Prepare to Qualify

A Story About Discord, by cacophony

I knew we were all fucked when my father roared into our driveway in a brand-new Mercedes-Benz AMG-GT.  Don’t get me wrong, it’s an impressive car, with an intercooled, twin-turbocharged DOHC V-8 engine, aluminum frame with magnesium alloys. The thing can fly and its worth a fortune. He probably didn’t exactly pay for it, and this fact could very well break our family in half.

“I quit my job,” Dad charged through the door, snatching his necktie off his chest. “We’re moving.” He tossed the strip of cloth on the ottoman and started pacing.

All I could manage was “What the hell, Dad.”

He held up his hands, waving them erratically back and forth and talking way too fast for me to understand him. He’s a second-generation immigrant from India and when he needs to use a lot of smooth words in defense of a terrible idea, he thinks somehow by spilling technical jargon off his tongue as quickly as possible he can force his ideas past your conscious objections and stun your lizard brain just long enough to get his way.

“They don’t respect me,” he said. “They want me to overhaul the entire website back-end in three days. Don’t they know we don’t even have the server architecture to support the userbase the CEO expects? How am I going to make up for that with lines of code? The whole project is a wash. Might as well cash out and use a quick opportunity to build up from the ground somewhere else.” He saw the skepticism in my eyes, the anger. He jabbed a finger at me. “Don’t worry, I’ve got a plan.”

“Okay.” I inhaled slowly as I put down my pencil. “First, where exactly did you get this car?”

“Oh, it’s an import,” he said, without stopping or slowing his pacing for a moment. “From Rashad.”

I folded my hands. “And I take it that it’s not entirely a – ah – above-board purchase?”

That arrested him. “Shh! Not so loud,” he whispered, putting a finger to his lips. “Your mother might hear.” He spread his hands.

She would find out. She always finds out. He just preferred to keep her confused about his plans until it was too late to object. I think he might even be deluded enough to feel that she doesn’t always know exactly what he’s up to.

“The details of my – ah – financial transaction are for me to know.” He smiled, the toothy, winning smile he always uses. My mother always said she fell in love with that smile. “All you need to know is that I got a bonus for a job well done. I saved the company! That’s all your mother needs to know, too. And after I’m done, we’ll be able to start over on the East Coast and you can go to that technical college you’ve always wanted to attend.”

“How are we going to get there?” I sighed.

 “Oh well that’s easy.” His dimples appeared and he tapped his temple with his index finger. “We just take the Interstate.”

“You’re… going to drive a stolen car… on the open road?”

He rounded his shoulders a bit. “Well it sounds dumb when you put it like that.” And coughed nervously.

“That’s because it is dumb, Dad!” I cried out, my voice half an octave higher than usual. “What’s going to happen to this car? Who in the hell is going to buy it?”

He waved his hands dismissively, almost flamboyantly, “Oh, I’ve got it all arranged. You don’t need to worry about that either.”

I gave him a withering stare without saying a word.

“We won’t get stopped.” He held out his hands, palms facing me, a frantic gesture of assurance. “I have it on good authority.”

“From who?” I scoffed.

“Rashad!” He said, as if the answer was obvious. “It’s been detailed differently from factory; the plates have been changed. And,” He thrust a finger into the air. “I have a distraction ready for the police heading out of the city. They might think they can stop it from leaving the county, but they don’t know what’s going to hit them!”

“Oh God,” I said, putting my head in my hands. “This just gets worse and worse.”

“Grab whatever you think you need for a cross-country trip. We’ll be back in a couple weeks to get the rest.” His eyes took on a plaintive gaze. “Go tell your mother.”

“Oh no,” I said. “No, no, no, I’m not going to be the Mom whisperer for this one!”

“You don’t have to convince her of anything! Just tell her there’s been a bomb threat at the office and we need to get out of town.” He put a hand to his chin. “Some kind of hate crime thing.”

“What!” I jumped to my feet.

“Quiet, Zahira!” The lines deepened between his eyebrows. “Trust me.”

I sighed again, deeply and raggedly, and stalked off to find my mother.

She called to me from her small greenhouse in the backyard. “Here, Zahira.” Hunching over a hydroponic grow tray of Bengal Naga peppers, she tended the plants carefully, wearing gloves to protect her sensitive hands from their incendiary heat. She had grown them all her life, but the hydroponics were another of my father’s ideas. A favorite story of his is how my mother almost divorced him when he bought them. He had spent a fortune for top-of-the-line equipment, which nearly bankrupted our entire household’s finances at the time, and he never consulted her first. “But see?” he would laugh. “It turned out beautiful in the end. Now my darling wife can grow them year-round.”

I watched her work. Her mouth was set in a hard line.

“Your father has another hair-brained scheme in mind, doesn’t he?” She didn’t look at me. She didn’t need to.

She knew. She always did.

She didn’t say anything either, carefully examining the peppers, selecting one to add in small portions to tonight’s meal. My father hated spicy food, which was odd, but my mother had to have it. Her spicy, delicious peppers always achieved a legendary reputation in whatever neighborhood we happened to land in on our many journeys. She shared them with anyone who would take them. Usually built up a decent side hustle selling them at market, too.

“There’s uh,” I said. “There’s been some kind of bomb threat.” I coughed. “At the office.”

“Oh really,” she turned to face me, taking off her gloves. “Over what?”

“I don’t know,” I shrugged. “We just need to get out of town. It’s some kind of hate crime.”

“Hate crime?” she said, shocked, and I actually think part of her believed me for a moment. “What kind of hate crime?”

I tried to wing it. “I think it has something to do with outsourcing.”

“Outsourcing?” She laughed. “Zahira, no hate crimes are ever committed over outsourcing.”

I fidgeted a bit, not wanting to be any darker than I had to. “You know what I mean,” I said, annoyed. “The immigrant thing. The threat was…” I whisked an errand strand of hair away from my forehead. “Specific.”

A clouded look came over her face. “I see,” she said.

I let her process this for a moment. My father’s name as a victim. My father’s name in the newspaper. Her worry overruled her disbelief.

 “Well?” My mother put her hands to her hips. “Will we be back?”

I shrugged. “That I don’t know.”

I couldn’t make out her next few words, but she muttered what I can only assume were the foulest curses she could muster as she turned to place her gloves in the proper drawer in a small toolbox that held her equipment. She verified that everything was properly arranged, then placed the box under the table that held the hydroponic tray.

“I swear to you Zahira, that man is going to have to pick somewhere to put down roots at some point or it’s going to be the death of me.” She sighed. “I’m going to have to divorce him for some 90-year-old that can barely walk.” She snatched her knapsack by the strap from the back of her chair.

I stifled a laugh and followed her into the house.

“Alright then, Jivin!” she shouted as she strode into the hallway where Dad was gathering a few things from his “spare” closet. She shouldered the knapsack as he turned to face her. She planted herself almost nose to nose in front of him. “Let’s get on with whatever damned quest you’ve taken up today.” Her jaw was set. It shifted a bit as she summoned her determination. A lesser man would have quailed.

He spread his hands and smiled in an attempt to disarm her defenses. He always tried this, but it never worked, and usually just pissed her off. “My darling Tanesha,” he said, “the ‘quest’ as you call it, was forced upon me.”

“I know you well enough to know that is as unlikely as it is likely.” But still the veil of concern for his safety darkened her features. I bit my lip. Maybe I did lay it on a bit thick.

My father began scurrying about the living room now, probably thinking this would serve as a distraction, as he haphazardly started tossing items in a large duffel bag. “We’ll be gone for two weeks,” he said, “then we’ll come back to arrange for the movers.”

“Where are we going?” she sighed.

“Chapel Hill, North Carolina.” My father beamed. “Where young Zahira is destined to be top of her class in her pursuit of a dream career in Automotive Technology.”

I scratched the back of my head. 

“No pressure, right, Dad?” I said, rolling my eyes as he looked away.

“She will!” Mom said, glancing at me. “And I’m not being sarcastic. I have no doubt in you, Zahira.”

My face flushed. We weren’t fooling her. Not even a little.

“Anyway, why are we standing here talking? We need to get our stuff and roll out.”

Mom shook her head and began collecting clothing, toiletries, and other essentials she knew would be necessary over the next two weeks, in contrast to my father’s rather random assortment of stuff he thought was “cool.” I shook my head, as well, and before I knew it, I was once again standing in the doorway of my bedroom deciding what I couldn’t bear to lose.

My eyes scanned the array of expertly framed automotive posters that I had collected over the years. They were displayed beautifully thanks to my mother’s handiwork. I had some great ones too, posters of old classics like the Lamborghini Countach, as well as more recent models such as the Bugatti Veyron.

Yeah, these posters were far from essential. They would all have to stay. I smiled wistfully, thinking of all my elaborate plans for myself that my parents knew nothing about. Then I dislodged my suitcase from a Tetris-like stack of belongings in the closet, and got to work.

When everything was together, we made our way to the Mercedes in the driveway. Mom’s mouth was twisted and tight as we all listened to the faint singing of sirens in the distance. My father always made it a point to live in a city’s center, with the “people.” His true motivation was more selfish. He wanted to be close to the downtown office complexes because he hated to drive. The more I thought about it, the more I realized this whole adventure was laughable on its face and in almost every similar set of circumstances, doomed to a spectacular failure. At the same time, I knew my father. Somehow, some way, it would be exactly what our family needed.

“I still can’t believe we’re going through with this,” I said.

“You said it,” quipped my mother.

“Dad, do you ever think anything through other than your equations?”

Dad didn’t say anything, he was busy making sure whatever little toys he had collected from the closet weren’t broken.

“Who’s going to drive?” Mom asked. “If someone has threatened you with a hate crime, Jivin, you might not exactly want to make yourself highly visible.”

“Excellent poiint!” Dad said. “Zahira is going to drive. I’ll be in the trunk.”

I was stunned. Me? Drive that? I couldn’t believe my luck! I came to my senses and realized my mother’s jaw had practically dropped to the ground.

“What the fuck!” she shrieked. “Zahira is only seventeen years of age! She’s only been driving for a year!”

Oh mother, I thought. If only you knew how I’d been driving in that year.

“And the trunk? What are you thinking!”

Dad looked startled for a second. What kind of reaction was he expecting, anyway.

Dad tried to “shush” Mom with a calming gesture by moving his hands up and down. “Listen, Tanesha, listen,” he cooed, as his face took on a pleasant, genial expression. “It’s like you said. Somebody knows my name. They know I’m a target for this hate crime. What’s more, the police know it. If somebody were to discover that I was behind the wheel of a stolen car, things could get very bad for all of us.”

The gears in my mother’s mind started turning. Judging by her face, whatever conclusions she was coming to were not very pleasant ones, and as a result, she was forced to accept my father’s reasoning. She approached the back of the car, opened the trunk. “Are you going to be alright in there, Jivin?” She looked inside. “What? What the hell is all of that?”

Inside the trunk was a small collection of snacks along with a six-pack of small bottles of pineapple juice. Clearly Dad had made a stop at the produce market. I spotted a Game Boy with a backlit screen and a travel-sized pillow. My father shrugged. “Just a few things to keep me occupied until we are comfortably out of state,” he said with a bit of embarrassment.

“Lord have mercy on our souls,” She tossed her bag into the trunk, and pointed to it. “Go ahead, Zahira, get everything loaded in there, looks like you are going to be in charge at least until we get somewhere that we are less likely to be arrested on the spot!”

The tiniest little squeal of joy escaped my lips.

“This is not a party, Zahira!” She jabbed her finger in my face. “This is very serious, and I want you to treat this drive as though all our lives depend upon it.”

I regained my composure. “Of course.”

“Jivin Kurmi the Criminal Mastermind,” Mom scoffed, and crossed her arms.

I bit down on my lip to hold back a giggle.

Dad quickly clambered into the back and arranged his little pile of manchild distractions. He contorted himself into an extremely compact pose inside the trunk. I leaned over and whispered stridently in his ear, “Dad, this is such a cool freakin’ car! I can’t believe I’m going to get to drive it!”

He almost looked comfortable folded into that trunk. He flashed me a thumbs up. “It is really cool, isn’t it?”

Then he turned his head to Mom and smiled widely. “Don’t worry, Tanesha,” he said. “Everything will be fine!”

She just slammed the trunk on him without a word.

“Hey!” he shouted in protest.

This was going to be the best day of my life.

I crossed to the driver’s side of the car, rubbing my hands together in the veritable lust of anticipation, and got behind the wheel as my mother dutifully took her place in the passenger’s seat beside me. Familiarizing myself with the instrument panel, I located the ignition switch and noted that the E-brake on to prevent the car from accidentally rolling down the rather steep incline of our driveway. I readied myself.

“Zahira,” Mom clutched my arm. “Look at me.”

I looked. Her face was an atlas of concern and dismay. “Are you sure you’re going to be able to handle this? Things could get really tricky.”

“Mother,” I smiled. “You have no idea how well I am going to handle this.”

Mom mirrored my smile, satisfied for just the briefest of moments, crossed her arms, and turned to face the road.

I pressed the ignition switch.

The engine roared to life, all eight cylinders of it, pregnant with potential, aching to respond to my every touch. I was ready to show the world what I could do. 

A shrill ping announced a new text message on my phone. I fumbled around to find it. Then the phone chirped again, annoyingly, and again.

Practically jerking it out of my hip pocket, I flashed it an irritated gaze as I started reading the text messages. They were from Dad.

Turn on radio

Tune to 98.1

Will help

“What the—?” I couldn’t help but blurt.

“Something wrong?” my mother asked.

“No, no,” I said distractedly, turning on the radio and twisting the dial to the suggested wavelength.

Immediately an almost stream-of-consciousness fusillade of police chatter overwhelmed my ears. I could hear references to units, codes, streets, descriptions of my father’s office building, and all other sorts of information related between the police, firefighters and other first responders handling the scene at his office.

My god, did Dad actually plant a real bomb? I shook the thought out of my head and focused on a far more important one. ­­What did my father expect me to do with this police radio? Outrun the cops? It’s barely even in English! I thought this was going to be an uneventful drive?

I felt Mom’s eyes boring into me from the passenger seat. I didn’t exactly know what to say, so I cleared my throat, released the E-Brake, put the car in gear, and carefully backed out of our driveway. I took a final look at our house in case I never saw it again.

I paid close attention to the radio as I drove. From what I could tell the first responders were almost entirely occupied by a “parcel of interest” found somewhere in the boiler room of Dad’s office building. Mom seemed distracted by my driving performance, making little quips that I needed to drive more carefully, pay more attention to the road, so she paid little attention to the lingo coming out of the speakers. I almost completely ignored her because I was far more concerned at the massive stack of federal crimes of which my father was going to be considered an accomplice. Or found guilty.

My phone chirped. Dad, you told me never to text and drive, remember?

“Grab that will you please, Mother,” I gestured to the phone resting on the center console.

Mom picked it up. She read in a deadpan tone, “Cool. Isn’t it.”

I navigated my way through the downtown area, trying to drive carefully while keeping abreast of the police response and avoid what I could best determine were the most likely areas of town I might encounter patrolling cars. I hadn’t spent much time in the city. Most of my time behind the wheel had been spent either practicing or in a very regimented environment.

I heard something over the radio that sent a lightning bolt down my spine. “11-54, recent model luxury red Mercedes. Suspect 503 matching description of the perp who left the parcel. License plate GMT-143. Probably going to make a run for the state line. We should head it off before it hits the bridge.”

I had just taken a right for the bridge. 

I was driving a recent model luxury Mercedes.

It was gray though. Dad had thought of everything.

I almost slammed on the brakes and leapt out of the car.

Instead, I brought up the car’s console GPS and plotted an alternate route. Shit, the next turn was right here. I pressed hard on the brake and slid into the corner. The car threatened to fishtail, but I had been through it all many times. I cut the wheel slightly in the direction of the skid, righting the car’s course, but not before my mother lurched into my right side. “What the hell are you doing, Zahira?” she screamed.

I just waved my hand at her. “Something is happening.”

Mom’s lips pursed, but she kept her silence.

I spotted a hole-in-the-wall liquor store nearby. I could cut in behind there and consider my next move.

“Why are we stopping?” Mom asked.

“Shut up, Mom.” I snapped. “I need to think.”

She looked like I had slapped her.

My mind was moving a mile a minute. I studied the GPS. I didn’t know this area very well – at all really – but the street map seemed to indicate that if I took a roundabout way through a dense section of side streets, I might be able to slide in via an access road to the bridge. It was key that I get there first. I marshaled my entire year of driving experiences, all the times on the track, all the time in the simulator, and steeled myself.

Time to see what this baby can do.

Without warning I jammed the gear into reverse and rocketed back out of the rear parking lot of the liquor store. My mother’s mouth made an oh shape while my stomach lodged itself in my throat. I began whipping around through one-way streets, ignoring stop signs and traffic signals, navigating between oncoming cars and narrow alleyways to find what I thought might be the best way to my destination. My attention was laser focused on my mission. It was like I was in a tunnel, and the only thing I could see was myself rocketing across that bridge to the Interstate.

“Zahira! What the hell are you doing!”

I didn’t say a word. I glanced at the GPS. On track so far.

Out of the corner of my eye I spotted the blue trim of a police vehicle.

Shit, time for another route. I punched several keys on the GPS, saw an opening, and cut the car through an alleyway scattered with garbage bags. The car bumped up and down as the garbage bags burst apart.

I wheeled the car out of the alleyway and onto a through road. It was a clear shot now. The access road was just ahead. I gunned it. A semi roared its horn and its driver flipped me off as I sped between it and another car a lane over. I didn’t know exactly where the police car was, but my intuition placed it somewhere behind me and to the left.

Mom’s knuckles were startlingly white for a woman of color, gripping the center console and the passenger door handle.

I heard lots of thumping going on in the trunk and realized it had been going on for awhile. Had Dad been injured?

My phone pinged in a steady tempo of texts. He had to be mostly okay. I ignored the phone. It was in the floorboard now, anyway. 

I cut the wheel towards the onramp and onto the access road. In the rearview I could see a cop car parked at an intersection near the bridge. I saw a flash of red and blue lights. I was on the bridge. Six lanes of bridge under my wheels and traffic was light. It was all over now. I had won.

I opened her up. “Show me what you’ve got,” I whispered to the Mercedes.

I could hear the sirens behind me, barely registering the shouts of command coming from the police radio beneath the din.

They didn’t have a chance.

Swerving between cars and traffic cones I exploded off the other end of the bridge and out of downtown. I could barely even hear the sirens now. I pretended they were chasing someone else, and I was just going for a joyride.

I was home free.

—

We were two counties over before I slowed down. My mobile phone had been pinging non-stop but I paid no attention. I was on an adrenaline rush. I pulled over at a small bakery called World O’ Donuts, with a big plastic donut as the “O” in the sign. I figured at the very least we could take a break and plan for the rest of the trip.

I heard the trunk spring open before I could even get out of the car. Dad popped out, waving his arms up and down and making little hops. “Great Scott! Did you get in a car chase, Zahira?” He laughed uproariously. “My amazing daughter! You got us out of it! Where in the heavens did you learn to drive like that?” With him, I knew it was more of a rhetorical question. He shook his head. “We’re in the clear now. I can’t believe it.”

Mom, still in the passenger seat, looked a little green.

“Oh, right,” Dad said to himself. Then he pulled a temporary license plate out of the trunk from our city’s Mercedes dealer and began attaching it to the rear bumper of the car. For such an absurd man he was unexpectedly prepared.

Returning the screwdriver to the mini tool kit in the trunk, he straightened to his full height and clapped his hands together. “Now, time for some donuts.” Mom made a slight retching noise. Dad’s enthusiasm faded. “Tanesha, are you alright?”

“I think I’m going to be sick,” she said miserably, putting a hand to her mouth.

“Here, let me help you inside,” Dad said, with soft eyes and a deep frown. He offered her his arm to pull up out of the car. He can be a gentleman when he thinks of it!

I watched in amazement as my odd couple parents slowly made their way inside.

I noticed my parking space had a handicapped sign in front of it. Shit. This was the only spot because the place was packed. Thinking maybe it wouldn’t be flagged if I were at the helm, I settled back into the drivers’ seat.

That’s when the cop car pulled up beside me. In the next handicapped spot over.

I froze.

The cop got out of the car. Not even a trace of a smile.

My heart started pounding.

He hadn’t registered anything unusual.

He was a State Trooper. Maybe he hadn’t been looped in. Maybe I’ll be alright. I’ve got to be alright.

The cop blew out a deep breath, noticed me, the young six foot teenage girl at the wheel of a car costing over a hundred grand.

My stomach fell through the floorboard and smacked onto the asphalt.

He ambled over to the window, rapped on it lightly. He seemed bored.

I rolled it down, all smiles. “Good afternoon, Officer!” I said chirpily. “How can I help you?” My mind was racing.

“You know you’re parked in a handicapped zone?” he barked.

I wanted to say, So are you. But I just swallowed and started babbling.

In one breath I splurted: “I’msorryIjustgotthiscarit’smybirthdayI’mlearningtodriveIdon’tknowwhat
I’mdoignmyDadisinside—”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa, whoa.” He held out both hands. “Slow it down a notch?”

 I cleared my throat. “What do you want to know?”

“The handicapped zone.” He pointed to the sign. “You’re parked in it.”

I remembered the temporary license plate. “I’m sorry officer, I didn’t notice. I just started driving. I just got this car.”

“Oh yeah?” he said, and raised an eyebrow. “And where did you get it?”

“I don’t know, sir, my Dad got it for me, it’s my sixteenth birthday today. I’m learning to drive.”

“You seem nervous,” he said, putting his hands on his hips.

I just smiled. Any moment I expected him to ask for license and insurance and I’d be fucked. An achingly long moment passed.

He scratched his nose. “Where’s your father?”

“Inside, with my Mom. I think they’re getting coffee and donut holes.”

My father came out of the shop brandishing exactly those refreshments. Oh fuck. Oh holy fuck. This was bad.

The cop was focused intently on my expressions.

I gripped the wheel.

“And the handicapped spot?”

I shrugged and said extremely loudly through the rolled-down window. “IT’LL ONLY BE A MINUTE OR TWO, OFFICER. I’M SURE MY FATHER WILL BE BACK ANY SECOND TO EXPLAIN.” The officer looked at me quizzically.

My Dad’s head jerked up.

“Uh huh.” The cop said.

About that time his radio started barking instructions.

He grunted and leaned into my window.

“You have a nice day now. Enjoy the car.”

I looked to my father. He was no longer there.

The cop got in his car and drove off.

I yanked open the door, leaned over the lip of the floorboards, and dry heaved for about five minutes straight.

When I had regained my composure, I felt Dad’s hand on my shoulder.

“You did good, Zahira,” he said, his eyes twinkling with pride, gazing down at me as though he were the model of an ideal father figure.

I looked over at the door of the donut shop. My mother had been watching through it. She came out of the shop, walking rigidly, holding her head aloft.

“Get in the back, Zahira,” she said acidly. “I’m driving.”

Both of us knew better than to object, so I sat my butt in the car’s back seat. Dad lowered himself into the passenger seat with a slightly defeated look. Mom got behind the wheel, adjusted the mirrors, and the steering column. After testing the brakes, she pressed the ignition switch and sat there, glowering.

Dad and I waited in silence. No way either of us would chime in and make her even more angry.

Her rant, the one we knew was coming, was a thundercloud on the horizon. I could see it building behind her tight lips. She lifted a finger to speak, not once, but twice, then paused a moment to gather the words.

 “What the ever-living FUCK were you thinking, Jivin! This is – by a longshot – the absolute worst ­thing you have ever done to this family! Do you have any idea how close we came to all of our lives being completely ruined – forever? If it weren’t for Zahira’s expert driving and calm under pressure, it would have! That’s not something you want to put on a teenage girl! For fuck’s sake, she could have been arrested! Our baby with a criminal record!”

Dad and I stayed occupied with the study of our shoelaces.

“Jivin, just because you have a brilliant mind doesn’t mean you have any common sense! You can barely even manage to tie your shoes most of the time!” The words flowed out, a torrent of fear and anger. “Every single blessed cockamamie scheme that comes out of your head isn’t automatically guaranteed to work out. Just because you were valedictorian of your class in school doesn’t mean you’re graced with good sense! My friends all warned me this day would come. My mother never wanted me to marry you. She said you were a disaster looking for a place to happen!”

He sat still for a moment gnawing on the inside of his bottom lip.

“But it wasn’t a disaster, Tanesha,” he said softly without looking up.

My mother’s eyes were knives. She had no response to that. Her mouth worked angrily as she clearly had far more to say.

“That remains to be seen,” was all she managed. She put the car in reverse and backed away from the donut shop.

—

The remaining drive was long and tense and blessedly uneventful. The Mercedes was heavy with silence, fraught with unspoken acrimony and resentment. When we cleared the desert and got to the Plains States, my father started giving directions to a “business” in a small town just up ahead. He wouldn’t elaborate.

It was a junkyard.

“What the fuck,” I mumbled to myself.

“Pull up there, next to the car compactor,” Dad said, oblivious.

“Jivin, I swear to God,” Mom said. “After all that you’re going to have this car destroyed!”

“Just trust me,” he grinned.

He snatched the key fob and trotted to the back of the trunk, where he grabbed his Game Boy and ducked into a small shack attending the compactor.

He was in there for what seemed like an eternity.

An oily mechanic came out with the keys and walked over to the driver’s side.

“Shame to do that to a car like this,” he said plainly. My mother just nodded and got out. So did I.

I watched sadly as the mechanic drove the pristine Mercedes into the compactor. I don’t think I have ever been more disappointed. All that waste.

Dad came out with two briefcases piled in his arms, barely managing to walk straight due to the weight. He stumbled over to us. “There’s two million in non-consecutive hundreds in these cases,” he said, beaming. 

“Not so loud!” my mother hissed, looking around.

“Dad,” I leveled my gaze at him. “What exactly did you sell to that guy?”

“Ah! That’s for me to know.”

I rolled my eyes and turned toward the junkyard’s exit. I thought I saw out of the corner of my eye my mother drop something small into the wheel well of one of the rusty cars nearby. Her face held a rapturous smile for just a half-second before she composed herself. That’s odd, I thought.

“Tanesha, help me carry these.” Dad grunted. Mom rushed to his side, recovering her typical icy stare. 

“Zahira, I used some of the money to buy an old junker. Get it started for me, would you?” Dad barely managed to fumble the keys into my hand.

While they were occupied with the cases I scurried to the old car and crouched, pretending to remove a rock from my shoe. On the ground just behind one of the front wheels was an old-school Nokia phone. I used one of these sometimes in my work. Why did my mother even have this? 

Mom dropped one of the cases and Dad bent to help her pick it up. I heard harsh whispers. She was chewing him out for something again, probably. While they were distracted I snatched the phone from where it had been discarded and hurriedly paged through the cumbersome interface to the sent messages.

There, in gray and black, below a number I didn’t recognize: “Jivin had no idea.”