The Van Pact

8: Stevie

As I stared at the asphalt rushing beneath my window, I considered the amount of force it would take to break my shoulder blade, should I do a jump and roll from the van while it were still in motion. These types of considerations are always purely theoretical for me, since, as Valerie would say, I'm a chicken shit.

"Oh come on," Valerie jabbed me with her elbow. "You look like I'm kidnapping you."

"You are," I argued. "I could be eating some hummus right now, in my living room, watching Dr. Phil and-"

"Hummus?" Valerie crinkled her nose. "Gross."

"Watching Dr. Phil and-" I repeated.

"OOOO," Valerie again interrupted me. "Look at that JEEP!"

I looked through the windshield at a burnt orange Wrangler in the left lane, top down, a brand new Ariana Grande-Taylor Swift collaboration blaring at top volume. The middle-aged man driving it caught my eye too- black hair threaded with silver, a long, thin nose, dark olive skin and a familiar, wide smile bookended by pleasant, perpetual laugh lines. Mr. DiPaolo. It's uncanny how much he and Valerie look alike.

"Val, you idiot," I said, "that's your Jeep."

"HOLY SHIT," Valerie pounded on the brakes. "SHE LOOKS GREAT!"

As I lurched forward, I glimpsed in the rearview mirror and prayed no one was there to rear end us (residential roads like the one we were on are usually pretty empty that time of day, but you never know). Valerie, responsible driver she was, had already shoved her head out of her window.

"YO DADDY-O!" she shouted. "LOOKING GOOD!"

Mr. DiPaolo turned down his radio and slowed the Jeep to a stop.

"I know why you wanted to do donuts in this baby," he grinned, "I've been speeding the entire way home." He narrowed his eyes. "Don't tell your mother."

"You got it, Papa," Valerie zippered shut her mouth.

"Where are you girls headed to, then?"

I opened my mouth to answer but-

"Wegmans," Valerie said abruptly, and slapped my lap so I wouldn't speak. "Gotta get us some weird Colombian soda."

"Weird Colombian soda?" Mr. DiPaolo lifted one eyebrow.

"Yep," Valerie reached for the shift stick. "K DAD BYE!"

As we sped away, I could hear Mr. DiPaolo call out from the Jeep:

"GET ME ONE!"

***

The middle aged medical secretary in Dr. DiPaolo's office spoke with a Minnesotan accent and wore scrubs with Peanuts characters on them. She had spilled some coffee over one of the Lucys so it looked like the character had grown a brown beard. I stared at the coffee-bearded Lucy and tried not to feel awkward as Valerie and the medical secretary schmoozed.

"No, Pam, I'm telling you, that's what really happened," Valerie leaned across the front desk, her chin propped up on her palms, her elbows on the countertop. "He died from a mosquito bite and then his estate became Downton Abbey."

Pam sucked in her cheeks.

"What was his name supposed to be again?"

"Lord Carnarvon," Valerie answered.