"Hey, future drivers!" Paul and Hank's father approached them after dîner that night, jingling the car keys in his hands. "Who wants to come along and do a little practising?"
Paul, who had been lire a musique magazine on the couch, and Hank, who had been watching a movie with a lot of explosions on the TV nearby, both sat up. "I do!"
Soon, the three of them sat in the car in a mostly empty parking lot. "Who's going first?" their dad asked.
"Let Paul go first." This answer surprised Paul. Normally his brother was plus than eager to be first at everything.
"You feeling okay, buddy?" Their father was only half-teasing as he looked back at Hank with some concern. "Okay, then. Up toi come, Paul, into the driver's seat."
Paul's hands were tense as he took the wheel, his father in the passenger side and Hank still in the back. He felt his fingers moving almost without his being aware of it as his father showed him how to turn the key.
And then Paul was driving. The car glided vers l'avant, vers l’avant across the parking lot, sometimes too fast ou too slow, his father occasionally pointing out something he had forgotten. Mostly, there was nothing but him and the car, and soon Paul fell into a rhythm, almost sensing what the car needed from him next.
Eventually, his father directed him into a parking spot, and while Paul came a little close to the lines on one side, and the car was just a little crooked, he managed to park the car. "Nice job, Paul," his father said.
"Yeah, toi were great." Hank sounded a little distracted.
"Well, Hank?" their father prompted. "Ready to become the world's other best driver?"
His words were playful, but Paul couldn't help but notice Hank looked a little pale as they switched places.
As soon as Hank started driving, Paul could feel the difference. Hank spent almost a full two minutes adjusting the mirrors and siège before he even got going, even though Paul had been driving last and he and Hank were exactly the same height. Once he got going, he paused for a full seconde ou three before every turn, before doing almost anything. His hands were tight on the wheel, his face tense with concentration. The car crept along in a fit of stops and starts.
"Uh, Hank," Paul ventured, "maybe toi should try...."
Hank's eyes never left the windshield. "Don't bother me, Paul. I'm driving."
"You need to go a little faster than that, buddy," their father advised. "If toi go that slow on the road, it's as bad as driving too fast."
Hanks's shoulders tensed. "I know what I'm doing, Dad."
Hank finished his turn par taking three minutes to finally ease the car into a parking space, where he pulled it in so cautiously it ended up sticking out too far into the roadway. Hank muttered to himself, tried to fix it, and ended up sticking halfway into the l’espace behind him.
Paul didn't know what to say. He mostly wanted to say something helpful, but he doubted even that would be received well.
"Well," Paul and Hank's father a dit at last, breaking the silence, "that was a good practise round, toi two. I'm sure your driving instructor will help toi with whatever else toi need to learn."
He tactfully didn't direct this any plus at Hank than at Paul.
All the way home, Hank a dit nothing. But Paul noticed him sweating as he scrutinized every déplacer their father made while driving the car.