took a peek at Jorge’s clipboard. You had the fastest times of anyone in your group.”
“Really?” Nikki had never been the fastest at anything before.
“Yup. I don’t suppose you want do a little bit of homework with me and help me with the whole shifting thing?” Jenny picked at the seam of the bus seat.
“I’d love to,” Nikki replied instantly. “Maybe tomorrow, after the War Games seminar, we can get a car from the motor pool.”
“Thanks. You’d think I would have learned before now, but none of my brothers wanted to teach me on their trucks, and Mama said hardly anybody drives a stick anymore and not to worry about it, so I never did learn.”
“That’s OK,” Nikki said. “I never learned to shoot. So now we’ll
“Do we get to do this again, Jorge?” asked Nikki, as the driving instructor bounded up, clipboard tucked under one arm, multiple sets of car keys jangling from his fingers.
“All next week,” he said, grinning back. “And motorcycles are the week after.” There was a groan from the group in general. Nikki looked around, surprised. She had to admit she felt a little on the tired and grimy side, but the exhilaration of learning how to drive backward at speed, forward through cones, slide the car, do 180s and burnouts, and just generally drive way too fast more than compensated for tired arms and a face full of track dust and exhaust fumes.
Nikki looked back at Jorge, and he shrugged. “Some people don’t like speed,” he said. Nikki chuckled, and he smiled at her artless enthusiasm. “Then again, some people do.”
The first question of the morning had been “How many of you know how to drive a stick?” Nikki had raised her hand and then glanced around, surprised to see Jenny intently studying the ground at her feet, hands firmly in her pockets. Four other girls had claimed ignorance, and the non-stick-shifters had been sent away with Mrs. Boyer and the guest instructor, Erica Elleson. Erica had her foot in a flexible cast, but was peg-legging it cheerfully along with a cane.
Nikki was dying to ask Jenny how her driving lesson had gone, but she wasn’t sure how she would react. They filed onto the bus, and Nikki slid into her seat and dangled over the back to look at Jenny, who was stretched out on the vinyl-covered seat.
“How was it working with Erica?” she asked, striving to bring up the subject tactfully.
“Good,” said Jenny. “She’s got the patience of Job. Mrs. Boyer was freaking out by the end of the first five minutes, but Erica was as just as calm as anything. Even when Heidi nearly ran into a light pole. Mrs. Boyer yelled, of course, and Heidi started to cry, and then she had mascara running down her face. Which is when Mrs. Boyer really hit the roof and started screaming about waterproof mascara. It was scary.”
“Mrs. Boyer is wound a little tight,” agreed Nikki.
“Truer words were never spoken. Although, she’s got a point about the mascara. I may have to invest in some: I know it’ll be my turn to cry soon enough. I’m just terrible at shifting, Nikki. I don’t get it at all!”
“I’m sure you’ll get it tomorrow,” said Nikki confidently. “How did Erica hurt her foot?” she continued, hoping a change of subject would lighten Jenny’s mood.
“She said she ‘dropped in on a bar fight,’ but I think she might have been making a joke. Or maybe not. It was hard to tell, and Mrs. Boyer told us not to be impertinent.”
“How do you hurt your foot in a bar fight?” asked Nikki, trying to visualize the scenario, picturing Erica John Wayne-ing up to a bar, all fists and swagger.
“Kick somebody wrong, I suppose,” answered Jenny.
“Yeah, I guess,” replied Nikki, revising her scenario to include Erica Jackie Chan-ing up to a bar, all flying feet and acrobatics.
“Hey,” Jenny said, interrupting Nikki in the midst of her fight choreography. “I took a peek at Jorge’s clipboard. You had the fastest times of anyone in your group.”
“Really?” Nikki had never been the fastest at anything before.
“Yup. I don’t suppose you want do a little bit of homework with me and help me with the whole shifting thing?” Jenny picked at the seam of the bus seat.
“I’d love to,” Nikki replied instantly. “Maybe tomorrow, after the War Games seminar, we can get a car from the motor pool.”
“Thanks. You’d think I would have learned before now, but none of my brothers wanted to teach me on their trucks, and Mama said hardly anybody drives a stick anymore and not to worry about it, so I never did learn.”
“That’s OK,” Nikki said. “I never learned to shoot. So now we’ll
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