My younger brother, Wade, is sixteen. He recently got a job answering phones and putting stickers on pizza boxes at the local Papa John's, which is conveniently located in the far corner of a strip mall about five minutes from our house.
Until Friday of last week, he had a North Carolina driver's license but wasn't legal to drive in Virginia, where the driving age is sixteen and three months. I had been taking him to work.
So it's Tuesday, and I'm picking him up from work at 9:30PM in his green Papa John's polo shirt and khaki Papa John's hat. He gets into the car in silence, takes off his hat, and closes his eyes. I back out of my parking space and turn right onto Silverbrook Rd.
"So . . . how was work?" I ask.
"It was okay. This guy called, and he wasn't in the computer system, so I was entering his stuff into the computer, and I thought he said 'Ferris Drive' so I asked, 'Ferris as in Ferris wheel?' And he said, 'No, Paris as in Italy.'"
I look, and Wade is giving this sort of blank stare.
"Oh my God," I say. "What did you do?"
"I asked him, 'And what would you like to order, sir?'"
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