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least have a permit,
he said, to which I nodded like a lap-dog) and registration. I pawed through everything crammed in the glove compartment: a pen light, a mini-screwdriver, contact lens solution, a tall stack of mismatched fast-food napkins.
    “I try to be careful,” I said stupidly as I handed him the slips of paper. “I had Mr. Grenwich for driver’s ed.” He nodded at me, not in a way that signaled empathy or understanding but in a clipped, expressionless way that meant
shut up,
and then walked wordlessly back to his car, where he stayed for a long time. I couldn’t right my internal thermostat. My body continued to cool, then heat, then cool, then heat; my armpits grew wet, the hollow of my back sticky against my shirt.
    Whenever I tried to see what the officer was doing, I couldn’t make out anything beyond a silhouette in the driver’s seat. The overhead lights were still flashing. I screwed my eyes shut, holding tight to the steering wheel, fighting the urge to scream. It was an awful feeling, being found out. Not just for being an underaged driver. I was held together in those days by the scattershot reassurancesof random grown-ups—the piteous cooing of the shift clerk at the Farmer Jack’s, the
Very good job
from Mrs. Bardazian as she handed back my paper on the use of surrealism in
Oliver Twist,
the wave from a balding driver as I slowed to let him veer into my lane. In the absence of that, I felt split open, revealed: a shitty sister, a vacant hole of a daughter, a terrible person deficient in even the most basic emotions like sorrow or grief.
    Someone peeked out from behind the front curtains of the house next to us, an oval-shaped man or lady who stood very still. The porch light showed off a fall garland made of pinecones and spiny branches and red-orange leaves. I couldn’t stop staring at the meticulous arrangement of foliage. I wanted to live in a house with a fall garland at its door, with an oval-shaped sentry who had nothing more to worry about than a fifteen-year-old being pulled over out front.
    When the officer finally came back, he said, “Lydia Pasternak?” and flashed the permit at me.
    “Yes?” I said, his two words leaving me feeling vulnerable and exposed. It seemed like a terrible thing for him to say.
    He sighed and handed me back my permit and registration. His fingers smelled like my mom’s, ashy from cigarettes. “I’m sorry about your brother. Tough break.”
    “Huhr,” I said, more a noise than a word. It still surprised me, the spread of our local renown. “Okay,” I said, my voice throaty and hoarse. He turned on his flashlight and shined it on the posters in the passenger seat. It was a dramatic gesture, a floodlight passing over and back across Danny’s meaty face, highlighting over and over the thick hair gelled up around his head like a crown, the cheeks ruddy and speckled. Defensive end Danny. All-State swimmer Danny. Homecoming court Danny.
Don’t fucking touch my Play Station
Danny.
    “That’s what I was out doing,” I said. It was impossible to look at him without getting blinded. I shaded my eyes with my hand.
    He clicked off the flashlight. “You need not to be driving at your age.”
    I nodded, struck by the strange syntax of his sentence.
    “You see that stop sign back on Branson?” he said.
    “Yes,” I said, though I wasn’t sure which street was Branson. All the streets in Fairfield blended together.
    “Then maybe you can explain why you rolled right through it.” He had a congenial voice now, as if he were my helpful uncle.
    “Sorry,” I said. “No, I guess I didn’t see it.”
    “I’m going to let you off with a warning this time. But you need to promise me you won’t get in this car by yourself again.” I promised. “Why don’t you give me some of those for the station?” I handed him a bunch of posters, ten or so, more than he’d ever really use, but it was good to get rid of them. He patted the top of the car as he