Part 3 of 3. 

Please read Part 1 "Teaching a Girl to Drive" and Part 2 "A Girl in my Driver's Seat". 

I could tell Beth was close to erupting. She had a scary look on her face, and I’d seen it before. It was a look that spoke of titanic forces shifting beneath the surface. Of vast pressures building, barely restrained and seeking outlet. She hadn’t said anything yet. Just stared at me out of hooded, unnaturally focused eyes. Her complexion was getting blotchy, and I could have sworn I saw bulges forming on parts of her face.

I was standing by the kitchen door. Beth’s 17 year-old daughter Kayla was by the sink watching, biting her lip, looking sick, and shifting from one foot to the other. Beth herself was looking up at me from about three feet away. Head forward, fists clenched, eyes blazing.

I remember thinking that I wished Beth would blink. Then it occurred to me that it had been a long time since she had breathed. A foolish part of me imagined that her head might actually pop, like a character in a macabre cartoon.

I knew she was going to find out eventually. I was going to tell her myself, in fact. When... you know… when the time was right. But Kayla spilled the beans to her younger brother Donovan, and Donnie just couldn’t keep it to himself. He told Mom. And now I had concerns that Beth might actually attempt to homicide me.

When she spoke, it was very quietly, at first.

“You took. My daughter. In that… car of yours. At 130 miles an hour. Is that correct?” she began.

“Now, Beth, context is really important here. Really important. You see…”

“One HUNDRED and THIRTY miles an hour,” she repeated, gaining momentum and volume. “Is that correct?”

This wasn’t going well. I needed a plan. Maybe sneak the context in a little at a time?

“Closed course!” I blurted.

“Shut up!” she shouted.

“Wearing helmets!” I continued.

“Shut UP!”

“Professional instructor!” I tried, in desperation.

“YOU SHUT THE FUCK UP!”

“Mom!” said Kayla, shocked at Beth’s language.

“You go to your room!” said Beth, whirling about preternaturally fast, making her daughter jump.

***

Per her parents’ request, I was teaching Kayla to drive. They had asked me to do so because Beth and Kayla, being far too much alike in many ways, butted heads rather vigorously when Beth had attempted to play instructor. And Steve is a good, kind and wise man who knows he’s a danger to everything and everyone on the road. Plus, I’d completed a number of driving courses – including one in the UK that involved being chased by pretend bad guys.

Kayla had done exceedingly well through our first lessons on roads in her neighborhood. At my insistence, she had also completed an online defensive driving course, passing with flying colors. Now, on a warm and bright Tuesday, I was taking her for a day of highway driving and lunch.

I was also taking advantage of a friendship. My buddy Mickey is a transplanted Brit who works as an instructor and technical director at a private road course a couple of hours from New York. He had generously agreed to spend a bit of time in the passenger seat with Kayla, in my car, on the skidpad near the track.

It’s incredibly important that new drivers learn how to control a car in a skid. As far as I’m concerned, Mickey is about the best there is – not just at driving, but also at teaching driving. So I was very happy about this.

Once again, the kid was quick on the uptake. She had a soft touch with the wheel, and instinctively turned into a skid just enough to restore control. Mickey was more than satisfied when they finished. “Very nice job, young lady,” he said, while Kayla removed her helmet, beaming. She ran over and gave me a big hug.

“Thank you for doing this!” she said, her face pressed against my chest, voice muffled.

“Happy to, kiddo,” I said. “You’re a great student, and I’ve enjoyed spending time with you.”

Mickey looked at his watch. “I’m about done today. Head to the clubhouse for a beer?” A nod to Kayla. “And and iced tea?”

“Brilliant,” I agreed, and the three of us began to walk toward the restaurant.

“Hey, what’s a supercharger?” Kayla asked. “Your car has one, right?”

“Yes,” I said, pleased to profess. “It’s like an air pump – a compressor – that forces more air into the engine under high pressure. That improves the fuel-air mix in the cylinders, where combustion happens. So you get more efficiency and power.”

“Is that what makes your car so fast? How many horsepower does she have?” Kayla wanted to know.

“Well, the supercharger is part of it. She also has a big engine and is built for speed from the wheels up. She produces more than 550 horsepower.”

“That is a very fine car,” Mickey enthused. “One of my favorites.”

“Why didn’t you get a Porsche?” she asked. “Or a BMW? They make the best 4-door cars, don’t they? That’s what Ethan said,” she added, referring to her boyfriend.

“BMW’s are great, but they can’t beat my car. She’s the best sedan on the road. And she’s American-made,” I said with patriotic pride. “Besides, I can’t really afford the big BMWs. Mine’s 30 thousand less,” I grinned.

“What’s the fastest you’ve gone in her?”

“Mmm… pretty fast. Right here on the road course, actually.”

“Really? Could you take me for a drive here?” she asked immediately.

I stopped walking and looked at Mickey, who said: “Well, I could have a look at the schedule. End of day, midweek? Might work...”

***

Beside me, Kayla was screaming. It was good screaming. Think of a big initial Y followed by a long string of A’s, with multiple exclamations points at the end. And repeat.

Mickey had sat in back for a couple of sedate warm-up laps never exceeding 80 mph. Then he hopped out and told me to “Let ‘er rip.” And we proceeded to rip.

The road course was gorgeous, with a perfect surface, exciting changes in elevation and great turns that demand every bit of grip from the car’s brakes and tires. I reminded myself that I would need new tires.

I was pleased with my lines, keeping my speed up on the soft curves, and hitting a late apex on the tight corners.

Maybe the most fun of all was the big straightaway. Enter it, get a chirp of rubber from each gear up to 4^th, hold steady and listen to the muted thunder of Detroit’s very best.

“How fast are we going?” grunted Kayla, eyes on the road, a smile in her voice under her helmet.

“One thirty,” grunted I, smiling just as much under my own helmet.

***

“No! I won’t go to my room,” Kayla shot back at her mother. “God, Mom, I’m seventeen.”

Beth was silent. Mother and daughter glared at each other in a standoff.

“Why don’t we go into the living room?” I suggested, uncomfortably aware that the kitchen contained knives. “Living rooms are good for yelling, too.”

The three of us executed an uneasy dance, eyeing each other and keeping safe distance between us, as we changed rooms and sat.

Kayla spoke up. “Mom, listen, I’ve just learned to drive way better than any of my friends. Safety first, right? I’m going to be a really, really safe driver. I won’t speed or run lights. I know how to handle a car in an emergency. You should be happy.”

Beth opened her mouth, but Kayla forestalled her.

“And going on the track was my idea,” she said. “Everything was super-safe. With a professional driving instructor! It was safe, Mom. Don’t be mad. And it was a lot of fun!”

Kayla smiled and Beth’s anger cooled a little. She looked over at me, her gaze holding less venom.

She pointed at me. “If you EVER…”

“Won’t happen again,” I jumped in, a hand up, palm-out. “And I’m sorry I didn’t ask. I should have.”

“Yes, you should have,” Beth concluded. “Well, then…”

“Oh, Mom, there is one thing,” Kayla interrupted, mischief in her eyes.

She looked at me. It dawned on me what she was thinking of saying. I felt horror. Fear. I shook my head in emphatic negative. I prepared to make a very quick exit from Beth’s home.

“I want to take lessons and start doing kart racing,” Kayla said with a big, sweet smile.

I could hear the row inside the house as I ran fast to my fast car and made a fast getaway.

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