“Do you remember the Christmas it snowed and then iced over the snow?”
“We went to the creek.”
“Yeah.”
I lay my cheek on my knee. The windows are starting to fog up, but it doesn’t feel like we’ve been sitting together all that long.
“Do you remember when you punched Donnie Banks?” I say.
“Of course I do.”
“He said I was a freak.”
“You weren’t a freak. You were the only cool girl at school.”
“How would you know? You never talked to any other girls.”
“I didn’t need to. Do you remember the Valentine’s Day that my mother had the date with the bald guy?”
“Which one?”
“The creepy-looking one.”
“I don’t remember.”
Finny turns in his seat to look at me. I struggle to make out the expression on his face. “Yeah, you do, we were plotting to throw a bucket of water from the window when they came home—”
“But the babysitter made us go to bed in separate rooms! I remember that, but I don’t remember the guy.”
“I do. He was creepy-looking.”
“Or maybe you just remember thinking that he was creepy. Maybe if you saw him now, you wouldn’t think so at all. Memory isn’t objective.”
“But you and I always remember things the same way.”
“But that’s because we always thought the same way back then. I bet we wouldn’t remember—” I stop when I realize what I was about to say.
“What?” Finny says.
I shrug like it’s no big deal. “We probably won’t remember middle school the same, or high school.”
“Oh. Maybe.” We are quiet then, and I wonder why I said that and if he’ll say that we should go in now.
“You were Mr. Laughegan’s favorite,” Finny says.
“Yeah, I know,” I say. “But all the other teachers liked you better.”
“That’s not true.”
“Yes, it is!” I say. I lift my head off my knees and sit up straighter. “Everyone always likes you. It was the same in elementary school too.”
Finny shrugs. “I don’t know about elementary school,” he says, “but nobody liked me in middle school.”
“That’s not true.”
“Yes, it is; I was nerdy and you were, like, the Queen.”
“No,” I say, “Alexis was the Queen. I was just a flunky.” Finny shakes his head. “What are you talking about?” I say. “She was the leader of The Clique.” I can’t tell for sure because of the dark, but I think Finny rolls his eyes.
“But you were the one all the guys liked,” he says.
“Oh,” I say.
“Yeah, it was—weird. Hearing them talk about you like that, I mean.”
“Oh,” I say. The windows are completely fogged up now. I can only make out the glow of the streetlight coming through; otherwise, it could be any street in America out there.
“So why did you leave them?” Finny says.
“Who?” I ask. I’m thinking about the way he stumbled over his words when he said it was weird to hear guys talking about me.
“The girls. Why did you and Sasha leave them?”
“We didn’t leave them,” I say. “They kicked us out.”
“That’s not what they say,” Finny says. I look up at him and wish I could see his face better. “They told me that after they joined the cheerleading squad you started talking about how cheerleading in high school was a stereotype and you wanted to be a part of something more meaningful. And you stopped returning their calls.”
“That is not how that happened,” I say. “They stopped being friends with us.”
“But that does sound like something you would say,” Finny says.
“Yeah,” I say, “but they’re the ones who thought they were too good for us.”
“That’s what they say about you,” Finny says.
“But that’s not true!”
“Memory isn’t objective, right?”
“I guess so,” I say, and for the first time I’m wondering what else might be different from Finny’s point of view.
77
We’re in his car again, but it’s under different circumstances. It’s one a.m., and a police car has just pulled us over. It’s the second time this week, but Finny has never done anything wrong. They just pull us over because we’re teenagers in a red sports car.
“Do you ever wonder,” I ask Finny as he gets back in after watching the policeman search his trunk, “if this car is more trouble than it’s worth?” Finny shrugs. Behind us, the police car pulls away. Finny turns off his flashers and looks over his shoulder as he pulls out onto the street again. “Your mom says the insurance is crazy.”
“Yeah,” he says, “but I like it.”
“It is a cute car,” I say.
“Don’t call my car ‘cute,’” he says.
I giggle. “Finny has a cute car. It’s so cute.”
“Shut up,” he says, “or I’ll stop driving you everywhere.”
“Will not.”
“Will too.”
“You’d miss me.”
“Not if you keep calling my car cute.”
I laugh again.
“I should teach you to drive,” Finny says.
I frown. “What? No,” I say.
“Oh, come on, you can’t go forever without learning to drive.”
“Watch me.”
“Take the wheel.”
“Nope.”
“Autumn, take the wheel.”
I don’t know if he’s realized that I can’t refuse him when he says my name like that, but it works. I lean closer to him and take over the steering, and the car immediately begins to swerve to the right.
“Whoa!” Finny says. I start to take my hands away but he places his over mine. He presses gently and turns us straight again. “There we go,” he says. My heart is hammering and I feel as if I am falling. “You have to make little adjustments as you go,” he says. “Otherwise you’ll end up going off to one side.”