“Lex.”

“There’s someone else who can come get me,” I say again. “It’s no problem. Thanks for the offer, though. Some other time I’d love to ride . . . Georgia, okay?”

“You sure?”

“Positive. Thanks.”

I hang up. I try to start the engine again.

Nothing.

I hate the Lemon.

“Crap,” I say to nobody. “Crap!”

I get a flash of Ty’s face, a memory of his brow furrowed in frustration, when I taught him to drive.

“Crap,” he said. He tugged on the shift, making the Lemon groan in protest. “I’ll never get this.”

“You will,” I told him. “But hopefully you’ll get it before you ruin my transmission.”

The car died.

“Crap!” Ty roared. He’d been so moody lately, every ten minutes switching to a different wild emotion. I chalked it up to shifting hormones. It’s a terrible thing to be a teenage boy.

I put my hand over his on the shift, and for a minute I was mad too, that it was me teaching him and not Dad. It should have been Dad.

“Hey,” I said to Ty. “It’s okay. Take a breath.”

He leaned back in the driver’s seat, exhaled forcefully through his nose, and rubbed at his bloodshot eyes. He’d started wearing contact lenses a few weeks earlier. I was still trying to get used to seeing him without his glasses.

“I suck,” he said. “I should just take the bus.”

“You do suck,” I agreed. “But, you know, pretty much everybody sucks at first, and everybody learns to drive, sooner or later, the same way everybody learns how to walk. Step by step. Put your foot on the clutch.” I reached over and turned the key in the ignition, and that time, which happened more than a year ago, the Lemon started right up.

“You can do this,” I told him. “No big deal.”

He nodded. Smiled faintly. “Thanks.”

And then he drove. Not well, not that time, but he got us from point A to point B.

I blink against the memory.

I turn the key, but the engine doesn’t make a sound. Maybe the battery’s dead this time. Maybe my crap car has finally gone belly-up.

I’m hosed.

Of course, there is someone else I could call. I wasn’t lying when I said that to Seth.

Someone who would definitely come and get me.

Someone not Dad.

I stare at my phone.

It would be awkward. Embarrassing. Pathetic, even. But what other choice do I have?

I swallow, hard.

“I can do this,” I whisper, and then I press send. “No big deal.”

Twenty minutes later, Steven’s little car—a blue Toyota Corolla that he shares with his older sister Sarah—pulls up next to the Lemon. His brakes squeak as he comes to a stop. He rolls down the window.

“Do you want me to try to jump you?” he asks.

“Don’t bother.” I want him to expend as little effort here as possible. “I just need to get home.”

He leans to unlock the passenger door and clears a bunch of books and papers off the seat so I can sit down. He waits while I put my seat belt on, then clears his throat and backs us out of the parking lot.

We head north on O Street. It’s fully dark now, and a light snow is falling, catching the street lights. We make small talk for a while: the weather (cold, as always), Ms. Mahoney (awesome, as always), and college plans (still waiting to get our acceptance letters). Then we hit Wyuka Cemetery, its heavy black iron fence stretching along the edge of the road, the graves, old trees, and mausoleums looming beyond it.

Steven and I stop talking as we pass. He clears his throat again, his expression suddenly clouded.

“Lex . . . ,” he starts.

I say, “I know I shouldn’t have called you, but there was nobody else. I’m sorry. Won’t happen again.”

“Of course you should have called me,” he says sharply. “We’re still friends, aren’t we? I thought we were still friends.”

“I don’t know,” I admit. If the definition of the word friend is someone you’re comfortable with, someone it feels good to be around, then Steven and I are definitely not friends.

“I’d like us to be friends, Lex,” he says.

But even coming from him it sounds like a lie.

“Do you want to get something to eat?” he asks as we turn onto 27th. “There’s the Imperial Palace coming up.”

My favorite Chinese place.

That’s where we went out to dinner that night. Does Steven remember?

“No,” I say quickly, before he can turn into the parking lot. “I have dinner waiting for me at home.” An obvious lie. “Plus I have a ton of homework I need to get to,” I throw in for good measure.

He doesn’t call me out on it. We drive for a while, past the restaurant, past a video arcade we always used to go to, past the flower shop where he bought my corsage for the homecoming dance and where we got Ty’s funeral flowers. It’s so quiet I feel like my head is going to implode.

Steven reaches for the radio dial but pauses before he turns it on. “Music?”

Oh God, yes. Music.

“Yes, please.”

We’re flooded with Yo-Yo Ma’s cello playing Bach’s Suite No. 1 in G Major. I close my eyes and let the notes wash over me. This was a bad idea, I think for the thousandth time. But at least we’re more than halfway home.