Before I ever started driving, I might have seen a spot like the one she’s pointing to and not given a thought to the difficulty of turning around there. But I’ve been driving just long enough now to know that she’s given me a challenge. I extend my mind out to where the edges of the car are, compare that to the road and the area beside it that Etta pointed out, and just do it. It’s perfect. I’m surprised, and I’m not. I’m pleased, though Etta says nothing.

  Back on the road again, Etta asks, “What’s your father like, Ethan? If you don’t mind my asking.”

  I actually wish I could talk about him more, not less. I miss him badly, and Mom sure doesn’t want to hear me go on about that. “We get along great. He’s always finding ways for me to help him with something, and then he pays me. When I was little, he taught Kyle to ride a bike, and then he taught me. It took me lots longer to get it, but he didn’t seem to mind. Kyle made fun of me about it, and Dad told him to shut up, that not everyone had to be just like him. Like Kyle, I mean. And boy, I’m not.”

  “Because you took longer to learn how to ride a bike?”

  “Because everything. I’m not like him at all. He’s all about rules and chores and stuff. He was always a little like that, always telling me what I was doing wrong, but now it’s totally extreme. And then there’s the church thing.”

  “So you still spend time with your dad?” Uh-oh. I pause too long, I guess, ’cause Etta says, “It’s okay. You don’t have to talk about it.”

  “Oh, it’s not that. I—uh, it’s just that my mom . . .”

  Etta laughs. “I get it. She doesn’t know how often you see him. Don’t worry; that’s something for your own family to work out. It’s not my place to talk to anyone about that.”

  By the time we’re back to Bingham, I’m chatting away about Jorja’s rebellious questions in Coffin’s class, about her crazy church, about helping my dad with his mowing, and somewhere in there I mention the Darwin fish on Sylvia’s Jeep.

  Etta says, “I guess that’s appropriate for a biology teacher. When did you happen to see it?”

  “The day I helped my dad. She, uh, Max . . . they pulled over to say hi.” Something in my voice—or my hesitation—gives me away.

  “Yes, I’ve noticed Max. Quite a good-looking young man.” My hands jerk the wheel a little. Etta laughs again. “It would seem you’ve noticed him, too. That’s another thing it’s not my place to talk to anyone about.”

  I want to say Thanks, but that feels kind of like I’d be admitting something out loud, and I’m not quite prepared to do that.

  South of Bingham, back on the highway, the skies just open. Rain is pouring down in sheets over the windshield, and I’m glad Etta made me find all the wiper speeds before it mattered. I even remember to turn on the lights. She doesn’t say anything, just watches and lets me handle it. I slow down so there’s more distance between me and the silver Honda sedan in front of us, knowing Etta will notice this, too, and add it to my credit. I’d like to do this again, driving with her.

  I’m adding up half hours in my head to log against my thirty-five-hour total when a deer dashes in front of the Honda. The driver slams on the brakes and misses the deer, but he must have turned the wheel too sharply. The car hydroplanes all the way off the other side of the road, spins, and the passenger side slams into a tree. An oncoming white sedan misses hitting it while it’s swinging over, but the sedan veers toward us, and I have to brake hard, thanking God or whoever for all-wheel drive, to avoid doing the same thing. I can’t tell whether the other driver is hydroplaning, skidding, undecided, or just plain out of control. My first reaction is to stay on my side of the road and swerve to the right, but something about the way that white car is acting makes me turn the wheel to the left, where there’s no traffic at the moment. As things turn out, if I had stayed right we would have hit it. We spin a little and come to a lurching halt past the Honda.

  Her voice tense but not panicky, Etta says, “Pull over there, off the side. Let’s see if anyone’s badly hurt.” She fishes her cell phone out from someplace as I find a spot that doesn’t tip us too sharply into the ditch. Then she hands me the phone. “I’ve dialed emergency services. Tell them where we are and what’s happened.” And she dashes out of the car and toward the Honda.

  I’m watching her as I’m trying to explain to the 9-1-1 operator what’s happened. A woman from the other car runs across the road, too, so I guess she’s all right. As soon as the operator says an ambulance is on its way, I drop the phone on the seat and follow Etta.

  The Honda’s passenger side door is buckled completely in, and there’s tree where someone would have been, except the driver was alone. He’s maybe fifty, unconscious, with the air bag in a sad state from where it exploded and then deflated. The seat belt’s still fastened. Etta’s just taking her hand away from his neck.

  “He’s alive, but he’s not breathing. Ethan, help me get the seat belt undone. You’re not really supposed to move someone who’s injured, but we have to get him breathing.”

  We manage to ease the guy out of the seat and onto the ground. He’s not fat, but he sure feels heavy. The woman from the other car says, “I’ve got a blanket and a tarp. I’ll get them.”

  Etta doesn’t hesitate. She lifts behind the guy’s neck, pokes a finger into his mouth—I guess to see if there’s anything in the way—and then breathes into him a couple of times. She lowers her ear to his chest, hand on it to see if it’s rising or not. Doesn’t look like it, so the guy’s still not breathing on his own. She breathes in again, feels some more. The other woman is back, and she puts first the blanket and then the tarp over the guy’s body while Etta tries a few more times. Finally the guy coughs, and then he groans, and then he coughs again. I can hear sirens in the distance.

  Etta sits back on her haunches and breathes hard for a few seconds, watching the guy’s face. He’s not exactly conscious, but he’s definitely alive. She says, “Thank God. I was afraid to press on his chest to help the process, not knowing what injuries he might have.”

  Two ambulances show up. We step back as the paramedics come over, and they load him onto a stretcher and take him away. As I’m watching them, it hits me that we’re all three completely drenched. The other woman has glasses on, and I can’t see her eyes. I don’t know how she can see anything.

  There’s two police cars there suddenly, and they take Etta and me into one car and the other woman into the other. They ask us what happened, and of course they want to know all about my driving status. They grill me like I’ve never been grilled before. I don’t know why, but my memory of what I did is crystal clear. It seems like they’re trying to shake me off my story, but it doesn’t work. I know exactly what I did, and I know that it was the best thing I could have done.

  Etta doesn’t say anything except to answer direct questions from the cop. She’s looking at the one who’s grilling me, like she’s fine with how I’m telling the story. She’s with me. We’re a team.

  Finally the guy who’s been grilling me gives up and has to satisfy himself with making notes about Etta’s license, which is in the car, and my instruction permit, which I fish out of my wallet. I’m just starting to feel like it’s us, Etta and me, against them, when the cop hands my paperwork back and says, “You handled that very well, Ethan. Might have even saved lives. You should be proud of yourself.” I’m blinking stupidly at him as he turns to Etta. “Are you all right, ma’am?” He waits until she nods. “You probably saved that guy’s life. I’m thinking you should probably finish the trip. Driving, I mean.” He hands her something with writing on it, like a card. “We might contact you again about this. Insurance, that sort of thing. When you’re ready, we’ll help you get your car back on the road. Keep the traffic out of your way.”

  Etta nods again. “Thank you, Officer.”

  We get out, and so does one of the cops, and we all go quickly through the pouring rain back to Etta’s car. I start to go to the driver’s side, but Etta catches my arm, and I remember the cop wanted her to drive now. I kind of want to. I wouldn’t say I’m high, though adrenaline is keeping my pulse rate up. It’s more like a sense of power. I feel strong. Like I can handle anything. But it doesn’t seem like a good time to protest. The cop, in the backseat, takes some notes about Etta’s license and then runs back to his car.

  Etta and I don’t talk at all as she eases the Forester out of the ditch. The cop cars are holding up all traffic, so we head straight across the road and back to the lane we were in before. Etta drives only about half a mile before she pulls over into the parking lot of an antique place that’s closed for the season. With the engine still running, she puts the car in park and pulls the hand brake. Then she leans her hands on the wheel and her head on her hands and takes several shaky breaths. I sit quietly, giving her some space, and I see a couple of tears drop down and disappear into the rain that’s already darkened her khaki pants.

  Finally she sits back, eyes closed, and rubs her face. She flips the heat on high and turns on her seat heater. Seems like a good idea, and I toggle mine on, too. Another few breaths, and then she says, “I would be happy to go driving with you again anytime, Ethan.”

  She doesn’t say anything else. She doesn’t need to. We pull back onto the highway and ride in silence the rest of the way home, and I spend a lot of time thinking about what she’d done for that guy. Sure, she had a tearful moment after it was all over, but when it mattered, she didn’t hesitate. Didn’t panic. I want to be like that. And I think the way I handled that situation back there means that maybe I have it in me.

  At home, Etta stays long enough to help me explain to Mom about our highway adventure, and I almost look around to make sure Dad is hearing this, but of course he isn’t here. He’s a terrific driver, and he’s critical of those who aren’t—like Kyle, despite his superior balance on a bicycle—and he praises those who are. I think he’d like that I’m showing signs of being like him behind the wheel.

  As soon as Etta’s gone, Mom wraps her arms around me. “Oh, Ethan. If anything had happened to you . . .”

  I hug her back. It feels good. “I’m fine, Mom. Honest.” I kind of want to stress what the cop had said, that I should be proud, but Etta has gone over all that in enough detail to pump my ego up. I decide to hoard this information against future need, in case Mom ever feels like criticizing my driving again.

  But I still want to talk about it. Not to Kyle, though. I’m feeling brazen and almost unlike myself, like that sense of power is still with me. Yang-heavy in my emotional balance sheet. And like my decisions can be very, very important; after all, how many lives did I save today? I sit down at the computer in the living room while Mom’s putting the finishing touches on dinner and Kyle is upstairs, probably reading his Bible, and I fire off an e-mail to Max.

  i’m catching up to your driving time mayB even getting a little ahead. okay, so I have lots more hrs before I’m at 35, but get this . . . today i pulled a really cool manuvr on the highway and missed hitting this car that swerved to avoid another car that swervd to avoid a deer . . . anyways, hope we can take that trip 2 bangor soon. U still up for it?

  This seems noncommittal enough to keep Max from seeing me as desperate and also generic enough to keep anyone—like Kyle—from getting suspicious about my intentions. I don’t have my own eddress; we all share one. I’ve created my own storage folder, but that’s not exactly Fort Knox. I sit there as long as I can up to dinnertime, watching for a reply that doesn’t come. And after dinner I check again; still nothing. I turn the PC off and head upstairs for some celebrator y music to try and recapture how great I felt earlier.

  I’m in the middle of some cool riff that’s getting me into a good zone when the door to my room opens hard. I yank out my earbuds and see Kyle standing there looking like doom. Christ! What if I’d been jerking off or something?

  “What the hell are you doing?” I demand.

  He has a paper, in his left hand of course. “I want you to explain this to me.”

  “Duh. I don’t know what it is. How can I explain anything? And you should have—”

  “Here.” He practically shoves it in my face. I yank it away from him.

  It’s from Max.

  hey charmer U can’t fool me. I no ur doing

  california rolls at all the stop signs. but shit

  yeah i’m on for bangor just name the date. I’m

  be fully legal now so lets not wast any more

  time

  cul8r mm

  At first my eyes catch on mm. Like, mmmmm . . . you know? But then I’m back in reality. All I can think to do is brazen it out, like it means nothing. “Yeah? So?”

  “Who is mm? And why do they call you ‘charmer’ and use foul language in a message to this house?”

  “None of your beeswax, bro. Just a friend from school, is all. What are you, my censor? I don’t make you explain all your friends, do I?”

  “That’s not the point.”

  “Is so!” I’m shouting now. “And next time, knock on the freakin’ door!”

  Mom’s voice precedes her from down the hall. “What’s all the shouting? Kyle, leave your brother alone for once.”

  He turns to face her. “You should see what he’s got! His friends should not be swearing in e-mails that come to this house.”

  She waves a dismissive hand at him. “Kyle, Kyle. Chill, will you? Ethan, what’s in that message that’s upset your brother so much?”

  I don’t exactly want her to see this exchange. Kyle hasn’t mentioned Bangor, and I don’t want it brought up. “Just one word, Ma. It’s someone from school, and they doesn’t have a censor to deal with. It’s not like the thing is full of obscenities.”

  “Let me see it.”

  “It’s a personal message! To me. Not to Kyle or anyone else. It’s personal.”

  “Kyle? What does it say?”

  “I can’t repeat the word.”

  I chime in, “It rhymes with shut the door, please.”

  Kyle has to protest. “It doesn’t rhyme with it at all!”

  “I take it there are three letters in common, then,” Mom says, sounding impatient. “Ethan, tell your friends to watch their language. Tell them your mother reads all your e-mails; that’ll scare the willies out of ’em. Kyle, leave your brother alone.” She stands there until he leaves, pulling the door shut behind her but glaring at me as she does so.

  Close call. Kyle was so upset by shit that he forgot to mention charmer to Mom. Earbuds back in, I read Max’s message a few times, smiling.

  Charmer.

  Later on, after lights out and jerking off, I’m about half asleep when my eyes open suddenly.

  Jorja.

  If this near-death experience had happened in August, she’d have been the first one I told. Now, it doesn’t even occur to me to tell her. What kind of a friend does that make me? I make a vow to give her a really vivid description of it on the way to school tomorrow. Then I roll over onto my side and do my best to feel guilty about her, but I can’t hang on to that. Instead my mind starts looking for ways to avoid depending on a shared e-mail account. If I’m going to start having boyfriends—well, at least one, maybe—I’ve got to have a better way to connect. Texting is what I decide on, but I need a cell phone for that. Jorja and I are about the only kids I know of who don’t have one. Maybe I’ll get an iPhone. I’ll ask for one for my birthday! Except that’s not until January. Same month Edgar Allan was born, I’ll have you know. But that’s too long. Hell, even Christmas is too long. I need this now. I’ll have to buy it myself.

  Yeah right. Like I’ve got a couple hundred dollars to spare. That’s about what my tattoo will cost, probably. Not even with what Dad gives me for helping him can I double that anytime soon, and Mom makes me put two-thirds of everything she knows about into my college fund.

  Christ! I shouldn’t have to choose between these two things. They’re both so important! Texting is the only way I can think of to keep my messages private, and that yin-yang tattoo is the only way I know of to say who I am. It’s like a secret—but still real—way to show that I’m not all one thing or another. Ever since I saw it in the body art store window, I’ve been kind of meditating on it. Like it will help me bring some balance to my life. I need that tattoo.

  I sigh and let my mind wander again, this time to how great it will be at college. No parents, no one around who knows any of the embarrassing stuff I’ve done growing up—’cause I’m sure not going to Orono. And best of all? Colleges have gay support groups. Which means there are gays there. Just the thought of being in a group of guys who all have this in common with me gives me—I don’t know, a reason to live? It’s heady stuff. I’d sure as hell be willing to give up my outlier status for that. I’d even give up my connection to the famous Poe for that.

  Chapter 5

  I’m seriously thinking of putting Etta Greenleaf on my shit list. The universe doesn’t often conspire to get everything together at once, but it gave me the most amazing opportunity Wednesday afternoon. She calls just as I’m getting home from school to ask if I want to drive while she runs some errands, and of course I do. So far, so good. Two is in the back, his leash tied to a fastened seat belt just tight enough that he can hang his head out of the window. I’m getting used to him, I think, at least a little. Anyway, one place we stop is the drugstore. We’ve left Two in the car, and while Etta moves around the store following the list in her hand, I head for the sunglass display, which just happens to be across the aisle from condoms. I’m trying on some shades, looking in that teeny mirror they give you like that can help you decide what looks good on you, when I see a man reflected there, his back to me, looking over the condom selection.