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“My final destination? I don’t think humans are some self-driving car, racing towards a finish line. We need to own our own lives, start the engine ourselves and sometimes put on the brakes. My life isn’t all about becoming a famous writer. I enjoy writing scripts, that’s all. Wherever I end up in life, whether beach or desert, I’ll embrace it.”
― DallerGut Dream Department Store
― DallerGut Dream Department Store
“Regan?"
"Where are you?"
"You called." He was so relieved to hear her voice ti took him a few seconds to catch up with the question. "I'm in Tennessee." Where else would he be?
"No, really? And here I thought you'd flown to the moon in the last week." She took a shuddering breath, some of the strength leaving her voice. "So, did you know you live in the woods? Like way out there. What the hell is wrong with you? Who chooses to live surrounded by rabid animals who are only too happy to eat your face off?"
How the hell did she know... Brock slammed on his brakes and nearly fishtailed off the highway. Thank God no one else was on the road or he would have caused a wreck. "Where are you?"
"I'd think that was obvious. I'm in your front yard, engaged in a staring contest with a squirrel."
"Do not move." He jerked the wheel and flipped a bitch in the middle of the road. "I'm coming."
"I'm not moving. I'm pretty sure this little beast will go for my throat the second I do. So... hurry.”
― Seducing the Bridesmaid
"Where are you?"
"You called." He was so relieved to hear her voice ti took him a few seconds to catch up with the question. "I'm in Tennessee." Where else would he be?
"No, really? And here I thought you'd flown to the moon in the last week." She took a shuddering breath, some of the strength leaving her voice. "So, did you know you live in the woods? Like way out there. What the hell is wrong with you? Who chooses to live surrounded by rabid animals who are only too happy to eat your face off?"
How the hell did she know... Brock slammed on his brakes and nearly fishtailed off the highway. Thank God no one else was on the road or he would have caused a wreck. "Where are you?"
"I'd think that was obvious. I'm in your front yard, engaged in a staring contest with a squirrel."
"Do not move." He jerked the wheel and flipped a bitch in the middle of the road. "I'm coming."
"I'm not moving. I'm pretty sure this little beast will go for my throat the second I do. So... hurry.”
― Seducing the Bridesmaid
“I have a free wheeling mind with dodgy brakes. Once I start going downhill I find it hard to stop and usually end up going over the handlebars.”
―
―
“Thinking you knew something was a sure way to blind yourself. It was not growing up that slowly applied brakes to learning (Mentats were taught) but an accumulation of “things I know.” New”
― Chapterhouse: Dune
― Chapterhouse: Dune
“Many systems require slack in order to work well. Old reel-to-reel tape recorders needed an extra bit of tape fed into the mechanism to ensure that the tape wouldn’t rip. Your coffee grinder won’t grind if you overstuff it. Roadways operate best below 70 percent capacity; traffic jams are caused by lack of slack. In principle, if a road is 85 percent full and everybody goes at the same speed, all cars can easily fit with some room between them. But if one driver speeds up just a bit and then needs to brake, those behind her must brake as well. Now they’ve slowed down too much, and, as it turns out, it’s easier to reduce a car’s speed than to increase it again. This small shock—someone lightly deviating from the right speed and then touching her brakes—has caused the traffic to slow substantially. A few more shocks, and traffic grinds to a halt. At 85 percent there is enough road but not enough slack to absorb the small shocks.”
― Scarcity: Why Having Too Little Means So Much
― Scarcity: Why Having Too Little Means So Much
“Mentats cultivated naivete. Thinking you knew something was a sure way to blind yourself. It was not growing up that slowly applied brakes to learning (Mentats were taught) but an accumulation of “things I know.”
― Chapterhouse: Dune
― Chapterhouse: Dune
“Johnson’s legislation essentially crystallized a long-term pact between blacks and the Democrat Party that still exists today, lending credence to his alleged statement that he would “have those niggers voting Democrat for the next two hundred years.” There is some uncertainty about whether Johnson actually made that bold claim, but even if he did not, a quote attributed to the president by numerous historians and publications lays bare the actual intention behind his historic civil rights legislation: These Negroes, they’re getting pretty uppity these days and that’s a problem for us since they’ve got something now they never had before, the political pull to back up their uppityness. Now we’ve got to do something about this, we’ve got to give them a little something, just enough to quiet them down, not enough to make a difference. For if we don’t move at all, then their allies will line up against us and there’ll be no way of stopping them, we’ll lose the filibuster and there’ll be no way of putting a brake on all sorts of wild legislation. It’ll be Reconstruction all over again.”
― Blackout: How Black America Can Make Its Second Escape from the Democrat Plantation
― Blackout: How Black America Can Make Its Second Escape from the Democrat Plantation
“Then there was the time when he picked up a two-by-four on the side of the road and put it in the front seat by me and stuck it out the window. He told me to hold it, which I did, but when the wind hit the board, it turned around and hit me in the head and knocked me out. Another time, when a friend of Daddy’s bought a brand-new Buick, Daddy pressed the push-button window up on my neck. But that time I think it was just a matter of him not being familiar with the equipment. The main thing Momma bases her theory on is once Daddy, who is very artistic, wanted to make a life mask of my face. He put plaster of paris on me but forgot the breathing holes. On top of that he also forgot to put Vaseline on my face. He had to crack the plaster off with a hammer. Momma didn’t speak to him for a week on that one. I myself was sorry that it didn’t turn out. She also says he is going to ruin my nervous system because of the time he sneaked up on me when I was listening to Inner Sanctum on the radio. Just as the squeaking door opened, he grabbed me and yelled, “Got ya,” real loud, which caused me to faint. She also didn’t like him telling me Santa Claus had been killed in a bus accident and making me throw up. The Pettibones have very delicate nervous systems. That’s true. Momma is nervous all the time. She’s worn a hole in the floor on the passenger’s side of Daddy’s car from putting on the brakes. Momma always looks like she is on the verge of a hissy fit, but that’s mainly because when she was eighteen, she stuck her head in a gas oven looking at some biscuits and blew her eyebrows off. So she paints them on like little half-moons. People love to talk to her because she always looks interested, even if she isn’t.”
― Daisy Fay and the Miracle Man
― Daisy Fay and the Miracle Man
“So I drive into town for my first date in two years in a red 1941 Chevrolet four-on-the-floor with a John Deere motor grader hooked behind me. The engine sputters and churns and I wonder if the truck will make it. Chunks of mud spray behind me off the tires. The engine stalls on the main road, sending my dress and bag flying onto the dirty floor. I have to restart twice. At five forty-five, a black thing streaks out in front of me and I feel a thunk. I try to stop but braking’s just not something you can do very quickly with a 10,000-pound piece of machinery behind you. I groan and pull over. I have to go check. Remarkably, the cat stands up, looks around stunned, and shoots back into the woods as quickly as it came. At three minutes to six, after doing twenty in a fifty with horns honking and teenagers hollering at me, I park down the street from Hilly’s house since Hilly’s cul-de-sac doesn’t provide adequate parking for farm equipment. I grab my bag and run inside without even knocking, all out of breath and sweaty and windblown and there they are, the three of them, including my date. Having highballs in the front living room.”
― The Help
― The Help
“Through all these times and formative young years, Lara, my sister, was a rock to me. My mother had suffered three miscarriages after having Lara, and eight years on she was convinced that she wasn’t going to be able to have more children. But Mum got pregnant, and she tells me she spent nine months in bed to make sure she didn’t miscarry.
It worked. Mum saved me.
The end result, though, was that she was probably pleased to get me out, and that Lara finally got herself a precious baby brother; or in effect, her own baby. So Lara ended up doing everything for me, and I adored her for it.
While Mum was a busy working mother, helping my father in his constituency duties and beyond, Lara became my surrogate mum. She fed me almost every supper I ate--from when I was a baby up to about five years old. She changed my nappies, she taught me to speak, then to walk (which, with so much attention from her, of course happened ridiculously early). She taught me how to get dressed and to brush my teeth.
In essence, she got me to do all the things that either she had been too scared to do herself or that just simply intrigued her, such as eating raw bacon or riding a tricycle down a steep hill with no brakes.
I was the best rag doll of a baby brother that she could have ever dreamt of.”
― Mud, Sweat and Tears
It worked. Mum saved me.
The end result, though, was that she was probably pleased to get me out, and that Lara finally got herself a precious baby brother; or in effect, her own baby. So Lara ended up doing everything for me, and I adored her for it.
While Mum was a busy working mother, helping my father in his constituency duties and beyond, Lara became my surrogate mum. She fed me almost every supper I ate--from when I was a baby up to about five years old. She changed my nappies, she taught me to speak, then to walk (which, with so much attention from her, of course happened ridiculously early). She taught me how to get dressed and to brush my teeth.
In essence, she got me to do all the things that either she had been too scared to do herself or that just simply intrigued her, such as eating raw bacon or riding a tricycle down a steep hill with no brakes.
I was the best rag doll of a baby brother that she could have ever dreamt of.”
― Mud, Sweat and Tears
“A woman ran at our car screaming, a few of the shadow people chasing her, but before I could even touch the brake she must have changed her mind, because she had already turned into a shadow person herself. It's like, ugh, run from the shadow people or become one. Make up your mind, lady!”
― The Great Glowing Coils of the Universe
― The Great Glowing Coils of the Universe
“You're afraid that you'll live like those things in the hospital. You're afraid of ending up like them."
"Aren't you?" His voice was almost too soft to hear, but somehow it carried over the rush of wheels and the expensive purr of the engine.
"I'm trying not to think about it," I said.
"How can you not think about it?" he asked.
"Because if you start thinking about the bad things, worrying about them, then it makes you slow, makes you afraid. Neither of us can afford that."
"Two years ago, I'd have been giving you the pep talk," he said, and there was something in his voice, not anger, but close.
"You were a good teacher," I said.
His hands gripped the wheel. "I haven't taught you all I know, Anita. You are not a better monster than I am."
I watched the side of his face, trying to read that expressionless face. There was a tightness at the jaw, a thread of anger down the neck and into his shoulders. "Are you trying to convince me or yourself... Ted?"
I made the name light and mocking. I didn't usually play with Edward just to get a rise out of him, but today, he was unsure, and I wasn't. Part of me was enjoying the hell out of that.
He slammed on the brakes and screeched to a stop on the side of the road. I had the Browning pointed at the side of his head, close enough that pulling the trigger would paint his brains all over the windows.
He had a gun in his hand. I don't know where in the car it had come from, but the gun wasn't pointed at me. "Ease down, Edward."
He stayed motionless but didn't drop the gun. I had one of those moments when you see into another person's soul like looking into an open window. "Your fear makes you slow, Edward, because you'd rather die here, like this, than survive like those poor bastards. You're looking for a better way to die."
My gun was very steady, finger on the trigger. But this wasn't for real, not yet. "If you were really serious, you'd have had the gun in your hand before you pulled over. You didn't invite me here to hunt monsters. You invited me here to kill you if it works out wrong."
He laid the gun very, very slowly on the floorboard hump between the seats. He looked at me, hands spread on the steering wheel.
I took the offered gun without taking either my eyes or my gun off of him. "Like I believe that's the only gun you've got hidden in this car. But I do appreciate the gesture."
He laughed then, and it was the most bitter sound I'd ever heard from Edward.”
― Obsidian Butterfly
"Aren't you?" His voice was almost too soft to hear, but somehow it carried over the rush of wheels and the expensive purr of the engine.
"I'm trying not to think about it," I said.
"How can you not think about it?" he asked.
"Because if you start thinking about the bad things, worrying about them, then it makes you slow, makes you afraid. Neither of us can afford that."
"Two years ago, I'd have been giving you the pep talk," he said, and there was something in his voice, not anger, but close.
"You were a good teacher," I said.
His hands gripped the wheel. "I haven't taught you all I know, Anita. You are not a better monster than I am."
I watched the side of his face, trying to read that expressionless face. There was a tightness at the jaw, a thread of anger down the neck and into his shoulders. "Are you trying to convince me or yourself... Ted?"
I made the name light and mocking. I didn't usually play with Edward just to get a rise out of him, but today, he was unsure, and I wasn't. Part of me was enjoying the hell out of that.
He slammed on the brakes and screeched to a stop on the side of the road. I had the Browning pointed at the side of his head, close enough that pulling the trigger would paint his brains all over the windows.
He had a gun in his hand. I don't know where in the car it had come from, but the gun wasn't pointed at me. "Ease down, Edward."
He stayed motionless but didn't drop the gun. I had one of those moments when you see into another person's soul like looking into an open window. "Your fear makes you slow, Edward, because you'd rather die here, like this, than survive like those poor bastards. You're looking for a better way to die."
My gun was very steady, finger on the trigger. But this wasn't for real, not yet. "If you were really serious, you'd have had the gun in your hand before you pulled over. You didn't invite me here to hunt monsters. You invited me here to kill you if it works out wrong."
He laid the gun very, very slowly on the floorboard hump between the seats. He looked at me, hands spread on the steering wheel.
I took the offered gun without taking either my eyes or my gun off of him. "Like I believe that's the only gun you've got hidden in this car. But I do appreciate the gesture."
He laughed then, and it was the most bitter sound I'd ever heard from Edward.”
― Obsidian Butterfly
“We were somewhere around Barstow on the edge of the desert when the drugs began to take hold. I remember saying something like “I feel a bit lightheaded; maybe you should drive. . . .” And suddenly there was a terrible roar all around us and the sky was full of what looked like huge bats, all swooping and screeching and diving around the car, which was going about a hundred miles an hour with the top down to Las Vegas. And a voice was screaming: “Holy Jesus! What are these goddamn animals?”
Then it was quiet again. My attorney had taken his shirt off and was pouring beer on his chest, to facilitate the tanning process. “What the hell are you yelling about?” he muttered, staring up at the sun with his eyes closed and covered with wraparound Spanish sunglasses. I hit the brakes and aimed the Great Red Shark toward the shoulder of the highway. No point mentioning those bats, I thought. The poor bastard will see them soon enough.”
―
Then it was quiet again. My attorney had taken his shirt off and was pouring beer on his chest, to facilitate the tanning process. “What the hell are you yelling about?” he muttered, staring up at the sun with his eyes closed and covered with wraparound Spanish sunglasses. I hit the brakes and aimed the Great Red Shark toward the shoulder of the highway. No point mentioning those bats, I thought. The poor bastard will see them soon enough.”
―
“My friend, when you always say "God is in control", while you have your feet on the brake pad, you are not going anywhere! Wise up!”
― Daily Drive 365
― Daily Drive 365
“Gertie hit the brakes and tried to stop, but she tripped over a lip in the sidewalk and went sprawling right into the burro, then hit the pavement, her tutu skirt flipped up over her back, exposing her camouflage underwear. Tiny swung his head around to see what all the racket was and launched off the car door, setting off down the sidewalk toward the burro-Gertie wreck at high speed.”
― Gator Bait
― Gator Bait
“As a matter of fact, we had already been warned against sliding down the marble banisters, not out of fear that we might break a leg or an arm, for that never worried our parents-which was, I think, why we never broke anything-but because they feared that since we were growing up and gaining weight, we might knock over the busts of ancestors placed by our father on the banisters at the turn of every flight of stairs. Cosimo had, in fact, once brought down a bishop, a great-great-great-grandfather, miter and all; lie was punished, and since then he had learned to brake just before reaching the turn of a flight and jump off within a hair's-breadth of running into a bust.”
― The Baron in the Trees
― The Baron in the Trees
“The instant you catch yourself in the middle of a negative thought or self-defeating question, interrupt it! Slam on the brakes like a car heading for a cliff and stop that train of thought! Mentally imagine a big rubber stamp that says “CANCEL” and stamp it out. Bob Proctor, a master success coach and creator of the Goal Achiever program, suggests saying “NEXT” or “SWITCH” the instant you notice a negative thought, then immediately replacing it with a positive thought, affirmation, or question. Soon you’ll find that your mind switches polarity and the negative thoughts pop up less.”
― Burn the Fat, Feed the Muscle: Transform Your Body Forever Using the Secrets of the Leanest People in the World
― Burn the Fat, Feed the Muscle: Transform Your Body Forever Using the Secrets of the Leanest People in the World
“And one cold Tuesday in December, when Marie-Laure has been blind for over a year, her father walks her up rue Cuvier to the edge of the Jardin des Plantes.
"Here, ma chérie, is the path we take every morning. Through the cedars up ahead is the Grand Gallery."
"I know, Papa."
He picks her up and spins her around three times. "Now," he says, "you're going to take us home."
Her mouth drops open.
"I want you to think of the model, Marie."
"But I can't possibly!"
"I'm one step behind you. I won't let anything happen. You have your cane. You know where you are."
"I do not!"
"You do."
Exasperation. She cannot even say if the gardens are ahead or behind.
"Calm yourself, Marie. One centimeter at a time."
"I'm far, Papa. Six blocks, at least."
"Six blocks is exactly right. Use logic. Which way should we go first?"
The world pivots and rumbles. Crows shout, brakes hiss, someone to her left bangs something metal with what might be a hammer. She shuffles forward until the tip of her cane floats in space. The edge of a curb? A pond, a staircase, a cliff? She turns ninety degrees. Three steps forward. Now her cane finds the base of a wall. "Papa?"
"I'm here."
Six paces seven paces eight. A roar of noise - an exterminator just leaving a house, pump bellowing - overtakes them. Twelve paces farther on, the bell tied around the handle of a shop door rings, and two women came out, jostling her as they pass.
Marie-Laure drops her cane; she begins to cry. Her father lifts her, holds her to his narrow chest.
"It's so big," she whispers.
"You can do this, Marie."
She cannot.”
― All the Light We Cannot See
"Here, ma chérie, is the path we take every morning. Through the cedars up ahead is the Grand Gallery."
"I know, Papa."
He picks her up and spins her around three times. "Now," he says, "you're going to take us home."
Her mouth drops open.
"I want you to think of the model, Marie."
"But I can't possibly!"
"I'm one step behind you. I won't let anything happen. You have your cane. You know where you are."
"I do not!"
"You do."
Exasperation. She cannot even say if the gardens are ahead or behind.
"Calm yourself, Marie. One centimeter at a time."
"I'm far, Papa. Six blocks, at least."
"Six blocks is exactly right. Use logic. Which way should we go first?"
The world pivots and rumbles. Crows shout, brakes hiss, someone to her left bangs something metal with what might be a hammer. She shuffles forward until the tip of her cane floats in space. The edge of a curb? A pond, a staircase, a cliff? She turns ninety degrees. Three steps forward. Now her cane finds the base of a wall. "Papa?"
"I'm here."
Six paces seven paces eight. A roar of noise - an exterminator just leaving a house, pump bellowing - overtakes them. Twelve paces farther on, the bell tied around the handle of a shop door rings, and two women came out, jostling her as they pass.
Marie-Laure drops her cane; she begins to cry. Her father lifts her, holds her to his narrow chest.
"It's so big," she whispers.
"You can do this, Marie."
She cannot.”
― All the Light We Cannot See
“FOXFIRE NEVER SAYS NEVER!
By the time the kidnapped turquoise-and-chrome car overturns--turns and turns and turns!--in a snow-drifted field north of Tydeman's Corners Legs Sadovsky will have driven eleven miles from Eddy's Smoke Shop on Fairfax Avenue, six wild miles with the Highway Patrol cop in pursuit bearing up swiftly when the highway is clear and the girls are hysterical with excitement squealing and clutching one another thrown from side to side as Legs grimaces sighting the bridge ahead, it's one of those old-fashioned nightmare bridges with a steep narrow ramp, narrow floor made of planks but there's no time for hesitation Legs isn't going to use the brakes, she's shrewd, reasoning too that the cop will have to slow down, the fucker'll be cautious thus she'll have several seconds advantage won't she?--several seconds can make quite a difference in a contest like this so the Buick's rushing up the ramp, onto the bridge, the front wheels strike and spin and seem at first to be lifting in decorous surprise Oh! oh but astonishingly the car holds, it's a heavy machine of power that seems almost intelligent until flying off the bridge hitting a patch of slick part-melted ice the car swerves, now the rear wheels appear to be lifting, there's a moment when all effort ceases, all gravity ceases, the Buick a vessel of screams as it lifts, floats, it's being flung into space how weightless! Maddy's eyes are open now, she'll remember all her life this Now, now how without consequence! as the car hits the earth again, yet rebounds as if still weightless, turning, spinning, a machine bearing flesh, bones, girls' breaths plunging and sliding and rolling and skittering like a giant hard-shelled insect on its back, now righting itself again, now again on its back, crunching hard, snow shooting through the broken windows and the roof collapsing inward as if crushed by a giant hand upside-down and the motor still gunning as if it's frantic to escape, they're buried in a cocoon of bluish white and there's a sound of whimpering, panting,sobbing, a dog's puppyish yipping and a strong smell of urine and Legs is crying breathlessly half in anger half in exultation, caught there behind the wheel unable to turn, to look around, to see, "Nobody's dead--right?"
Nobody's dead.”
― Foxfire: Confessions of a Girl Gang
By the time the kidnapped turquoise-and-chrome car overturns--turns and turns and turns!--in a snow-drifted field north of Tydeman's Corners Legs Sadovsky will have driven eleven miles from Eddy's Smoke Shop on Fairfax Avenue, six wild miles with the Highway Patrol cop in pursuit bearing up swiftly when the highway is clear and the girls are hysterical with excitement squealing and clutching one another thrown from side to side as Legs grimaces sighting the bridge ahead, it's one of those old-fashioned nightmare bridges with a steep narrow ramp, narrow floor made of planks but there's no time for hesitation Legs isn't going to use the brakes, she's shrewd, reasoning too that the cop will have to slow down, the fucker'll be cautious thus she'll have several seconds advantage won't she?--several seconds can make quite a difference in a contest like this so the Buick's rushing up the ramp, onto the bridge, the front wheels strike and spin and seem at first to be lifting in decorous surprise Oh! oh but astonishingly the car holds, it's a heavy machine of power that seems almost intelligent until flying off the bridge hitting a patch of slick part-melted ice the car swerves, now the rear wheels appear to be lifting, there's a moment when all effort ceases, all gravity ceases, the Buick a vessel of screams as it lifts, floats, it's being flung into space how weightless! Maddy's eyes are open now, she'll remember all her life this Now, now how without consequence! as the car hits the earth again, yet rebounds as if still weightless, turning, spinning, a machine bearing flesh, bones, girls' breaths plunging and sliding and rolling and skittering like a giant hard-shelled insect on its back, now righting itself again, now again on its back, crunching hard, snow shooting through the broken windows and the roof collapsing inward as if crushed by a giant hand upside-down and the motor still gunning as if it's frantic to escape, they're buried in a cocoon of bluish white and there's a sound of whimpering, panting,sobbing, a dog's puppyish yipping and a strong smell of urine and Legs is crying breathlessly half in anger half in exultation, caught there behind the wheel unable to turn, to look around, to see, "Nobody's dead--right?"
Nobody's dead.”
― Foxfire: Confessions of a Girl Gang
“You said to step on the brake to put us into drive, then to step on the right one to-"
"Not at the same time!"
"Well, you should have told me that. How was I supposed to know?"
I snort. "You acted like the freaking Dalai Lama when I tried to tell you how to shift gears. I told you, one was for go and one was for stop. You can't stop and go at the same time! You have to make up your mind."
From the expression on her face, she's either about to punch me or call me something really bad. She opens her mouth, but the really bad something doesn't come out; she shuts it again. Then she giggles. Now I've seen everything.
"Galen tells me that all the time," she chortles. "That I can never make up my mind." Then she bursts out laughing so hard she spits all over the steering wheel. She keeps laughing until I'm convinced an unknown force is tickling her senseless.
What? As far as I can tell, her indecisiveness almost got us killed. Killed isn't funny.
"You should have seen your face," she says, between gulps of breaths. "You were all, like-" And she makes the face of a drunk clown. "I bet you wet yourself, didn't you?" She cracks herself up so much she clutches her side as if she's holding in her own guts.
I feel my lips fracture into a smile before I can stop them. "You were more scared than me. You swallowed like ten flies while you were screaming."
She spits all over the steering wheel again. And I spew laughter onto the dash. It takes a good five minutes for us to sober up enough for another driving lesson. My throat is dry, and my eyes are wet when I say, "Okay, now. Let's concentrate. The sun is going down. These woods probably get pretty creepy at night."
She clears her throat, still giggling a little. "Okay. Concentrate. Right."
"So, this time, when you take your foot off the brake, the car will go on its own. There, see?" We slink along the road at an idle two miles per hour.
She huffs up at her bangs. "This is boring. I want to go faster."
I start to say, "Not too fast," but she squashes the gas under her foot, and my words are snatched away by the wind. She gives a startled shout, which I find hypocritical because after all, I'm the one helpless in the passenger seat, and she's the one screaming like a teapot, turning the wheel back and forth like the road isn't straight as a pencil.
"Brake, brake, brake!" I shout, hoping repetition will somehow penetrate the small part of her brain that actually thinks.
Everything happens fast. We stop. There's a crunching sound. My face slams into the dash. No wait, the dash becomes an airbag. Rayna's scream is cut off by her airbag. I open my eyes. A tree. A freaking tree. The metal frame groans, and something under the hood lets out a mechanical hiss. Smoke billows up from the front, the universal symbol for "you're screwed."
I turn to the rustling sound beside me. Rayna is wrestling with the airbag like it has attacked her instead of saved her life.
"What is this thing?" she wails, pushing it out of her way and opening the door.
One Mississippi...two Mississippi...
"Well, are you just going to sit there? We have a long walk home. You're not hurt are you? Because I can't carry you."
Three Mississippi...four Mississippi...
"What are those flashing blue lights down there?”
― Of Poseidon
"Not at the same time!"
"Well, you should have told me that. How was I supposed to know?"
I snort. "You acted like the freaking Dalai Lama when I tried to tell you how to shift gears. I told you, one was for go and one was for stop. You can't stop and go at the same time! You have to make up your mind."
From the expression on her face, she's either about to punch me or call me something really bad. She opens her mouth, but the really bad something doesn't come out; she shuts it again. Then she giggles. Now I've seen everything.
"Galen tells me that all the time," she chortles. "That I can never make up my mind." Then she bursts out laughing so hard she spits all over the steering wheel. She keeps laughing until I'm convinced an unknown force is tickling her senseless.
What? As far as I can tell, her indecisiveness almost got us killed. Killed isn't funny.
"You should have seen your face," she says, between gulps of breaths. "You were all, like-" And she makes the face of a drunk clown. "I bet you wet yourself, didn't you?" She cracks herself up so much she clutches her side as if she's holding in her own guts.
I feel my lips fracture into a smile before I can stop them. "You were more scared than me. You swallowed like ten flies while you were screaming."
She spits all over the steering wheel again. And I spew laughter onto the dash. It takes a good five minutes for us to sober up enough for another driving lesson. My throat is dry, and my eyes are wet when I say, "Okay, now. Let's concentrate. The sun is going down. These woods probably get pretty creepy at night."
She clears her throat, still giggling a little. "Okay. Concentrate. Right."
"So, this time, when you take your foot off the brake, the car will go on its own. There, see?" We slink along the road at an idle two miles per hour.
She huffs up at her bangs. "This is boring. I want to go faster."
I start to say, "Not too fast," but she squashes the gas under her foot, and my words are snatched away by the wind. She gives a startled shout, which I find hypocritical because after all, I'm the one helpless in the passenger seat, and she's the one screaming like a teapot, turning the wheel back and forth like the road isn't straight as a pencil.
"Brake, brake, brake!" I shout, hoping repetition will somehow penetrate the small part of her brain that actually thinks.
Everything happens fast. We stop. There's a crunching sound. My face slams into the dash. No wait, the dash becomes an airbag. Rayna's scream is cut off by her airbag. I open my eyes. A tree. A freaking tree. The metal frame groans, and something under the hood lets out a mechanical hiss. Smoke billows up from the front, the universal symbol for "you're screwed."
I turn to the rustling sound beside me. Rayna is wrestling with the airbag like it has attacked her instead of saved her life.
"What is this thing?" she wails, pushing it out of her way and opening the door.
One Mississippi...two Mississippi...
"Well, are you just going to sit there? We have a long walk home. You're not hurt are you? Because I can't carry you."
Three Mississippi...four Mississippi...
"What are those flashing blue lights down there?”
― Of Poseidon
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