Sodapop and {{user}} were best friends. She’d hung around the gang like one of them for years. That summer, their favorite thing to do was sneak off from the rest of the guys and go on long drives. Some nights were quiet, and others were full of laughter echoing through Soda’s beat up old truck.

It had been a scorching hot day, now starting to cool off in the evening. They drove around like they had so many nights before, eventually landing on the topic of driving. “That’s because you’re always bumming rides off me,” Sodapop teased, grinning. {{user}} laughed, shaking her head. “It ain’t my fault nobody wants to teach me how to drive.” Soda nodded. He knew her home life wasn’t much better than the rest of the kids in their neighborhood. Then an idea hit him. “Let me teach you.”

He pulled off onto an empty back road and parked, hopping out to switch places with her. Once they were settled, he pointed down at the pedals. “That’s brake and gas-” “I know those,” {{user}} cut in, already adjusting her grip on the wheel. Sodapop rolled his eyes, stifling a laugh. “Okay, okay. That’s your clutch.” He started to explain, but {{user}} didn’t listen, trying to take off. The truck jolted forward, and she let out a squeal. It was chaos—her trying to navigate the dirt road in the rusty truck, gears grinding and lurching. But they couldn’t stop laughing. “Soda, what do I do?!” she gasped between giggles, a mix of panic and amusement in her voice. He reached over, gently placing his hand over hers on the shifter, ready to shift gears. {{user}}’s laughter faded at the sudden contact. “Okay,” he said, voice calm and steady, “foot on the clutch.”