We accelerated. On the short drive to the park I saw Anton and Caroline out for a walk, hand in hand, looking like the first lovers in the world. A little molten lozenge surfaced in my chest and rose to my throat. Jealousy of course - but longing too. Anton was tall and strikingly handsome; he had black hair, blue eyes and long caliper legs. Although Caroline wasn’t a classical beauty, she was bright and had spirit and her father was a successful chemist: I suppose that made her a catch in some people’s books. I felt she wasn’t worthy of him.

On a whim a few weeks earlier a teacher had insisted that Anton and I sit together during Geography class. This was novel. But my proximity made him so tense that he eventually kicked the chair in front of him into the air. His leg has spasmed. He blushed. He couldn’t look at me. We didn’t sit together after that.

Looking out at them from the car I felt like I was hidden behind the glass. I could see out, no one could see in. And I marveled that there was so much that I couldn’t talk about. I couldn’t tell my father about Anton; Anton couldn’t tell me that he’d guessed; Caroline couldn’t tell me that she didn’t mind, that she quite understood in fact; my father couldn’t tell me what he thought of me, I couldn’t tell him why I was so sad.

No, I had to put all of this together years later, like a detective examining the motives of a crime.

We reached the park. My father put the brake on and sat back in his seat with a heavy sigh without looking at me. This was my first driving lesson. The car park was completely deserted, there was ample room for trial and error. But – again – there was this unbearable tension, exactly like Anton and his flying chair. And again it was because of what was not being said. If it was said it probably would have gone something like:

“I have an instinct. Not a strong one, not like a premonition, just a sense. But it feels like established fact. It makes me wince. My son. Look at him. Everyone else will. Then they will look at me. I want to snap at him: Why can’t you? Why don’t you? Why? He can do nothing right. I have nothing to say to him.”

But my father doesn’t speak. We sit in silence. One day he will tell me, in one sentence: “You’re not like your brothers.”

I know what he means. I am just a skinny teenage boy groping in the dark to find an answer but I already know what he means: I disavow you. You embarrass me. I cannot teach you what it means to be a man.

He steps out of the car and I do too and we exchange seats. Within five minutes he’s shouting at me as if I’m stupid, as if I deserve to be shouted at. He doesn’t stop, he doesn't pause to collect himself, he doesn’t see a reason to. It’s not going to get any better than this. The air is electric with brittle subtext threatening to become text. I turn just once and look at his face: irritation has turned into disgust. I put the brake on hard, open the door and walk away.

I’ll teach myself how to drive.