One of my favorite things about going to the beach was the radio stations. Steven ignored me, and so I started to fiddle with the radio. “That guy in a wheelchair just lapped us!” “Hey, look,” I said, pointing out the window. “People like you shouldn’t even be allowed to drive.” “If you ever get your license,” he scoffed. “And take your dirty feet off my dashboard.” “Go faster,” I urged Steven, poking him in the shoulder. Even when she slept, she looked alert, like at any second she could wake up and direct traffic.
Meanwhile, my mother was passed out in the backseat. I sat next to him in the passenger seat with my feet up on the dashboard. My brother, Steven, drove slower than our Granna. We’d been driving for about seven thousand years.
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