Page 82 of Shut Up and Drive

“Hey, man. I think it’s time to call it a night,” I said, throwing an arm around my best friend and steering him out the front door.

“The party is just getting started at Taylor Paul’s house. I want to go there and see what’s going on,” Bash slurred. He stumbled on the paving stones in the driveway and I caught him just in time.

“I think we’ve had enough parties for one night.”

“And I think that you’re a buzzkill that’s allergic to fun.”

“That’s not true. I’ve tagged along with you all night. But it’s late. Let’s go.”

“Well, you don’t have to keep tagging along. I’m perfectly capable of getting home on my own.”

I pulled on his shirt to lead him to the car. “Driving drunk isn’t a good idea if you want to go to Secret Service training. Come on, I’ll get you home.”

He swung an inebriated fist in my direction, and I ducked as his punch landed on the door frame of his car. This wasn’t a fair fight, and I knew it. I could usually beat him in wrestling on a good day, but with him drunk and me stone-cold sober, it wouldn’t even be a contest.

When he came at me again, I lost my balance as I dodged him, dropping the keys on the grass. He got to them before I could, jumped in the driver’s seat, and locked me out.

“Bash. Don’t do this!” I begged through the window. “I’ll come with you. You can even drive. Just don’t leave me here.”

I stood outside the passenger door, chest heaving with fear. I knew if he left without me, he wouldn’t make it home.

“Please!” I yelled.

A hint of compassion flashed through his eyes and he unlocked the door.

“You can come along, but I’m driving,” he grumbled. “We’re done when I say we’re done.”

Bash swerved back and forth across the empty road, jerking us back into our lane when he realized we weren’t in ours. My stomach tied in knots the whole way, and my forearm ached from gripping the “Oh, Crap!” handle. Two miles from home, the headlights of a passing car approached, and I held my breath as it neared us. Bash didn’t notice we were veering toward oncoming traffic, and just before it was too late, I screamed to alert him. He yanked the wheel, sending us careening off the road, down into a ditch, slamming head-on into a tree.

Then everything went black.

My head pounded when I regained consciousness, and the smell of smoke from the airbags deploying choked me. Blood ran into my eyes. My fingers felt around through the warm, viscous liquid until I found the gash in my hairline. I grabbed a bunch of napkins from the center console and shoved them into my wound. I wiped the blood from my eyes, and when I turned to look at Bash, my heart sank.

He leaned unnaturally against the driver’s door with blood all over his face. I shouted his name, and although he didn’t wake up, his face squinted from the noise. Relief flooded me to see him responding, and I wept as I moved around the bent-up dashboard to reach him.

“Bash!” I yelled again, shaking him. “Bash! We’ve got to get out of here!”

He opened his eyes and looked at me, but I could tell he wasn’t completely cognizant. “Yeah, okay, man,” he replied,then fell forward against the airbag and lost consciousness again.

My head injury caused everything to move in slow motion. Thoughts swirled around my brain, but didn’t connect. I could barely think, I hurt so badly. But I did know one thing: we were in big trouble. I imagined our parents and how mad they’d be at us for making dumb decisions. I thought about the cops arriving on scene and giving Bash a breathalyzer test. It would certainly show that he was over the limit—and worse, underage. What would happen to him? What about his dreams to work in the Secret Service? With a DUI on his record, he’d be kicked out of the program he was just accepted into.

I looked over at him, unconscious and bleeding, and knew he’d never remember what really happened. So I made an executive decision. I unbuckled us both, leaned over to his side of the car, looped my arms through his armpits, and pulled him across the middle console as I backed out of the car. Once he was settled into my seat, I buckled him back in. Then I grabbed my phone, called 9-1-1, and waited in the driver’s seat for help to arrive. By the time I saw red and white flashing lights, I had already fabricated my story.

The paramedics loaded Bash up into the ambulance while the police interviewed me. I pressed an ice pack so hard against my head that it gave me a brain freeze, but I kept my story short and concise: I swerved to miss an animal in the road and lost control of the car. Bash was my passenger, I was the designated driver. It was all just an unfortunate accident.

At the hospital, the bright lights blinded me and loud beeping machines made my head throb. The best plastic surgeon money could buy stitched me up, and promised thatthere would barely be a scar. Everything on the outside would heal, with minimal evidence left behind of that horrible night. Still, I hung my head in shame when they released me from the ER. Bash lay there in an induced coma in the ICU with a broken nose, a broken arm, a concussion, and a brain bleed, and I got to walk out after a one-night stay. I went straight to his room and sobbed at his bedside.

“I should’ve tried harder to take your keys. I should’ve been better at convincing you to come home. I should’ve fought harder. I’m so sorry, Bash,” I wept. “It’s all my fault.”

My head pounded, and every time an alarm on his IV pole went off, I panicked. I cried until my eyes were swollen shut from the impact of the crash. I refused to leave without him, spending every day by his bedside until he was released to come home. Even after that, we spent days resting on the couches in his family room talking, since our concussed brains made it too painful to watch TV.

He asked me once to tell him what happened, and I gave him the same clipped version I gave the police. He accepted it without question. He trusted me. And I looked him in the eyes and lied to him.

Soon after the bruises faded and the broken bones healed, Bash went off to Maryland for Secret Service training. I stayed home, directionless.

I spiraled into a depression and refused to see any friends—even Sera.

Especially Sera.