The phone’s red dot is already on. My hands are too small for the wheel. Dad says, from the back seat, “Don’t stop.”
I’m supposed to say it steady. “Time: 9:47 p.m. Street: I don’t know. I’m driving. I’m eleven. I’m recording because Dad told me to.”
The car’s nose is pointing at someone’s mailbox. I shove the gear thing to D and we jump forward and my stomach flips and I taste spit. I yank the wheel and my whole body jerks sideways. The white line shows up under the hood and I aim for it like Dad said. Just follow the line.
Headlights in the mirror. Right behind us.
Dad’s face is blue from the dashboard lights. He’s watching the mirror, not me.
“Signal left.”
I slap at the stick by the wheel until it clicks. The ticking sound is so loud. My hands are slipping on the wheel. Sweat or I don’t know. I turn the wheel and the car tips and I think I’m going to flip us but we just turn. We just turn and the car does it.
“Mirror, signal, breathe,” Dad says. “That’s all it is.”
Then I hear feet running. On the street. Behind us.
My throat closes up.
“Straight,” Dad says. “Hands at ten and two.”
The dashboard lights are too bright. My chest is so tight. The wheel’s shaking. Or I’m shaking. The line keeps coming at me and I keep the car on it and the seatbelt’s cutting my neck every time I move wrong.
The engine behind us gets louder.
I try to say it again. “Time: 9:50, wait, 9:49. Street: I don’t, I’m driving, I’m–” My voice goes high and wrong. I swallow hard. “I’m eleven. Recording.”
A porch light turns on. Señora Valdez is in the street. Trash bin in one hand. She turns. Sees me. Her phone comes up. The screen’s glowing. She doesn’t move. Just stares.
She’s right in front of me.
“Brake,” Dad says, but I’m already doing it.
I push the pedal the smooth way he showed me and the car dips and my chest slams into the seatbelt and I can’t breathe for a second. We stop and don’t slide. Señora Valdez is right there in the headlights. Three feet away. Her mouth’s open.
The engine behind us is so close now. Footsteps. Voices.
“Mija,” Dad says.
That’s it. Just that one time.
Then: “You drive like we practiced, you hear me, and you let the phone tell the truth when your mouth can’t.”
Señora Valdez steps back. Still filming.
“Go,” Dad says. “Don’t look back.”
I push the gas. The car goes. I steer past her. The road gets wider and there’s more lights but everything feels darker.
Something clicks behind me. The door handle.
“Dad–”
“Eyes forward. Merge left. Signal.”
“Dad, no–”
“Now.”
I let off the gas. The car slows. It kind of floats into the turn.
The door opens and cold air rushes in and my throat’s so tight I think I’m going to throw up but I don’t. I hear his feet hit the ground. Both feet. Then his voice, but far away: “Hands are visible. I’m complying. The child is driving to safety. She’s eleven. She’s recording.”
I can’t look. No puedo. I’m crying so hard I can’t see right but my hands stay on the wheel. I hit the signal. I check the mirror even though I don’t want to. The wheel’s vibrating up through my arms into my teeth. I move left and the road opens up and I’m alone.
I’m driving alone.
I’m still crying but the car’s going straight and I’m doing it right. I can’t stop crying.
The red dot’s still on.
Mirror, lane, breathe.
“Time: 9:52 p.m. Street: I still don’t know. I’m driving. I’m eleven. I’m recording because Dad told me to.”
The road keeps coming.
Breathe.
