The Truth About Faking

One
     
     
    My phone whistles at me from my bag. I try to ignore it.  Mr. Laraby’s words are still in my head from driver’s ed. class last week: Distracted driving is the number one cause of fatal accidents among teens. His words and that disgusting movie with all the wrecked cars and dead bodies everywhere. I keep my eyes on the road ahead.
    It whistles again, and I rationalize. Only my best friend Shelly sends me a hundred texts at once, and it’s usually something like she’s trying turquoise eye shadow or her cat fell in their fountain again. It can wait.
    Another whistle and my scalp tightens. My eyes flick to the speedometer. I’m only going 35, surely it can’t hurt just to look. In front of me is a giant Lincoln Towncar. I’m stuck behind Mr. Bender, the slowest driver in Shadow Falls. And the oldest. And the grumpiest.
    Again it whistles, and my jaw clenches. What if it’s not Shelly? What if someone’s in trouble, and I’m the only number they can text? What if they’re trapped under something heavy, but not so heavy they can’t text. And I’m their only hope…
    Suddenly Bender slams on his brakes—at a yellow light, of course. I stop as well, and with my foot on the pedal, dive across the seat to grab my phone. My shoulders drop. It’s Shelly.
    Where are you?
    Again Mr. Laraby’s voice is in my head: “Where are you” is the most common text sent before accidents…
    All of a sudden, BAM!
    My phone flies from my hand onto the dash, and my torso is jerked back by the seatbelt. My foot slips off the brake, and Mom’s Denali goes right into Bender’s Towncar before I can find the correct pedal to push again.
    “I wasn’t texting!” I squeal, realizing my eyes are squeezed shut. My whole body is clenched.
    Shaking, I try to get control. I inhale and open my eyes as I remember my foot had been on the brake pedal, so I couldn’t have hit Bender. I exhale with the realization: Someone hit me! Oh, thank God. It wasn’t my fault.
     Wait. Someone hit me. Now what? I’ve never been in a wreck before, and I try to remember what to do. Exit the vehicle, check for damages… I force my brain to start working again. Shadow Falls is so small, Pete, one of our two local cops, will likely be here in less than two minutes. I unfasten my seatbelt and open the door. My legs wobble as I stand up, and I actually feel a little dizzy. The noise had been so loud and unexpected, I can still hear it.
    “God—” A tenor voice cuts off behind me.
    I turn around to see a guy in faded blue jeans and a t-shirt bending over the back of Mom’s SUV. He looks about my age, but I don’t know him, which is strange. Everybody knows everybody in Shadow Falls. He straightens up and starts toward me, rubbing his forehead, which is turning pink. I wonder if he hit it on the steering wheel or something.
    “Are you okay? I’m really sorry,” he says to me. “I was looking at that car lot over there, and you stopped so fast…”
    I look across the median and see a used car lot I’ve never noticed before. How is that possible? Do I have amnesia? But I remember Bender and where I live, so I must be okay. Then I check out what hit me. It’s an ancient blue sports car with a long front-end like a duck. Only now the bill is pointed down. Sad duck.
    The guy’s staring at me. “Hey, you okay?” His voice has softened, and I can tell he’s worried. “I’m really sorry,” he says again.
    “It’s… I’m okay.” I answer, trying to get my bearings. “The light had just changed…”
    “I know,” he says through an exhale. “I glanced away, and when I looked back, there you were. Not moving.”
    “It was Bender—” I’m not about to confess I was looking at a text, but I’m cut off.
    “What tha HELL!” That voice is not okay.
    Mom’s Denali had just given Bender’s Towncar a butt lift, and I can tell he’s pissed—as usual. A veteran of two wars, Mr. Bender isn’t exactly mean, but teenagers top his list of most annoying things on the planet. And don’t even think about pulling your phone out in front of him.
    “I’m sorry, sir,” the boy starts again, this time a little nervous. “I was looking off, and—”
    “You’re right you’re sorry!” Bender growls. “How old are you? Do you even have a license?”
    “I’m seventeen, sir. Yes, sir, I have a license.” The guy stutters, holding his hands up like Bender’s got a gun on him.
    “Then you should know. Ten and two. Eyes on