Destination vindication

by Juli Heaton

My smile faded as I climbed into Dad's SUV. “What is that thing on the dash?”
     “My new toy.” Dad reached out to pat the small black device.  “GPS Navigation.  Amazing, isn't it?”
     “Amazing,” I grumbled.  Dad's new purchase was going to ruin my plans for our trip.  All those hours of strategizing, wasted. 
     “I'll drive first,” he said, “just to test the navigation system.  Then you can start logging those two thousand interstate miles.”
     Dad fancied himself a professional driver.  He worked as a sales rep and traveled all over the southeast visiting his customers.  He drove a lot of miles every year.  Since he was an expert, he had decided to develop an intensive driving training program for his two unfortunate kids.  My friends whipped around the block a couple times, and then their parents cut them loose.  I'd already driven two thousand miles last summer before he'd let me test for my license. 
     My nineteen-year-old brother, Dylan, hopped into the backseat.  He wore his standard black rocker t-shirt and khaki cargo shorts.  We were delivering him to his summer internship in New York City.  He had wanted to fly, but Dad thought I'd enjoy seeing the city. 
     “I can't believe nobody has a car in New York,” Dylan complained, yet again.
     “You won't need one,” my father assured him, fiddling with the GPS device. 
     “At least he let you take yours to college,” I said, not for the first time.  My father didn't think having me driving around in Atlanta, five hundred miles from his interference, was a good idea. 
     “Not again, Amanda.”  Dad started the car and backed out of the driveway.
     As he clicked the car into drive, the box on the dash said in a sultry female voice, “Proceed to Interstate 40 West.”
     “Nice,” my brother said.  “I like her.  When did you buy that?”
     My dad grinned.  “Yesterday.”
     I knew my brother well enough to know he'd probably buy one himself just to have that voice talking to him.  Since I had an agenda on this trip, I tried to hold my tongue.  Dad's purchase had blown Plan A out of the water, but Plan B had potential. 
     Dad turned on the CD player.  No way could I handle twelve hours of my father's outdated music.  According to my dad, the car was not a democracy, and we did not vote on the sound selections.
     “Dylan out,” said my brother, turning on his MP3 player.
     I hadn't allowed myself to pack mine.  “Will you be able to hear your, um, GPS thing with the music on?”
     “Oh,” Dad said, looking over at me.  “Good point.”  He turned off the radio.
     Score one for Amanda!
     “Sandra,” Dad said.
     “Huh?”
     He nodded at the dash.  “I named her Sandra.”
     “You named her?”  Wasn't that kind of weird?
     “I didn't want to keep calling it the X57GH9.”
     Still, Sandra?  “I liked 'the thing' myself.”
     Dylan drummed on the back of my headrest prompting me to turn and smack at him.
     “Didn't you bring a book to read?” Dad asked as we merged onto the interstate.
     “Yeah.”  I'd brought six.  I reached down and pulled one out of my bag.
     “Continue on this route for two hundred and forty seven miles,” Sandra said. 

•

     Dad finally decided I should take the wheel after our bathroom break.  I hated driving with him.  He watched every move.  After adjusting the seat, I buckled the seat belt, nudged the rear view mirror, and started the ignition.
     I glanced in the mirror to see Dylan pulling out his ear buds in order to torment me.  He loved when Dad made me drive.
     “Dad can you turn that thing off, first?”  This Interstate ran into the next.  I really didn't need her.  It.
     Dad's disappointment showed in his eyes, but he switched her off.
     “This should be fun,” Dylan said from the back seat. He took a loud slurp of his giant soft drink.
     “Does he have to take a shift?” I asked Dad.
     “Sure,” Dad said.  “Um, after you.”
     I rolled my eyes.  Dylan didn't have to prove himself.  He'd let Dylan take his car to college.  I shifted into drive and hit the gas a little too hard just because I could. 
     “Oops,” I said as Dad grabbed at the dash.  “Just getting adjusted.”
     I'd barely hit the Interstate when Dad started with the bossiness and quizzing. 
     Just ahead of me, a semi’s left turn signal came on to indicate the driver wanted to merge left.
     “Fla-” Dad started.
     “Flash my lights.  I know Dad.  I've been driving for over a year now.”  I flashed my lights to let the driver know he had room to merge in front of me.  “See,” I said, as the driver thanked me by double blinking his rear lights.
     Dad nodded at the evidence of my knowledge.
     “Trucks transport about seventy-five percent of all goods,” I said.
     “Dude,” my brother said.  “Did you get hit in the head with a soccer ball again?”
     “No.”  I took a deep breath.  “I just thought it was interesting.”
     “I'm glad you're taking an interest,” my dad said.
     “Oh, I get it,” Dylan said.  “You're brown-nosing Dad.”
     “Am not!” I screeched, allowing my inner eight-year-old a brief escape. 
     “Dylan,” my dad warned in his don't-tick-me-off voice.
     Calm down, I told myself.  Show Dad how mature I am.  Thanks to Sandra, I'd wasted a ton of time preparing.  I wasn't going to throw away all my research too.
     Dad shook his head.  “Make fun, Dylan, but we all know you'd be crying if the drug store ran out of your hair gel.”
     I cracked up.  “Nice one, Dad.”
     “Hey,” Dylan said.
     But really, what could Dylan do?  It was Dad taking a crack at him.
     Maybe the trip wouldn't be so bad.

•

     “We should do this more often.”  Dad had taken back the driver's seat, and he'd opted to hear his music instead of Sandra. 
     The sun had set, and Dylan's gripes about muscle cramps in his long legs had earned him the passenger seat. 
     “Yeah, right,” my brother said.
     I'd spent most of my childhood riding in the backseat of the family car on the way to some place or another.  The only difference on this trip was that we were heading far north rather than south or west.  My lips curving into a smile, I leaned my head against the cool windowpane and stared out into the darkness. 
     The repetitive sounds of the wheels on the pavement lulled me to sleep as they had so many times. 
     The sudden sensation of Dad braking to a stop woke me.  “What's going on?” I asked.
     “Looks like an accident up ahead,” Dad said.
     I could see red tail lights winding through the darkness in front of us. 
     “I should have bought a CB radio,” my dad muttered.  “The truckers always know what's going on.”
     “Can't we call one of those numbers on our wireless?” Dylan asked.  “Look, Dad.  There's an exit right there.”
     Dad took one last look at the line of lights and turned on his signal.  Ten minutes later, we'd made it off the exit.
     “Wow,” Dylan said.  “We're really in the middle of nowhere.”
     “No problem,” Dad said, switching on his GPS.  “We've got Sandra.”
     My father was so not cool.
     “Here we go,” Dad said.  “Got it.”
     “Turn around at the next opportunity and merge onto Interstate 85,” Sandra said.
     “You gotta be kidding me,” Dylan grumbled.
     “Don't worry.  We just keep going and it revises our position and gives us new directions.”
     Four miles down the road, Sandra was still telling us to turn around.
     “Dad!” Dylan said.  “Make her shut up.”
     Dad switched Sandra off and pounded the steering wheel. 
     “Dad,” I said in what I hoped was my non-confrontational voice.  “Did you download the updates?”
     “What?”
     “You know.  There's a site you go to for updates on new roads and stuff.”
     My father's silence was all the answer I needed. 
     I was so going to be the hero.  “Dad, I've got-”
     “Not now, Amanda.”  Dad pulled off the road at an old gas station that was closed.  From the looks of it, it was closed permanently. 
     “Hand me that atlas from under the passenger seat, Dylan.”
     “Dad, you don't-”
     “Just a minute, Amanda.”
     Dylan didn't move.  Interesting.
     “Son?”
     “Yeah, Dad.  About that atlas.  Remember when I washed the car last week...”
     “Dylan Alexander Montgomery!”
     Oh yeah.  This was good.
     My laughing irritated Dad, but I couldn't seem to stop. 
     “Amanda.  This isn't funny!”
     “Dad, I have maps.”
     “Huh,” Dylan said, twisting to look at me.
     “Yeah, I brought some maps.”  I pulled a folder out of my bag.  “I generated directions to the hotel and to Aunt Sheila's, and I packed maps of each region and of the New York metro area.”
     “That's my girl,” Dad said, suddenly beaming.  “Hand me that folder.”
     Two minutes later, we were on our way down the state highway and back onto the Interstate. 
     “I think we cut off a few miles,” Dad said with glee.
     We zoomed along in silence while I grinned like an idiot.
     Plan A had worked after all.
     “So, Dad,” Dylan said, a few minutes later, “can I have Tiffany?”
     “Who's Tiffany?” Dad asked.
     “Sandra,” Dylan answered.  “I was going to rename her.”
     Dad shook his head.  “You can have one of your sister's maps.”

•

     After too many slices, two days of shopping with Aunt Sheila, and a taste of big city hustle and bustle, Dad and I got into the SUV and crawled out of the city through the Holland Tunnel.
     “Thanks, Dad,” I said.  “I had fun.”
     Dad nodded.  “I'm glad.”
     “So how many miles am I logging today?”
     “We'll see,” Dad said. 
     When I reached into my purse for my book, I noticed the small box with my mother's souvenir.  “I hope Mom likes the earrings I bought.”
     “She will,” Dad said.  “You make pretty good choices.”
     “Really?  Thanks.”
     “What did you think of the subway?”
     With a shrug, I answered, “It was okay.  I like the privacy of my own car, though.”
     “Our cars are more convenient.”  Dad looked over at me for a moment.  Then he said, “Of course, you'll have to learn to use MARTA when you get to Atlanta.“
     “Yeah.”  So much for my plan.
     “Public transportation will be great for when you head downtown to a Braves game or to the High Museum.”
     “Yeah,” I said, trying to hide my disappointment.
     “Of course, if you’re going to the grocery or the drug store, you’ll just drive your own car.“
     OMG!  “I get to take my car?”
     “You get to take your car.”
     Jumping up and down as much as the seatbelt would allow, I squealed, “You’re the best dad ever!”
     “We’ll talk about a training plan for driving in the city later.”
     Whatever Dad dished out, I could take.  I didn’t let the news put an end to my happy dance.
     Atlanta, here I come!

THE END