Her heavy foot worked, giving enough juice to the decrepit engine to prod it back into life. We leapt through the air in a lurch of machinery and diesel, the senior gearbox complaining as Hope redlined before clunking into a higher gear.
She didn’t look at me as she death-gripped the steering wheel, doing her best to navigate pedestrians and traffic law.
I pulled my door shut, looking at her from the corner of my eye.
Who was this girl?
Multiple versions of Hope lived inside my head. The timid, ice-cream-loving chatterbox at the movies, the shy morbid-questioning kid from her first ride, the nervous, apologetic girl who thanked me for talking about death, a letter-writing fiend who came across as desperate for a friend, and now this version.
A girl, who at the start, came to us as a refugee for a home-grown family rather than Hollywood fakery and seemed to be polite and sweet and quiet. Had that all been an act, or was this new Hope the imposter?
Because nothing was sweet about her when she was being so damn pushy and dictatorial. Instead of giving me sympathy for my pains, she barked at me like I was a pain in her ass. She snapped her fingers and treated me like some underling. As if she could control me.
It didn’t matter that she was right. At least the part about me driving. I could’ve driven but not all that well. The shooting pains were in my legs now and just sitting in the car’s uncomfortable seats put pressure on areas that screamed in displeasure.
I kept watching her as we drove through town, trying to figure out who she truly was. I didn’t like not understanding people because I didn’t like being surprised. I thought I had her nailed as the try-hard horse-obsessed girl who might giggle and attempt friendship but was a pushover and could easily be told to leave me alone.
This new Hope—or perhaps the real Hope—wasn’t so easily swayed.
“Which way?” she muttered, downshifting as she came to a stop sign.
“Left.” I ignored the urge to massage my spine, cursing the constant pins and needles.
With her tongue trapped between her lips in concentration, she slowed, looked both ways, then turned left and managed to keep the engine idling high enough to switch back into gear and gather speed.
Grudging respect filled me. “You said you’ve never driven before?”
She nodded once, eyes locked on the road. “Never.”
“Not even on your dad’s knee?”
“Not once.” She swiped at a strand of hair tickling her jaw. “He drives the latest model something or other. Most of them drive themselves these days, anyway.”
“Yeah, I saw that there’s a car that’ll parallel park for you. Taking away yet more skills and making humans ever more stupid.”
She threw me a look. “What other skills have we lost?”
“Map reading for one.” I winced as I shuffled, unable to find a comfortable position. “No one reads paper maps anymore. It’s all GPS on their phones.”
Her eyebrow rose. “You’re saying you still read paper maps? I didn’t even think they still printed them.”
I scowled.
Hope’s attention waned as the hulking, ugly hospital came into view. It squatted on the horizon, intimidating and fear-inducing with its prison-like windows, faded red and white paint, and aura of cemetery rather than healing.
I tried for the fiftieth time to get her to change her mind. “Let me make an appointment with my doctor. Honestly, I know you kind of have me as your hostage right now, but the hospital is completely unnecessary.”
Hope slapped on the indicator, pulling left into the car park and casting us in the shadow of the chipped and underfunded medical institution. “A doctor will just refer you to X-rays. You need them now, not in a few days.” Following the signs for A&E, she added, “Besides, your doctor might be sworn to secrecy to keep what happened from your mom, but there will still be a record of your appointment.”
“Huh.” I crossed my arms, studying her closely. “You really are showing your true colours.”
“What colours?” She pulled into a bay of three parks, nosing the wide truck into the middle one, going over the white lines. She should reverse and straighten up. Instead, she unclipped her belt, gave me a chilly look before slipping from the vehicle, and reappeared on my side.
My door swung open as she stood there, foot tapping, impatience bright in her green gaze. “What colours?” she asked again.
“You’re sneaky.”
“I’m practical.”
“You’re tyrannical.”
“I haven’t even started.” She smiled thinly. “Just try refusing to go inside, and then you’ll see tyrannical.”
My heart skipped a beat as she licked her lips, her body shifting as if preparing for a fight.
A physical fight.
With me.
The thought of her manhandling me from the car and dragging me into the hospital made laughter bubble but also a strange sort of other need bubbled too. A need to fight back. A desire to touch her and have her touch me, which was so against everything I stood for that the strange need switched into common nausea, eradicating whatever had sprung between us.