The First Councel

She doesn’t take well to the threat. Under her breath, she mutters, “Cocky jock asshole.” With that, she punches the gas. The wheels spin until they find traction.

I can’t let her do this. “Nora, don’t… ”

“Shut up.”

“Don’t tell me to-”

“I said, shut up.” Her response is a measured, low snarl. She doesn’t sound like herself. We’re barreling toward the stop sign and I count seven cars crossing in front of us. Eight. Nine. Ten. This isn’t like the side streets. These cars are flying. I notice a tiny bead of sweat rolling down the side of Nora’s forehead. She’s holding the wheel as tight as she can. We’re not going to make this one.

As we hit the threshold, I do the only thing I can think of. I lean over, punch the horn, and hold it down. We shoot out of the side street like a fifty-mile-an-hour banshee. Two cars swerve. Another hits his brakes. A fourth driver, in a black Acura, tries to slow down, but there’s not enough time. His tires screech against the pavement, but he’s still moving. Although Nora does her best to swerve out of his way, he nicks us right on the back tip of our bumper. It’s just enough to make us veer out of control. And to put the Acura directly in front of the Secret Service Suburban. The Suburban pulls a sharp right and comes to a dead halt. We keep moving.

“It’s okay!” Nora screams as she fights the steering wheel. “It’s okay!” And in a two-second interval, I realize it’s true. Everyone’s safe and we’re free to go. Nora lights up the car with a smile. As we motor up the block, I’m still remembering how to breathe.

Her chest is heaving as she catches her own breath. “Not bad, huh?” she finally asks.

“Not bad?” I ask, wiping my forehead. “You could’ve killed us-not to mention the other drivers and the-”

“But did you have fun?”

“It’s not a question of fun. It was one of the stupidest stunts I’ve ever-”

“But did you have fun?” As she repeats the question, her voice grows warm. In the moonlight, her wild eyes shine. After seeing so many two-dimensional photos of her at public events in the papers, it’s odd to see her just sitting there. I thought I knew how she smiled and how she moved. I wasn’t even close. In person, her whole face changes-the way her cheeks pitch and slightly redden at the excitement-there’s no way to describe it. It’s not that I’m starstruck, it’s just… I don’t know how else to say it… she’s looking at me. Just me. She slaps my leg. “No one was hurt, the Acura barely tapped us. At the very worst, we both scraped our bumpers. I mean, how many nights do you get to outrun the Secret Service and live to tell about it?”

“I do it every other Thursday. It’s not that big a deal.”

“Laugh all you want, but you have to admit it was a thrill.”

I look over my shoulder. We’re completely alone. And I have to admit, she’s right.

It takes about ten minutes before I realize we’re lost. In the span of a few blocks, the immaculate brownstones of Dupont Circle have faded into the run-down tenements on the outskirts of Adams Morgan. “We should’ve turned on 16th,” I say.

“You have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“You’re absolutely right; I’m two hundred percent clueless. And you want to know how I know that?” I pause for effect. “Because I trusted you to drive! I mean, what the hell was I thinking? You barely live here; you’re never in a car; and when you are, it’s usually in the backseat.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

Just as she asks the question, I realize what I’ve said. Three years ago, right after her father got elected, during Nora’s sophomore year at Princeton, Rolling Stone ran a scathing profile of what they called her college “Drug and Love Life.” According to the article, two different guys claimed that Nora went down on them in the backseats of their cars while she was on Special K. Another source said she was doing coke; a third said it was heroin. Either way, based on the article, some horny little Internet-freak used Nora’s full name-Eleanor-and wrote a haiku poem entitled “Knee-Sore Eleanor.” A few million forwarded e-mails later, Nora gained her most notorious sobriquet-and her father saw his favorability numbers fall. When the story ran, President Hartson called up the editor of Rolling Stone and asked him to leave his daughter alone. From then on, they did. Hartson’s numbers went back up. All was well. But the joke was already out there. And obviously, from the look on Nora’s face, the damage had already been done.

“I didn’t mean anything,” I insist, backing away from my unintended insult. “I just meant that your family gets the limo treatment. Motorcades. You know, other people drive you.”

Suddenly, Nora laughs. She has a sexy, hearty voice, but her laugh is all little girl.

“What’d I say?”

“You’re embarrassed,” she answers, amused. “Your whole face is red.”

I turn away. “I’m sorry… ”

“No, it’s okay. That’s really sweet of you. And it’s even sweeter that you blushed. For once, I know it’s real. Thank you, Michael.”