Celeste Ng - Everything I Never Told You

A few months earlier, a different illicit romance had been brewing. To Nath’s immense disapproval, all spring Lydia had spent her afternoons out with Jack in his car: driving round and round town, or parking the VW near the green quad of the college, or by the playground, or in a deserted parking lot.

Despite what Nath thought, to Lydia’s smug satisfaction, despite the whispers, now and then, when someone glimpsed her climbing into Jack’s car— She’s not, is she? No way. Her? Can’t be— despite Lydia’s own expectations, the truth was much less scandalous. While the college students scurried to class, or kindergartners scaled the slide, or bowlers trudged into the alley for a quick after-work game, something happened that Lydia had never expected: she and Jack talked. As they sat smoking, feet propped on the dashboard, she told him stories about her parents: how in second grade, she’d traced the diagram of the heart from the encyclopedia, labeling each ventricle with magic marker, and her mother had pinned it up on her bedroom wall as if it were a masterpiece. How at ten, her mother had taught her to take a pulse; how at twelve her mother had persuaded her to skip Cat Malone’s birthday party — the only one she’d ever been invited to — to finish her science fair project. How her father had insisted she go to the freshman dance and bought her a dress, and she had spent the night standing in the darkest corner of the gym, counting the minutes until she could go home: how late was late enough? Eight thirty? Nine? At first she tried not to mention Nath, remembering how Jack hated him. But she could not talk about herself without Nath and, to her surprise, Jack asked questions: Why did Nath want to be an astronaut? Was he quiet at home like he was at school? So she told him how, after the moon landing, he had bounded across the lawn, pretending to be Neil Armstrong, for days. How, in the sixth grade, he’d convinced the librarian to let him borrow from the adults’ section and brought home textbooks on physics, flight mechanics, aerodynamics. How he’d asked for a telescope for his fourteenth birthday and received a clock radio instead; how he’d saved his allowance and bought himself one. How, sometimes, at dinner, Nath never said a word about his day, because their parents never asked. Jack absorbed everything, lighting her next cigarette as she flicked the old butt out the window, tossing her his pack when she ran out. Week after week, she tamped down a flare of guilt at making Nath seem even more pathetic — because talking about Nath kept her in Jack’s car every afternoon, and every afternoon she spent in Jack’s car bothered Nath more and more.

Now, in mid-April, Jack had started teaching Lydia to drive. At the end of the month, she would be sixteen.

“Think of the gas pedal and the clutch as partners,” he said. “When one goes up, the other goes down.” Under Jack’s direction, Lydia let the clutch out slowly and tapped the gas with her toe, and the VW crept forward across the empty parking lot of the roller rink on Route 17. Then the engine stalled, slamming her shoulders into the seat back. Even after a week of practice, the violence of this moment still surprised her, how the whole car jolted and fell silent, as if it had had a heart attack.

“Try again,” Jack said. He set his foot on the dashboard and pushed in the cigarette lighter. “Nice and slow. Clutch in, gas out.”

At the far end of the parking lot, a police car pulled in and executed a neat U-turn, pointing its nose toward the street. They’re not looking for us, Lydia told herself. Route 17, out at the edge of town, was a notorious speed trap. Still, the black-and-white car kept catching her eye. She turned the key and restarted the car and stalled again, almost at once.

“Try again,” Jack repeated, pulling a pack of Marlboros from his pocket. “You’re in too much of a hurry.”

She had not realized this, but it was true. Even the two weeks until her birthday, when she could get her learner’s permit, seemed eternal. When she had her license, Lydia thought, she could go anywhere. She could drive across town, across Ohio, all the way to California, if she wanted to. Even with Nath gone — her mind shied from the thought — she would not be trapped alone with her parents; she could escape anytime she chose. Just thinking about it made her legs twitch, as if itching to run.

Slowly, she thought, taking a deep breath. Just like partners. One goes up, the other goes down. James had promised to teach her to drive their sedan as soon as she had her permit, but Lydia did not want to learn in their car. It was sedate and docile, like a middle-aged mare. It buzzed gently, like a watchful chaperone, if you didn’t fasten your seat belt. “After you get your license,” her father said, “we’ll let you take the car out on Friday nights with your friends.” “If you keep your grades up,” her mother would add, if she was around.

Lydia sank the clutch to the floor and started the engine again and reached for the gearshift. It was almost five thirty, and her mother would expect her soon. When she tried to let out the clutch, her foot slipped off the pedal. The car bucked and died. The eyes of the policeman in the cruiser flicked toward them, then back toward the road.

Jack shook his head. “We can try again tomorrow.” The coils of the lighter glowed as he pulled it from the socket and pressed a cigarette to its center, the end singeing black against the hot metal, then orange, as if the color had bled. He passed it to Lydia and, once they had switched seats, lit another for himself. “You almost had it,” he said, wheeling the car toward the exit of the parking lot.

Lydia knew this was a lie, but she nodded. “Yeah,” she said hoarsely. “Next time.” As they turned onto Route 17, she blew a long column of smoke out toward the police car.

“So are you going to tell your brother we’ve been hanging out, and I’m not such a bad guy?” Jack asked when they were nearly home.

Lydia grinned. She suspected that Jack still took other girls out — some days, he and the VW were nowhere to be found — but with her, he was practically gentlemanly: he had never even held her hand. So what, if they were only friends? Most days she was the one climbing into his car, and she knew this had not escaped Nath’s attention. At dinnertime, while she spun stories for her mother about her grades and her extra credit project, or for her father about Shelley’s new perm or Pam’s obsession with David Cassidy, Nath watched her — half-angry, half-afraid — as if he wanted to say something but didn’t know how. She knew what he was thinking, and she let him. Some evenings, she came into Nath’s room, plopped down on his windowsill, and lit a smoke, daring him to say something.

Now, Lydia said, “He would never believe me.”

She hopped out a block early, and Jack turned the corner and pulled into his driveway while she trotted home, as if she’d walked the whole way herself. Tomorrow, she thought, she would pop the car into first and they would roll across the parking lot, white lines whipping beneath the wheels. On top of the pedals, her feet would feel comfortable, her insteps supple. Soon she would glide down the highway, shifting into third, then fourth, speeding off somewhere all on her own.

It didn’t turn out that way. At home, in her room, Lydia flicked on the record player, where the album Hannah had given her for Christmas was already in place — to Lydia’s surprise, she had been playing it over and over. She set the needle an inch and a half from the edge, aiming for the start of her favorite song, but overshot, and Paul Simon’s voice suddenly soared into the room: Hey, let your honesty shine, shine, shine—