Free No Right Turn by Terry Trueman Page A

“Did she come by and pick you up?”
    I say to myself, No, I drove Don’s ’Vette—she loves it; it’s an aphrodisiac, better than date drugs or too much beer! But I catch myself and just lie, “Yep.”
    Mom says, “You can use the Honda anytime, you know?”
    I say, “Thanks, Mom.”
    But I say to myself, the Honda … come on … not when I can get my hands on the ’Vette!

FIFTEEN
    Don recently replaced the old, broken radio that was in the Corvette. He ordered a brand-new replica from Eckler’s Corvette Catalog. The new radio looks just like an original; it has CORVETTE in shiny letters across the top, and the dials are old-fashioned-looking. The face of the radio looks analog, like the original radios looked, but when you turn it on, the analog dial fades and a digital face appears, complete with thirty preset stations. The system is wired for a CD player, which Don hasn’t installed yet, and plays cassette tapes.
    For date number three I pick Becka up at her house at six. She’s waiting at the front window, and before I’ve even pulled the ’Vette into the driveway, she runs out to greet me, followed by her two brothers.
    I say, “Hi,” as she opens the passenger door and climbs in.
    She leans over and kisses my cheek, and Billy, the older brother, goes, “Eeeww!”
    Becka gives him a drop-dead look, which makes Brian start to tease us too. “Eeeww.” Brian laughs. “Kissy-kissy little boy-boy …”
    Becka lowers the window and says, “If any sign of intelligent life comes around, please don’t say anything. They’ll lose all hope.”
    This shuts them up long enough for us to make our escape.
    â€œWow!” Becka says suddenly.
    â€œWhat?” I answer, looking around fast.
    â€œYou got a new radio? Or is that an old radio?”
    I’m surprised she’s noticed it so quickly. I explain about it being a replica. But I realize that I haven’t actually tried it out yet. I could kick myself for not getting more familiar with the system before I picked her up.
    â€œCan I turn it on?”
    â€œSure,” I answer, hoping she won’t ask me how.
    She reaches for the left-side button and turns it clockwise, the same thing I’d have done.
    Suddenly Elvis Presley’s voice blasts out at us from all four speakers, incredibly loud. He’s singing “Hound Dog,” and the volume is deafening.
    Becka laughs and turns the sound down just enough for me to hear her ask, “You like Elvis?”
    I say, “What?”—stalling for time. The face of the stereo has the letters PLY and an arrow pointing to the right. This is a cassette. Why would I have an Elvis Presley tape playing in my Corvette if I didn’t like him? Is the tape all Elvis or is there something even more horrible lurking just ahead? Neil Diamond, maybe, or the Partridge Family’s greatest hits—who knows what Don likes? At a total loss for an explanation, I smile weakly, hoping for the best.
    Becka gushes, “Elvis.” Then, sounding almost embarrassed, “The King.”
    I can’t believe that she’s serious, that she actually likes Elvis Presley, but then she sighs and says, “Just listen to him.”
    She’s right; I have to admit that he does have an amazing voice.
    Becka starts tapping her foot. “My parents were Elvis junkies when they were young, way back in the 1950s and 60s. They never grew out of it, and they still play Elvis’s Golden Hits Volume 1 , which I listened to about ten billion times growing up. I know every word to every song. God, what an astonishing waste of RAM.” She laughs. “Heck, I even learned to dance to this stuff!”
    As we drive, I’m stunned by the weirdness of this scene: Here’s this incredibly popular cheerleader-goddess, rocking to Elvis Presley music recorded more than thirty years before we