"What the hell are you apologizing for?" Hendrix asks, his tone gruff. "Get in my fucking car. Now."
On the way to the department of motor vehicles, Hendrix grills me. "Your mother was going to take you, wasn't she? Didn't she make this some big parenting thing? She wanted to be there for you or some bullshit?"
"Yeah," I say. "I'm sorry I had to ask you, Hendrix."
"I told you to stop with the damn apologies," he says.
"I tried Grace, but she didn't answer. I think she's with her boyfriend."
"It's no big deal," he says. "I was just going to fuck around after school with my friends anyway. What the hell do I care?"
I look at him and he shrugs and runs his fingers through his hair. It's half-shaved, and he pierced his lip last week. "Are you wearing eye liner?"
"Shut the fuck up," he says. "It's fashion."
I snort. "Yeah, sure. You want to borrow my mascara, too?"
"Okay, smartass. What do you know about fashion?"
"Uh, I'm practically a movie star."
"You're a country singer," he says. "You're not anywhere near movie star status. And no, your music videos don't count. At all."
"Whatever, dude," I say.
"Dude?" he asks, slowing down at a stoplight. "What are you, a surfer chick or something?" He looks at me. Yep, he's wearing eyeliner. I knew it. Whatever crowd of friends he's hanging around with think they're too cool for everyone and everything. He brought them over before, and I didn't like them. But really, eyeliner?
"Shut up."
"Awesome comeback, dude," he says, squeezing my leg. When he touches me, I feel a jolt of electricity run through my body, just like it does every time he accidentally brushes me, or puts his arm around my shoulder the way a brother would. But Hendrix is my brother, and nothing more, I remind myself.
I look away, out the window, distracting myself by tapping on the side of the passenger door with the tip of my finger while I count the telephone poles on the side of the road as we drive past them.
Hendrix is silent for a few minutes. "Are you worried about the test?"
I shrug. "Not really," I lie. I'm totally nervous. "I mean, I'm scared of the parallel parking part of it, I guess. What if I hit another car?"
"I think they use cones, not cars. Otherwise everyone would be denting vehicles," he says. "Are you pissed about your mom missing the test? I would be."
"I should have just asked you to plan to take me in the first place," I say. "I should have known she wouldn't follow through."
"Did they say where they were going?" Hendrix asks.
"Your dad had some gig in Alberta, I think."
"Canada?"
"I don't know," I say, shrugging. "I guess. They just took off. They left a note. I was with the tutor." At least Hendrix gets to go attend regular public school, even if he'd had to go to military boarding school for a while. After he got kicked of the academy, his dad said he wasn't paying for anything else and Hendrix could "learn the hard way." I don't know what is so hard about public school, though; Hendrix seems to be having lots of fun. Lots of fun with lots of girls. At least, that's what I've heard.
Okay, that's what I've seen, too. Sometimes he brings girls home, when our parents are gone, which is a lot. But I mean, why shouldn't he? It's not like Hendrix and I have something going.
Anyway, I didn't get the option of continuing with public school, not since I started performing. I'd be too disruptive to a regular school. Plus, the tours and photo shoots and appearances meant that I'd have to take too many days off. So I've had tutors. And watched from the sidelines as Grace and Hendrix get to have normal lives with normal friends.
"Screw 'em," Hendrix says, in his understated Hendrix way.
"Yeah."
"They're selfish bastards, you know," he says. "Try not to take it personally, even though I know you can't help it."
I shrug. "It's no big deal," I tell him. "But I'm glad you came with me."
Hendrix pulls into the parking lot and squeezes my leg again, sending heat rushing through me. "This is the part where I'm supposed to say 'knock 'em dead,'" he says, pausing for a beat. "But you probably shouldn't try to knock anyone dead."
I slap his hand. "Don't even suggest I'm going to hit someone in the car during my freaking drivers license test, Hendrix," I say.
"I'm not going to jinx you," he says, at the same time as I tell him, "You'll jinx me."
"Buy me a cola," we both say at the same time.
He laughs. "Stop being stupid. Let's go get your dumb license."
"Can I drive your car home?" I ask, as we get out.
"Fuck, no," he says. "You think I'm going to let you out in public behind the wheel?"
"Hendrix, come on. I've driven it before," I say. But he's grinning and I know he's joking. He's totally going to let me drive his car. It's a beater, this old Mustang he bought with his earnings from working last summer. He didn't want to buy it with anyone else's money, his father's or mine. It smells vaguely like gym socks, but it's still awesome.