Free No Right Turn by Terry Trueman Page B

were even born.
    Becka does a really funny Elvis imitation. She isn’t lying about knowing all the words, and she sings along to every song. Her best moments are when Elvis turns words like “I” into three syllables, “I … I … I … love you … won’t you lovvve me?” She even sings along with the guitar solos, singing the notes they play, “Do-do-do-wah-wah-wah-do-do-do.”
    The song “I Want You, I Need You, I Love You” plays. Elvis sings like he’s the most hungry, desperate, love-struck guy in the history of the world (man, I can relate), his voice full of passion and desperation. It’s so over the top that even I like it, but hearing Becka sing along makes it all the more wild—it’s both ridiculously funny and at the same time almost good. Becka actually has a great voice!
    We’ve been out for almost an hour, just listening to the music and cruising. It’s been really fun. I definitely think of Becka as my girlfriend now. How demented is that? She’s so beautiful, and at Arlington Park we kissed and made out; she cares about me, she really does, I know she cares and I know—
    She interrupts my fantasizing. “Did your parents love Elvis too?”
    â€œI don’t know.”
    â€œDid your dad ever—”
    I interrupt. “I told you, Becka, I don’t talk about him.”
    She looks a little hurt, but she reaches over and touches me, stroking her fingers down my face. Normally I think I’d love her doing this, but I feel really tense. I blurt out, “My dad’s dead, that’s all, there’s no point in talking or thinking about him—what good does it do?”
    Becka asks, “It was that bad, huh?”
    â€œI don’t know; I don’t talk about it—okay?” Suddenly it feels like my head is going to explode.
    â€œBut Jordan, you have to talk about it someday. It’s such a sad thing, it’s so—”
    Without planning it, I slap her hand away and scream, “Shut up!” as loud as I can. “What do you know about it?! You don’t know anything!”
    Becka looks shocked, but at least she stops talking.
    The car is deadly quiet.
    I should say something, apologize, or try to change the subject, something, anything , but I can’t.
    We’re driving back toward Becka’s house, and in the total silence between us, my mind races back to that day my dad died, that day he killed himself!
    I can see him sitting there, the gun still in his hand; I tried to get him out of the chair and down onto the floor, but he was so heavy that I kind of dropped him. His head made a loud thump when it hit the carpeted floor, and a squirt of blood oozed out of the bullet hole in his temple. He landed on his back, and I kneeled down next to him. My heart pounds in my chest now, just like it did that day. The stubble of Dad’s sandpaper beard scratched at my lips as I tried to breathe life back into him; I remember the stench of death. I can see that horrible look on his face again, so calm and peaceful, and my tears ran down my cheeks and dropped onto his neck and shirt collar. My mind was racing: What will Mom say? What’s going to happen? Why, Daddy? Why’d you do this? What have you done? What did I do? Is this my fault? And what did you mean, “bullshit,” Dad? What’s bullshit? You? Me? Everybody? Everything? Daddy … Dad … Oh, God, please help me, God....
    It all races back—crashing over me.
    I turn into Becka’s driveway, unsure of how I even drove here—it’s like I’m in a trance, but I’m sweating and breathing really hard.
    â€œI …” I start to speak, but Becka is already jumping out of the car. It’s a good thing, ’cause I can’t think of another word. I can’t think of a single thing to say.
    She slams the door of the ’Vette and runs into her house.
    I think