Page 18 of Story of My Life
“Yeah? Well, I took a class in biology. That doesn’t mean I know how to perform an appendectomy.”
5
KNIGHT IN SHINING GAS STATION
HAZEL
I can’t believewe’re doing this,” I said, poking buttons on the car’s touchscreen, trying to find a station that wasn’t sports ball radio.
“I can’t believe I’m letting you drive,” Zoey said dryly from the passenger seat, where she was gripping both the door handle and the center console.
“Don’t be so dramatic. It was just a curb.”
“A curb, a city bus, and four traffic cones. Not to mention the thirty-seven potholes you bruised my spleen with.”
Her hungover judgment of my driving wasn’t going to dampen my newfound enthusiasm for life.
“That was in the city. It doesn’t count,” I said confidently. It had been a while since I’d been behind the wheel. As in years. I’d never even owned a car. But my third stepdad, Bob, had taught me to drive, carting me to empty parking lots and small towns in Connecticut after I turned sixteen. Besides a few short stints behind the wheel since, Driver’s Ed Bob had provided my most extensive driving experience.
But now, I was officially in Hazel Adventure Mode, which meant taking risks…like driving and buying houses online. Andit felt damn good. I felt alive and not just in the one-step-above-comatose way.
The tires reverberated as the car drifted onto the shoulder of the highway.
“Whoops,” I said, overcorrecting and veering across the dotted line.
Zoey slapped my hand away from the radio. “My God, woman. If I promise to find an appropriate playlist, will youpleasepromise to keep both hands on the wheel and both eyes on the road?”
“As long as it’s a good one. No emo depressing shit.”
She buried her head in her huge tote and surfaced a minute later with her phone and a power cord. She fiddled with the dashboard until she found the right port and plugged in her phone.
“Take the next exit,” the GPS barked through the speakers, startling me.
“Hazel!”
“What?” I asked innocently. “It was a tiny swerve. I didn’t even leave the lines.”
Queen’s “Another One Bites the Dust” came on as I guided us onto the exit ramp. “Very funny.” Zoey’s lips quirked under her hangover sunglasses.
Rural Pennsylvania in August was bright, beautiful, and a little crispy from the sun. Trees and rolling hills stretched out in front of us. Traffic was minimal. And I hadn’t seen a single person urinating against a building since we left the city limits.
We were minutes from our destination when the low fuel light came on. I swung into a conveniently placed gas station. Zoey got out and stumbled toward the convenience store—a Wawa—muttering something about snacks and vomiting.
When I got out of the car, I realized that the gas pump was on the passenger side and that the hose thing wouldn’t reach. SoI got behind the wheel again and looped around the pumps. But I’d taken the turn too wide, and now I was blocking the parking lot traffic.
“Crap.”
I tried backing up and straightening out, but I turned the wheel the wrong way and ended up even more crooked. A pickup truck the size of a tour bus roared into the second pump, putting us bumper to bumper. The driver got out and shot me a derisive look. He was a weathered-looking Marlboro man type in overalls.
“Dumbass city drivers,” he grumbled, before spitting what I could only assume was tobacco in my direction and reaching expertly for the pump.
I cleared my throat and gripped the wheel tighter. I wasn’t going to let some monster-truck-driving, tobacco-spitting local ruin Adventure Hazel’s day.
Throwing the car in reverse, I turned the wheel the opposite direction only to discover—from an aggressive honk—that a sedan had pinned me in from behind. “Damn it,” I muttered, shifting into drive again.
I pressed the gas, and nothing happened. So I pushed it harder. The engine revved high and loud, but still the car stayed where it was.
“Think you’re in neutral,” came a friendly observation.
