protest.
Carl started talking about his life, cars, and his life in cars. In college he had an unreliable MG convertible, and then a 71 Cutlass, which was a “babe magnet.” Fifteen minutes and several automotive anecdotes later, I was ready to thank him and call it a day. Carl asked how the college application process was going. I told him it was fine. In reality, I had 190 pages of essay slush and about two usable paragraphs.
He asked whether I was still set on Caltech. I told him I was.
“It’s good to have fall back schools,” he said.
I forgot to take my foot off the gas. The engine revved. I stepped on the brake and the car lurched to a halt. The red and yellow lights stayed on, shaming me.
Carl told me to “start ‘er up again.” I turned the ignition and depressed the clutch. I shifted to first, and then to second, then third. When I settled back into the rhythm, Carl said he and Janet had always planned to pay for their son’s college and they still hoped to do that. Strange, I thought, as I tried to concentrate on shifting. Why was he planning to save money for a son? They were much too old to start having babies. They had to be at least in their mid-fifties.
Carl kept talking while I tried to concentrate on the clutch-shift-gas sequence. It was starting to annoy me. It’s like he had taken me out there not only to teach me how to use a manual transmission, but to bore me with his life story. “We’re going through some financial problems, as you’re probably aware. But you’re welcome to stay with us after you age out of the system. It could be helpful if you want to stay around here and go to UNLV.”
Clutch, shift… something… gas petal, shifter. I was confused. Carl waved his left hand. I shifted, skipping a gear. There was a grinding sound. The engine revved with ferocity. Carl gestured helplessly at the gearshift. My left leg had gone rigid and pushed the clutch all the way to the floor. I did a ninety-degree turn going forty. The car skittered off the pavement and onto a dirt embankment.
I slammed on the brakes. The car lurched to a stop. The instrument panel lights glowed. We sat in silence for a few seconds as dust settled around us.
“My grades and scores are good enough for Caltech,” I said.
“I’m thinking in terms of practicality. Since I teach in the system, there might be some financial incentive for you to go there.” That made no sense to me, because I was not his son. There was, as far as I knew, no discount for foster children of part-time professors. “Of course, you have the smarts to go anywhere. It’s amazing what you’re doing. A little quiet but I think we’re working on that.”
We’re working on that? It occurred to me that, for two people who insisted on having conversations with me, they were just as bad at conversing as I was. They both could talk a lot of scheizen . And then he said one thing I hate almost as much as smile, it’s not so bad . “Considering what you’ve been through, you’re doing great.”
I told him I had to study, even though I really didn’t. I thanked him for the lesson and said I didn’t need another one.
On Sunday, Carl and Janet left the house early. I sat at the breakfast nook with my cup of coffee. Because I was alone, I felt comfortable loudly humming “Urge for Going.” I noticed the message on the white board. It was in Janet’s slashy handwriting. Nevada Child and Family Services called about your “emancipation.” Is this a mistake?
It wasn’t a mistake. The letter with my hearing date was still in my Box o’ Crap. The Foster-go-Round was expecting me to call back and confirm. I had neglected to do so because… well, I wasn’t quite sure. If I could have some kind of guarantee of not being uprooted again, and if Carl and Janet didn’t try to act like they were my real parents, then I wouldn’t mind staying in the foster system, and staying with them.
I couldn’t explain all that on the white board, so I
Carl started talking about his life, cars, and his life in cars. In college he had an unreliable MG convertible, and then a 71 Cutlass, which was a “babe magnet.” Fifteen minutes and several automotive anecdotes later, I was ready to thank him and call it a day. Carl asked how the college application process was going. I told him it was fine. In reality, I had 190 pages of essay slush and about two usable paragraphs.
He asked whether I was still set on Caltech. I told him I was.
“It’s good to have fall back schools,” he said.
I forgot to take my foot off the gas. The engine revved. I stepped on the brake and the car lurched to a halt. The red and yellow lights stayed on, shaming me.
Carl told me to “start ‘er up again.” I turned the ignition and depressed the clutch. I shifted to first, and then to second, then third. When I settled back into the rhythm, Carl said he and Janet had always planned to pay for their son’s college and they still hoped to do that. Strange, I thought, as I tried to concentrate on shifting. Why was he planning to save money for a son? They were much too old to start having babies. They had to be at least in their mid-fifties.
Carl kept talking while I tried to concentrate on the clutch-shift-gas sequence. It was starting to annoy me. It’s like he had taken me out there not only to teach me how to use a manual transmission, but to bore me with his life story. “We’re going through some financial problems, as you’re probably aware. But you’re welcome to stay with us after you age out of the system. It could be helpful if you want to stay around here and go to UNLV.”
Clutch, shift… something… gas petal, shifter. I was confused. Carl waved his left hand. I shifted, skipping a gear. There was a grinding sound. The engine revved with ferocity. Carl gestured helplessly at the gearshift. My left leg had gone rigid and pushed the clutch all the way to the floor. I did a ninety-degree turn going forty. The car skittered off the pavement and onto a dirt embankment.
I slammed on the brakes. The car lurched to a stop. The instrument panel lights glowed. We sat in silence for a few seconds as dust settled around us.
“My grades and scores are good enough for Caltech,” I said.
“I’m thinking in terms of practicality. Since I teach in the system, there might be some financial incentive for you to go there.” That made no sense to me, because I was not his son. There was, as far as I knew, no discount for foster children of part-time professors. “Of course, you have the smarts to go anywhere. It’s amazing what you’re doing. A little quiet but I think we’re working on that.”
We’re working on that? It occurred to me that, for two people who insisted on having conversations with me, they were just as bad at conversing as I was. They both could talk a lot of scheizen . And then he said one thing I hate almost as much as smile, it’s not so bad . “Considering what you’ve been through, you’re doing great.”
I told him I had to study, even though I really didn’t. I thanked him for the lesson and said I didn’t need another one.
On Sunday, Carl and Janet left the house early. I sat at the breakfast nook with my cup of coffee. Because I was alone, I felt comfortable loudly humming “Urge for Going.” I noticed the message on the white board. It was in Janet’s slashy handwriting. Nevada Child and Family Services called about your “emancipation.” Is this a mistake?
It wasn’t a mistake. The letter with my hearing date was still in my Box o’ Crap. The Foster-go-Round was expecting me to call back and confirm. I had neglected to do so because… well, I wasn’t quite sure. If I could have some kind of guarantee of not being uprooted again, and if Carl and Janet didn’t try to act like they were my real parents, then I wouldn’t mind staying in the foster system, and staying with them.
I couldn’t explain all that on the white board, so I
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