Between Then & Now || Currently Editing for Wattys 2022

27.

When I finally get back on the road, my headache subsided for the most part, I'm smiling. I'm not sure if I've stopped smiling since leaving Shepherdstown. It's been about two hours, my GPS finally set back to the next step of my original planned route, New York, and, at every stop for gas, I've been texting Dante back nonstop and responding to Jo and completely ignoring the email still sitting in my inbox. And I've been smiling. Because, finally, Michael doesn't matter and Tessa doesn't matter and knowing wherever the hell I'll be at the end of the summer doesn't matter and, frankly, my father doesn't matter. Because this is my life to live.

I hum to the song playing on the radio, one from a playlist Jo had sent me shortly after I left. Despite her punk-ish appearance, the entire playlist is made of soft indie music which has been proven to be quite nice for a long drive. Easy on the ears. Not going to make me feel like my head is going to explode again. Thelma snores in the passenger seat, and I quickly glance over at her, then back at the road, and I smile even wider. It's pitch black outside, and I'm still two hours out from New York City. But I feel wide awake. I feel alive.

Suddenly, the road is bumpy. My side of the van rises and falls and rises and falls, and I sigh pulling off to the side of the road, knowing exactly what has happened.

When I pull open my door and look at the driver's side front wheel, I find exactly what I expected: the tire is flat. Just completely flat. Like a pancake. Kaput. Thankfully, I remember the spare tire and repair kit that the owners had left me in the back of the van, and run back to grab it.

As I set the kit down, though, I realize that I have no fucking clue how to change a tire. Not at all. Grandpa had taught me a long time again, before I could even drive, but I haven't had a reason to change a tire since.

I stare blankly at the flat. Then over at the spare tire and kit. Then, back at the flat.

Finally, I sigh, and crouch down, inspecting the situation a bit closer. I can do this. If I think hard enough, I can remember what Grandpa told me. And, if not, I have Google.

Something behind the back tires, remember, Lala?

Okay, okay. I open the tool kit, and find two wedge looking things sitting inside. I don't have anything heavy, but, considering they're in a tire kit, I think that might be the whole point of these things. I take them and go to the back of the van to put them in place.

When I come back, the blocky looking thing with a little handle on the end of it stares up at me as I crouch back down.

That's the tire jack.

The metal's cold to the touch as I pick it up and set it underneath the van.

Perpendicular. Under the metal beams, not the frame.

Alright. I turn the handle. And turn it and turn it. It gets a little tougher to turn, but I keep going.

Alright, that's 'nough. It doesn't need to lift the car. Now, take the hubcap and nuts off.

I glance down at the tool kit, searching for the right tool. I eyeball the long, l-shaped tool positioned in the box.

That's the one.

Taking it out and positioning it on the nuts, I turn it counterclockwise, placing it back on a different nut after each one is loosened enough. When I'm done, I look back at the jack, and start turning the instructions flooding back. I turn until the tire is off the ground, and then take all the nuts off, setting them aside. I remove the tire and replace it with the new one, and then replace all the nuts and the hubcap before lowering the car back down and removing the jack.

When I'm done and all the tools are placed back in their right spots, I stand back up and take a step back, slightly into the empty highway to look at my job.

Pretty damn good.

And all on my own.

I keep staring at the new tire. All on my own. Maybe some girls would have called their dad, asked for instructions. And, maybe, their dad would have answered.

All on my own.

The toolkit and tire are heavy when I pick them up, tossing them back into the van and wiping my hands off on my jeans. When I get back to the driver's side, I take a look at the tire again.

All on my damn own. 

Fuck you, Dad.

I didn't need you.

I don't need you.

I swing open the driver's side door, and climb back into the van. Thelma's standing up, probably awoken from the shifting of the car when I changed the tire. As I put my seatbelt on, she waits a second and then lays back down, letting out a big sigh and closing her eyes again.

Before I start driving, I grab my phone. When I finally find the email, I read it again. And then I press the trash icon on the top of the app.

All on my own.