The Title With Her Name First
What she did not know was the title. I never thought to tell her. It did not seem like the kind of thing that would matter to anybody but Kaylee.
Back in the yard, Kaylee unfolded the envelope and took out the title.
Her friends crowded in a little on both sides, a couple of the band girls and a tall boy named Jacob who plays the tuba and blocks everybody’s view of everything.
She read it with her lips moving, the way she used to read cereal boxes. Then she read it out loud, slowly, to nobody in particular.
“Kaylee Doyle,” she said. “Or Austin Rademacher.”
She looked up at me. “Why is my name first?”
“Because it’s your car,” I said. “I’m only on there because you’re sixteen. When you’re eighteen I sign my half over and it’s all yours.”
One of the girls, Madison, said, “Oh my gosh,” under her breath. Jacob the tuba player said, “Dude,” which I believe from him is high praise.
Somebody at the back of the yard started clapping and then stopped, because nobody else was.
Kaylee read the title again. I watched a yard full of kids watch her read her own name on a piece of paper from the Commonwealth of Kentucky, the first thing in her life that was legally, completely hers.
Then she did something I did not expect. She did not run to the car. She did not squeal.
She folded the title back along its crease, very carefully, and put it in the envelope, and held the envelope and the key together against her chest.
On the porch, Crystal had not moved. She was in her black top with her dark hair down, one hand on the porch post.
I could not read her face from the yard. I did not try very hard.
“Can I drive it?” Kaylee said. “Like, right now?”
She’d gotten her learner’s permit two days before, on Thursday, the day after her birthday.
I was the one who drove her to the licensing office in Danville, because Crystal had a bridal party booked at the salon from seven in the morning on.
Kaylee had passed the written test with one wrong, a question about following distance. She’d sulked about it the whole way home and I’d told her one wrong was better than I did.
“On a permit,” I said, “you need somebody twenty-one or older in the front seat. That’s the law. And you’re home before midnight no matter who’s with you.”
“I know,” she said. “You made me read the whole booklet.”
“I did,” I said. “Twice.”
She looked at the porch, where her mother was. Then she looked at me. I could see her working it out, and I’ll be honest with you, I braced.
I was ready for her to walk to the porch. It would have made sense. Crystal is her mother. That is a fact, and it does not change.