Father Knows Best (5 page)

Just as quickly as it had soared, my heart took a nosedive, straight into the rocky ground—like a twin-engine lawn dart.

“Not a one,” MBM said, with a clueless-to-my-trauma smile.

Dad chucked my chin and winked. “Excellent. What do you say we make it a foursome then,
m’ija
? Roadtrip to Denver? We can have lunch there, too.”

“Sounds like a blast, doesn’t it, Lila?” Chloe asked, just a bit too enthusiastic. She leaned in, all conspiratorially. “We can keep the boys’ noses out of the engine if we team up.”

I didn’t answer.

“Gosh,” Chloe continued, this faraway expression in her eyes. “I remember buying my first car. An old, ugly 1966 Dodge Dart.” She laughed. “Oh, how I loved that hideous beater. Right up until the engine imploded while I was on the way to take midterms in college. Boy, what a hassle.”

I should’ve asked about her car.

I should’ve asked polite questions about where she went to college.

I should’ve done a lot of things, but I didn’t.

Instead, I pasted a brittle gash of a smile on my face. “Great. I mean, sorry about the, um, Dart”—who’d ever heard of such a car?—“but great about today. Well. Uh. I’ll just, um, go call Dylan, and—”

“I can call him,” Chloe said, reaching for her mom-purse.

“No, really. Let me,” I said, trying not to beg.

Clearly, she caught the thread of near hysteria in my tone, because she studied me for a moment, then set her purse down on the floor again. “Okay.”

“I need to take a shower, too. Thanks for breakfast, Dad.” I snagged my coffee mug from the countertop and fled without another word.

Dude. I mean, duuuuude.

A freakin’ foursome? What were we, golfing buddies now?

For the love of God, the phraseology alone could kill me.

I thought waking up with Dylan’s mom in our house, all implications sickeningly included, would be the worst thing ever, but now we were practically, like, double-dating! Not really, but it felt oogey enough to be true. Bleh! As much as I looked forward to finally having a car of my own, this happy-freakin’-family situation was reeling way out of control. And fast.

The shower could wait.

Dylan could wait.

I had to talk to my friends.

I signed on to my computer and launched a group IM to Meryl and Caressa, drumming my fingers on the desktop as I waited for them to cyber-appear.

LawBreakR: Meryl and Caressa, I know U have plans, but please, please, PLEASE tell me UR still there!!!!!!!!!

Lipstickgrrrrl: I’m here. Surfing Sephora. What’s up?

LawBreakR: Aren’t U supposed 2B packing?

Lipstickgrrrrl: Done. U know my anal-retentive mom.

MerylM: I’m here, too. Waiting for Ismet to pick me up. What’s going on?

LawBreakR: Get this! Wait—do U want the good part or the bad part first?

MerylM: Just tell us all of it. And don’t you think it’s about time to change your screen name, all things considered, Ms. Police Explorer?

Lipstickgrrrrl: What she said.

LawbreakR: No time 4 that. Listen. My dad’s taking me 2 buy a car of my very own today.

Lipstickgrrrrl: LILA, OMG, THAT ROCKS!!!!

MerylM: I’m so happy for you! Be sure to get something safe and environmentally sound.

LawBreakR: Wait, UR missing the traumatic part.

MerylM: So tell us!

LawBreakR: Dad invited Dylan to join us.

Lipstickgrrrrl: Traumatic? Duh, stoner, that’s totally cool!

MerylM: Yeah!

LawBreakR: Oh, I know. But, that’s not the bad part. He also invited Dylan’s mother. Over breakfast, of all things, because she was still here, need I say more. And he called the outing “a foursome.” A foursome! That’s one person worse than a threesome, I think. I swear, I could die.

MerylM: Lila, honey, take a deep breath, okay?

Lipstickgrrrrl: Listen to Mer. This isn’t as horrid as you think. Just go with the flow. UR getting a car!

LawBreakR: [scoff] Easy 4 the 2 of U2 say—UR parents are still married, therefore not on the prowl.

MerylM: Lila Jane Moreno, your dad is not on the prowl. These things happen. And Ms. Sebring is really nice. That’s the part you’re missing.

LawBreakR: I knowwwwwwwww she’s nice! U guys just don’t get it! I’m not feeling the loving support I need from U!

Lipstickgrrrrl: No, we do get it. Honest. But try 2 have a little perspective. How bad could it really be? U like Dylan’s mom, right?

LawBreakR: Not the point.

Lipstickgrrrrl: I get that, but look at the bright side—U have to grit your teeth 4 a day, and U score a car out of the deal. A car!!!

LawBreakR: Yeah, probably a 1966 Dodge Dart.

Lipstickgrrrrl: Huh?

MerylM: What?

LawBreakR: Never mind. I just don’t want 2 double date with my father. The word godawful comes to mind. Also heinous. And puke-worthy.

MerylM: I don’t think puke-worthy is an actual word, just for future reference. Besides, it’s two words, hyphenated.

Lipstickgrrrrl: LOL, Mer! Lila, it’s not a double date, geek. Just ignore the parentals. Spend time with Dylan, find the car of UR dreams, turf off the rest.

MerylM: I agree. You’re blowing this thing up into astronomical proportions. Fantasticno je!

LawBreakR: Heh? Meryl, is something wrong with UR computer?

MerylM: No. That was Bosnian (well, technically CROATIAN) for “it’s fantastic.” I’ll teach you how to pronounce it next time I talk to each of you.

Lipstickgrrrrl: [baffled] Bosnian, Croatian, Martian. U kill me.

LawBreakR: Me, 2. Mer, UR an overachiever, but we love ya. Anyway, I can see I’m getting no sympathy from U2, and I have 2 get ready. I’ll fill U in later. Caressa, U will have UR BlackBerry, right?

Lipstickgrrrrl: Yep, though I can’t check it when the plane’s in the air. E or text away. TTYL!

MerylM: Bye, Lila. Hang in there. It’ll be fun.

LawBreakR: Riiiiight. Anyway, laters. Hey, wait!! One question.

MerylM: I’m still here.

Lipstickgrrrrl: Me 2.

LawBreakR: Considering they never actually hooked up, despite having tons of chances since they spent so much time alone, do U guys think Nancy Drew’s alleged boyfriend was really her gay pal, and she was his straight cover?

MerylM: Huh? Are you talking about Ned Nickerson?

Lipstickgrrrrl: Gurl, what RU smoking!? Where did that come from??

LawBreakR: Right. Whacked question. Never mind. Ignore me. Just having a mental breakdown or something. TTYL. Safe flight, Caressa. I’ll miss U!! Safe hike, Mer. E me when U2R back down from the mountain.

*

It wasn’t a Porsche, but it wasn’t a 1966 Dodge Dart either, which counted for something in my book. For a lot, actually. And, to be honest, I’d never wanted a Porsche. They suck in the snow, at least that’s the word on the street, no pun intended.

I sat in the driver’s seat of the light green Subaru Outback sedan with my hands wrapped around the steering wheel in a proprietary manner. It occupied space 411 in the vast section marked “pre-owned,” which, I guess, was supposed to sound better than “used.” I don’t know, though. Applied to a different scenario, I would no more want to be “pre-owned” by a guy than I’d want to be “used” by one. But, whatever. Lingo schmingo.

Anyway, whoever pre-owned this particular ride had taken really good care of it. It looked brand new! I sent up a silent prayer of thanks to the Patron Saint of Pre-Owners who were anal about car care.

We’d stumbled across the sedan at the zillionth place we stopped (Denver sure has a lot of car dealerships!), and the moment I laid eyes on it, I wanted to drive it straight back up the mountain to White Peaks and park it in our driveway—locked, of course, so The Puke wouldn’t try to take it for a spin.

There is sooooo much to love about it, but here are the highlights: the heated seats move up, down, and all around at the touch of a button, and the dash has this fake woodgrain stuff (cooler than it sounds) that just gleams. It features a sun / moon roof, leather seats, low mileage—all things considered—great tires, and a fresh blast of New Car Scent.

Oh, and the stereo rocks—MP3 compatible and the whole nine.

Despite the higher sticker price, we’d taken it out for a test drive after I’d nearly gone apoplectic begging. It drove like a dream and didn’t bounce around like some of the other SUV-type vehicles we’d tried. I hate that bouncy feeling.

Back at the dealership, as predicted, my dad and Dylan stuck their heads under the hood for about three hundred thousand years pointing at various boring-ass hoses and metal things, until my eyeballs nearly exploded. It’s not that I don’t have the capacity to learn about car engines, it’s that I just don’t care.

Finally, just before I snapped into a homicidal frenzy and started looking for a hatchet and some crack, they finished their annoyingly tedious perusal and closed it up, both of them side by side brushing engine blech from their hands.

It wigged me out for a sec, seeing them mirror each other’s actions right next to each other, like they’d both attended the same Super Secret How-to-Be-a-Guy School, or something. It made me picture Dylan at my dad’s age, which wigged me out further until I simply had to shove the whole creepazoid observation out of my mind.

After that, Dylan (young as ever, thank God) and I sat in the car while my dad engaged in a deep conversation with the sales dude. Chloe went with him, which was a huge relief. Can you imagine if she’d climbed into the backseat instead? All chipper and friendly-like? Dylan and I wouldn’t have been able to talk about anything. As things stood, I was too tense to talk about much with Dyl, but that’s beside the point. At least we were alone.

“I take it you like it?” Dylan asked me, smiling from his sprawled position in the passenger seat. He reached over and laid his palm on my thigh—yummy!

“I love it. Do you?”

“For sure. The engine looks great.”

Like I care. I staved off an eye roll. I mean, I care. I want a safe car in good condition, but you know what I’m saying. “Doesn’t matter, though,” I said with a sigh, twisting my mouth to one side.

“Why not?”

I shrugged. “Do the math. Even if my dad matches my savings dollar for dollar, I can’t afford it.”

“Seriously?”

“Yep.”

“That blows.”

“To an epic level. Which begs the question, why are they wasting their time talking about it? At length.”

We both stared through the windshield in silence at my dad and Chloe a few yards away talking earnestly with the excessively jovial man sporting the golf shirt and khakis over a physique that said he swilled just a bit too much beer after quittin’ time, if you get my gist. I squeezed my eyes shut, sending pretty-please-with-sugar-on-top vibes toward the (pointless) negotiations. Which took forever. Almost as long as the engine perusal, if you can believe that. If only I could read lips.

After a series of shrugs, chin rubs, gestures, and nods—and a whole lot of jolly blabbing—Mr. Golf Shirt finally shook my dad’s hand, then walked away.

No one looked giddy, but then again, why would they?

Definitely a good-bye handshake.