We are giving away a copy of Downward Dog, Upward Fog by Meryl Davids Landau. Read this excerpt from the novel and comment for your chance to win the book!
I never even saw the bright red Mazda enter the highway, but suddenly it’s right behind my car, like a leopard pressing in for the kill. My heart pounds wildly; my palms feel so slippery, I can barely grasp the wheel. I swerve into the center lane just in time to avoid a crash.
“Crazy driver, are you trying to kill me?” I scream, even though I’m certain the teenager can’t hear me through my closed window. Not only is his bass thumping and rattling, he’s already slalomed past a dozen cars up ahead. My rage is roaring, and I can’t tamp it down. “How did you ever get a license?” I fume. “When a kid comes into the Motor Vehicles Commission, they need to hand him a bus map and shove him out the door: ‘Off the road, buster, til you’re more like twenty-one!’– the minimum driving age should be! They should–
I spy my twisted red face in the rearview mirror, and come up short. My gaping mouth closes; my fist releases its midair punch. Sheepishly, I peek to the lanes on either side, relieved to see no one’s watching me: a lone lunatic railing at the world.
Where does this anger boil up from? I wonder. It’s the second time in the past few days I’ve found myself shrieking at a stranger, for reasons I can’t fathom. I know I’m a really sweet person. On the same drive, after all, didn’t I happily oblige a woman’s request to duck in front of me on her way to the highway entrance ramp? But this guy doesn’t ask permission, I remind myself. He just drives like he’s king of the road. No wonder I lost it.
I check myself again, unhappy with the direction in which my thoughts are zooming. Lorna, this is not a good way to begin your week.