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and rapped her cane on the floor. “And now, young woman, how much experience have you had driving in storms?”
    “Not much, ma’am.” I opened the back door for her and watched her get in; her face looked pained when she sat down. “Unless you’re talking metaphorically,” I added, “and then I’m a total ace.”

    I gripped the wheel and stared through the wipers that were whizzing full blast against the heavy rain. The Chicago wind picked up a garbage can lid and hurled it over the Cadillac. I turned left, keeping an eye out for arks, and headed toward Lake Shore Drive,
slowly.
In Driver’s Ed we spent an entire period on hydroplaning (what happens when you drive too fast in the rain)—water sticks to the tires, the tires ride up on the water, you have no control of the car. It basically means you’re doomed. I drove fifteen miles an hour in a thirty-five mph zone, which the truck driver behind me didn’t appreciate. Some people have a built-in prejudice against teenage drivers.
    I looked at Mrs. Gladstone through the rearview mirror. She took a blue pillow out of her big purse and tried to place it under her right hip. She looked up, caught me staring.
    “Eyes on the road,” she barked.
    I drove—past Oak Street Beach, Navy Pier, Grant Park, Soldier Field. I stared straight ahead at the Stevenson Expressway sign, just visible through the downpour. I could hear Mrs. Gladstone moving around, trying to get her leg pillow in place.
    “Are you okay, Mrs. Gladstone?”
    “I am.”
    “Did you hurt your leg?”
    “This leg will make it to Texas,” she declared and rapped her cane against the door.
    That was good. You hate to leave things like legs by the side of the road. I pulled onto the expressway ramp, signaling to all approaching vehicles that I was attempting to merge in a monsoon. I prayed, gripped the wheel, pushed my right foot on the accelerator, and steered the Cadillac between an old school bus and a stationwagon.
    I watched the Chicago skyline move away from me, caught the last of it in the rearview mirror. I had so many plans for this summer and now everything had changed. I waved goodbye to Gladstone’s and Murray and all my regulars who would have to be fitted without me. Said good riddance to the dirty gray hallways of John F. Kennedy High, my so-so performance on the basketball team, the awful memory of Dad reeling drunk in Gladstone’s, the drunken late-night calls. My heart tugged at the thought of my grandmother in her green chair; my mother being brave; Faith trying to be strong; Opal needing to talk about
things.
I had a quick flash of Matt Wicks and wondered what it would have been like if he’djust noticed me once. My stomach rumbled at the loss of thick-crust Chicago pizza and Polish sausage with grilled onions.
    I thought of all the places I was going where I had never been and wondered how I would manage.
    But when you sell shoes, you learn first-hand about flexibility.
    I embraced my motto, Cope or Die, breathed deeply, and headed for Peoria.

    We made it to Peoria in southern Illinois in four hours flat due to the torrential downpour and the road construction on I 91 that kept traffic to one lane even though the construction crew had given up long ago and gone home.
    I was getting pretty good at driving in the rain and so far Mrs. Gladstone had slept in the back, having taken two yellow pills. She did snore, unfortunately—loud, snuffling, Texas-sized snorts. My grandma always said that people who snored were sleeping with enthusiasm. I tried to remember this, but there’s just so much enthusiasm a person can handle in close quarters.
    Mrs. Gladstone and I had lunch in a diner overlooking the Illinois River, which was about to reach flood stage. Any moment now people would begin hurling sand bags along the banks. Mrs. Gladstone pushed aside her meatloaf Wellington lunch special.
    “I suppose I should call Miles and let him know we’re coming.”
    She was referring to Miles