Loving You Differently

Twenty One

Aria Adkins

Exactly one week before her 18th birthday, my not so baby sister climbs into the driver's seat of Austin's Jeep. Austin said something about 10 A.M. being a good time to practice her driving without the roads being too busy, so here we are, up extremely too early for a Saturday.

I'm sitting in the backseat directly behind Austin, my nerves churning in my gut, feeling like a helicopter parent without actually being one. "Please be careful," I murmur with my hands over my eyes, peeking through my fingers with trepidation from the backseat.

Sav and Austin both ignore me.

"Seatbelt," he says.

"On," Sav chirps.

"Rearview mirrors,"

"Adjusted,"

"The engine,"

"Not cranked," Sav and I say simultaneously. "Hurry up before I pass out from heat exhaustion instead of anxiety," I pant.

"Not helping," Sav chimes, promptly turning the key. I sigh in relief when the the Jeep rumbles to life and cold air immediately blasts from the air vents.

"Just for the record I don't approve of this," I mumble dejectedly, as if I hadn't already tried to talk them out of this a thousand times already. Once again they ignore me, Sav zoned in intently as Austin discusses the ins and outs of intersections and right-of-ways.

"Maybe you should write this all down first and then you can try again some time later. Preferably without me in the backseat," I suggest hopefully. Austin laughs and cranes his neck to look at me around his headrest, a backwards baseball hat on his head and a goofy grin on his face. "No better way to learn than a hands-on experience."

"That's what she said," Sav murmurs distractedly, adjusting the lever of her seat. I roll my eyes.

Austin smiles but pauses, peering down to meet my eyes. "If I can manage to learn how to drive in New Orleans traffic, then Savannah can manage the neighborhood. I won't let anything happen to you guys. Do you trust me?"

The nerves in my gut pause and make way for a bout of butterflies. I meet Austin's eye meaningfully. "Yes," I state truthfully. It's quiet as we stare at each other for a second, our stares holding a conversation that our mouths can't say yet. It's too early. Too quick. Too scary. "But I'm not happy about it right now," I cut the tension, grumbling playfully. Austin winks before turning around in his seat, regaining focus.

It's nice to see I'm not the only one being shaken up by these newfound feelings, I internally muse.

Five minutes later when Sav is finally situated, Austin says, "Alright. Keeping your foot on the brake, put the car in drive and slowly inch off of it before gently pressing the gas."

I squeeze my eyes shut, leaning my head against the backseat. "I need a Xanax," I murmur. Austin snorts and quickly clears his throat.

"You're doing good," he states encouragingly. "Alright, slowly make your way down the end of the street and stop at the stop sign. We're gonna turn left."

When Sav abruptly speeds up, I yelp. Raising my head I look up at her and yell, "The speed limit is 25! Do you not see the 'Children at play' sign?!"