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Twenty-oneZoey comes to the door, her hair a mess. She’s wearing the same clothes as lasttime I saw her.‘Coming to the seaside?’ I jangle the car keys at her.She peers past me to Dad’s car. ‘Did you come here on your own?’‘Yeah.’‘But you can’t drive!’‘I can now. It’s number five on my list.’She frowns. ‘Have you actually had any lessons?’‘Sort of. Can I come in?’She opens the door wider. ‘Wipe your feet, or take your shoes off.’Her parents’ house is always incredibly tidy, like something from a catalogue.They’re out at work so much I guess they never get a chance to make it messy. Ifollow Zoey into the lounge and sit on the sofa. She sits opposite me on the edgeof the armchair and folds her arms at me.‘So your dad lent you the car, did he? Even though you’re not insured and it’scompletely illegal?’‘He doesn’t exactly know I’ve got it, but I’m really good at driving! You’ll see.I’d pass my test if I was old enough.’She shakes her head at me as if she just can’t believe how stupid I am. She shouldbe proud of me. I got away without Dad even noticing. I remembered to check themirrors before turning on the ignition, then clutch down, into first, clutch up,accelerator down. I managed three times round the block and only stalled twice,which was my best ever. I navigated the roundabout and even got into third gearalong the main road to Zoey’s house. And now she’s sitting there glaring at me,like it’s all some terrible mistake.‘You know,’ I say as I stand and zip my coat back up, ‘I thought if I made it asfar as here without crashing, the only difficult thing left would be the dualcarriageway. It didn’t cross my mind that you’d be a pain in the arse.’She shuffles her feet on the floor, as if rubbing something out. ‘Sorry. It’s justI’m kind of busy.’‘Doing what?’She shrugs. ‘You can’t assume everyone’s free just because you are.’I feel something growing inside me as I look at her, and I realize in oneabsolutely clear moment that I don’t like her at all.‘You know what?’ I say. ‘Forget it. I’ll do the list by myself.’She stands up, swings her stupid hair about and tries to look offended. It’s atrick that works with guys, but it makes no difference to the way I feel about

her.‘I didn’t say I wouldn’t come!’But she’s bored of me, it’s obvious. She wishes I’d hurry up and die so she canget on with her life.‘No, no, you stay here,’ I tell her. ‘Everything always turns out crap with youaround anyway!’She follows me out into the hallway. ‘No, it doesn’t!’I turn on the mat. ‘I meant for me. Haven’t you ever noticed how any shit that’sfalling always lands on my head, never yours?’She frowns. ‘When? When does that happen?’‘All the time. I sometimes wonder if you’re only friends with me so you can keepbeing the lucky one.’‘Christ!’ she says. ‘Can you stop going on about yourself for even a minute?’‘Shut up!’ I tell her. And it feels so good that I say it again.‘No,’ she says. ‘You shut up,’ but her voice is barely a whisper, which is weird.She takes one small step away, stops as if she’s about to say something else,thinks better of it and runs up the stairs.I don’t follow her. I wait in the hall for a bit, feeling the thickness of thecarpet under my feet. I listen to the clock. I count sixty ticks, then I go intothe lounge and turn on the TV. I watch amateur gardening for seven minutes. Ilearn that in a sunny south-facing plot you can grow apricots, even in England. Iwonder if Adam knows this. But then I get bored with aphids and red spider mitesand the drone of the silly man’s voice, so I turn it off and text Zoey: SORRY.I look out of the window to see if the car’s still there. It is. The sky’s murky,the clouds really low down and the colour of sulphur. I’ve never driven in rain,which is a bit worrying. I wish it was still October. It was warm then, as if theworld had forgotten autumn was supposed to happen next. I remember looking at theleaves fall past the hospital window.Zoey texts back. ME 2.She comes downstairs and into the lounge. She’s wearing a turquoise mini-dress andloads of bangles. They snake up her arm and jingle as she walks over and gives mea hug. She smells nice. I lean against her shoulder and she kisses the top of myhead.Zoey laughs as I start the car and immediately stall. I try again, and as wekangaroo down the road, I tell her how Dad took me out driving five times and Ijust couldn’t get it right. The feet were so hard – the slight tipping of toesfrom the clutch, the equal but opposite push on the accelerator.‘That’s it!’ he kept yelling. ‘Feel the biting point?’But I couldn’t feel anything, not even when I took off my shoes.We got tired, both of us. Each session was shorter than the one before, until we

stopped going out at all, and neither of us even mentioned it.‘I doubt he’ll notice the car’s missing till lunchtime,’ I tell her. ‘And eventhen, what’s he going to do? Like you said, I’m immune to the rules.’‘You’re a complete hero,’ she says. ‘You’re fantastic!’And we laugh like old times. I’d forgotten how much I like laughing with Zoey. Sheisn’t critical of my driving like Dad was. She isn’t scared as I scrape into thirdgear, or when I forget to indicate to turn left at the end of her road. I’m a muchbetter driver with her watching.‘You’re not bad. Your old man taught you something at last.’‘I love it,’ I tell her. ‘Think how much fun it would be to drive across Europe.You could take a gap year from college and come with me.’‘I don’t want to,’ she says, and she picks up the map and goes quiet.‘We don’t need a map.’‘Why not?’‘Think of it as a road movie.’‘Bollocks,’ she says, and she stabs a finger at the window.There’s a gang of boys on bikes blocking the road ahead. They’ve got their hoodsup, cigarettes shielded. The sky’s a really strange colour and there’s hardlyanyone else about. I slow right down.‘What shall I do?’‘Reverse,’ Zoey says. ‘They’re not going to move.’I wind down the window. ‘Oi!’ I yell. ‘Move your arses!’They turn languid, shift lazily to the edge of the road and grin as I blow kissesat them.Zoey looks stunned. ‘What’s got into you?’‘Nothing – I just haven’t learned reversing yet.’We get caught in traffic on the main road. I watch snatches of other people’slives through the window. A baby cries in its car seat, a man drums his fingers onthe steering wheel. A woman picks her nose. A child waves.‘Amazing, isn’t it?’ I say.‘What?’‘I’m me and you’re you, and all of them out there are them. And we’re all sodifferent and equally unimportant.’‘Speak for yourself.’‘It’s true. Don’t you ever think that when you look in a mirror? Don’t you ever