Free Crossing the Tracks (9781416997054) by Barbara Stuber Page B

she’d insist we get out and dust it,” Dr. Nesbitt remarks.
    A horse and wagon lope ahead of us in the distance. My heart stops.
    Okay.
    Think.
    Which is the brake… find the brake pedal and the parking brake. Just slow down a bit. Don’t stall. My mind’s running faster than the car. Where’s the horn? Where’s the
horn?
    Oh, God. It’s Cecil and Dot.
    They stop. I creep up and stall inches behind them. From the corner of my eye I see Dr. Nesbitt press an imaginary brake pedal on the passenger side.
    Cecil nudges Dot. They swivel around on the seat to face us. “Well, well. What have we here?” I clench the steering wheel, brace for Dr. Nesbitt to put me on the spot, make some smart remarks about my driving—either a brag,
Iris is a whiz behind the wheel
, or a snide
Good thing we stalled, it’s the only way Iris can stop this thing.
But the real Dr. Nesbitt looks from Dot to Cecil to me without saying a word.
    I sit straighter, adjust my sleeves, and watch Dot size things up. Her eyes are wary, not piggy like her father’s. I wonder if he sees Pansy every time he looks at her. Dot curls her lip ever so subtly at me, then smiles at Dr. Nesbitt. I know she’s busy twisting this moment into a string of nasty remarks.
    Cecil spits. “Et looks like your
horsey
stalled out on you, Miss Baldwin.”
    I don’t answer. Cecil’s mare pees in the dirt.
    Dr. Nesbitt asks, “What about that old
horsey
you bought, Cecil? Is that rusted Chevy you’re always tinkering with stillon the fritz?”
    â€œYou know I prefer
ree-al
horsepower,” says Cecil, with what is supposed to be a charming country bumpkin tone. He squeezes Dot’s knee. “I told my girl, ‘A horse’ll stop at a barbed-wire fence. But, I ask you, will a car?’” Cecil gets a self-satisfied expression, as though he’s the first person to be born with brains. “A car will drive right off a bluff, but will a horse?” He folds his arms.
    â€œI don’t know as I can say,” Dr. Nesbitt remarks. “I’ve never seen a horse drive a car.”
    â€œI guess we’ll have to save getting lost for another
day,” he says as we pull up our long driveway and stop. We have churned the dust on dozens of county roads. I’ve learned how to stop without stalling. I no longer head straight into every ditch. I’m getting reverse, and I even wormed around a Sunday driver who was pokier than me.
    Dr. Nesbitt turns to me with a nice smile and asks, “So, Iris, how are you doing?”
    I blurt out, “Besides seeing the Deets… I mean… sorry, but anyway… it’s been the best afternoon of my life!”
    Dr. Nesbitt salutes me with his hat. “Do you learn everything this fast?”
    â€œDriving maybe, but not cooking.” I smile. “Thank you for teaching me.”
    We make a deal to practice before supper every evening until I can go by myself. Dr. Nesbitt gets out, stretches, andkicks the tires.
    I stay in the driver’s seat for a moment. In my mind I see a ribbon of road rolling away from me, like when I was little staring backward out the car window. A feeling leaps in me, a surge toward something—I don’t know what. Driving is like nothing else on earth. I’m not terrible at it. In fact, I love it. I can’t believe it, but I do.
    But, by far, the very best part of the whole day was just now, when Dr. Nesbitt turned and
asked
me how I was doing rather than telling me.

CHAPTER 10

    Mrs. Nesbitt and I cruise through Wellsford with
Henry and Marie, the backseat full of supplies: chicken scratch from the feed store; Borax, coffee, evaporated milk, cornmeal, ink, and Wrigley’s Gum from Fly’s Dry Goods; my silent purchase; and a tank of propane for the range. We have an hour before we pick up Dr. Nesbitt at his office.
    Mrs. Nesbitt looks regal in her earrings and embroidered coat.