Page 20 of Summer of the Boy

My eyes bug and Asshat Trucker responds with a just as astonished, “He is?”

Rid nods again. “Mom’s too nervous to do it.”

“Well, I’d be happy—”

“No. Thank you.” Ridley cuts him off. “You have a nice car. If something happened, I’d feel really bad.”

Well played.

As the asshat opens his mouth to spew some more of his asshattedness, I take the opportunity to dangle my keys in the air next to Rid’s face, to which he grabs them and starts walking toward the street parking where I always park my car, throwing a polite, “Thank you. Goodnight,” Over his shoulder to smooth things over with the asshat.

Yeah, I see a heavy make out session at the jetty in our immediate future.

When we’re just about at my car, he tries to hand the keys back.

“Uh no. You told him I’m teaching you how to drive. So I’m teaching you how to drive.”

“I just said that to get him off my case.”

“You want to have to rely on other people all your life?”

That gets him.

He unlocks the doors and climbs in behind the wheel while I walk over to climb into the passenger side.

“What do you know, what should we go over?”

Without answering, he buckles his seatbelt, adjusts the seat and steering wheel to comfortable positions, readjusts the rearview and side mirrors, and then shoves the key in the ignition and turns, starting my car.

I can see him mentally checking items off an imaginary list. His eyes move back and forth scanning, even though what he scans remains in his head.

“I put on the blinker.” And he clicks the left blinker on. “Check my blind spot.” Which he does, looking over his shoulder to check for cars. “It’s clear,” he says. “Now I put the car in gear and ease out onto the road.”

I have to bite back a laugh.

God, he’s so cute.

The speed limit on the street running along the boardwalk is forty miles per hour. Rid never takes the speed above twenty-five with periodic stomping on the breaks anytime a car pulls onto the road out of a store parking lot or merges from the metered parking, forcing the cars behind him to slam on their breaks while laying on their horns and speeding around our car. Most of them flipping him the bird as they pass.

Autistics and stress, not a good combination.

Rid starts shutting down in front of my eyes. Hands gripping and twisting around the steering wheel, white knuckle tight. Shallow, harsh breaths. And he looks about one more horn honk from total meltdown.

“Pull over Rid… Babe,pull over.”

It’s as if he doesn’t even hear me.

Calm. Forceful.

“Ridley.” I bark. Firm. Not yelling. That gets his attention finally. “Pull over.”

He nods and whispers, “blinker.” Then clicks on the right blinker, gliding into a metered parking space.

We sit while the car idles. His hands still twisting a death grip over the steering wheel. “I don’t think I’m ready to drive.”

“It’s okay. We’ll try another time.”

Kicking himself, the look of disgust written all over his face. We’ve spent enough time together for me to know he never wants to appear less than or inferior to anyone else. Especially with the way his mother treats him like a child.

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