by Sasha Hibbs
“Pop your trunk for me,” Mickey said.
“There’s nothing in my trunk.” I looked at him incredulously. Was he serious?
He laughed. “Yes, there is. Now, please open it.”
Grabbing my keys, I clicked the trunk button and walked around to the back of the car. Mickey lifted the trunk lid.
“See, nothing here,” I said.
Mickey laughed again. I couldn’t quite figure out what he thought was so funny. I watched him lift the carpet up, revealing a donut tire.
“Hey, man. Do you need any help?” I heard Daniel ask as he approached us, Sean trailing behind him.
Mickey locked gazes with me.
“Nah. I got this one,” he said.
“Cool. Text me tomorrow. Maybe we can meet up?” Daniel said.
“Sure. See you guys later,” Mickey said.
“Later,” Daniel and Sean yelled in unison as they walked toward Daniel’s truck.
Mickey broke eye contact with me. He pulled out the donut tire, a tool of some sort, and what I thought was a jack.
“Here’s how I figure it,” Mickey said as he knelt beside my flat tire. “You were supposed to go to the movies. You tell your dad when the movies let out, you walked out into the parking lot. Your tire was flat. You were about to call him for help when the mall security van drove by. And then the nice security guard changed your flat tire out for this donut tire and placed the flat in your trunk. You thanked him, and then came straight home.”
I saw Daniel and Sean pull out. Daniel honked his horn. Mickey broke away from changing my tire long enough to yell and wave bye.
“Thanks,” I said.
Mickey changed my tire, placed the flat and the tools back into my trunk, and then wiped his dirty hands down the length of his jeans. Shutting my trunk he said, “You’re welcome.”
I shifted my feet, my previous anger fleeing, my body replaced with the nerves his gaze could evoke.
“So,” he began, “Honors English means a lot to you?”
“Yeah, it does,” I answered.
“And you have to tutor me, and I have to bring my grade up? Is that correct?”
“Yes.” My heart started to beat faster.
“Do you know where Glen Dale is?”
“Yes,” I said.
“High Street. House number fifty-three, brown, with a hedge out front. Come in the afternoon. I like to sleep in on the weekends.”
“You want me to come to your house?” I swallowed hard. I wasn’t sure I’d heard him correctly.
“I doubt me strolling up in your neighborhood would be welcome, so yeah. If you want to tutor me, then you’re going to come to my house,” he said.
“Yeah, sure. Great. I’ll be there.” I sounded like a rambling idiot. I opened my car door, ready to slide down into the driver’s seat when Mickey’s voice stopped me.
“I want payment,” he said, a trace of humor returning to his voice.
“Payment? For what?”
“For saving your life tonight and for changing your tire.”
I opened my mouth to protest, but Mickey was on me so fast, I didn’t have time to react, only to melt into him. For the second time he kissed me. For the first time I hadn’t asked. He left me dazed.
Walking away, Mickey looked over his shoulder with a smile. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
I jumped into my Jetta. Pulling out my iPhone, I quickly assessed that I still had a half-hour before I had to be home. I sat in the car for as long as I could, my fingers brushing my lips where Mickey’s had just been.
What was I getting myself into?
Chapter Seven
I made it home before my parents. I was thankful. I scrawled out a note explaining what happened to my tire and ran upstairs. I lay awake for a long time, remembering Mickey’s kisses. The first had been a game, one I was glad he played along with. The second came from nowhere, and he’d blindsided me. I fell asleep with a smile on my face, wondering if there’d be a third.
****
I woke early the next morning. After showering, I made my way downstairs where I knew my dad would be sitting at the dining room table reading the Clarksburg Exponent. Remembering my story, I trailed in, scooted out a chair, and sat down.
“How was the movie?” he asked, looking at me over his paper.
“It was different,” I said. I went on to explain my note. “Sorry I didn’t wait up for you guys last night. The movie was long, and after waiting for the security guard to change my tire, I just wanted to come home and sleep.”
He took a sip of his black coffee. “That tire is only made to last for fifty or so miles. I need to have it changed promptly and Clarksburg Tire closes at noon on Saturdays.”
Seizing the opportunity that fell in my lap, I quickly spoke up. “I’ll go.”
My dad raised a suspicious brow.
“Really. I don’t mind. I actually wanted to get to the mall early enough to go to the bookstore, and I didn’t make it last night. So I could go there after getting a new tire.”
“Well, that would give me some extra time to answer my work emails,” he said.
“See, there you go. It’s a deal. I’ll go get the tire changed, run to the mall, and then I’ll be home this evening. You’ll have plenty of time to catch up on work stuff, and I’ll be able to get my stuff done, too.”
My dad smiled at me. I hoped he bought it. If I told him where I was really going, I doubt he’d be too eager to agree.
“Sounds like you have it all worked out,” Dad said.
“How was dinner last night?”
“Good,” Dad said absently, his attention drifting back to the paper.
After downing some orange juice and a blueberry muffin, I excused myself from the table.
“I’ll be back this evening,” I said. I hurried, grabbed my purse, and ran into my mom coming down the stairs. I kissed her on the cheek.
“Bye, Mom. I have to go get my tire changed, run to the bookstore, and then I’ll be back this evening. Dad will fill you in. Love ya.” I left her no time to respond as I ran out of the door.
As I backed out of the driveway, I felt excited. Why, I couldn’t quite put my finger on. Was there a thrill with lying? It wasn’t something I normally did. No. I’d decided it wasn’t that. It was going to see Mickey. He confused me. He unnerved me. He had an uncanny ability to make me lose my words. And for reasons unknown, all those added together thrilled me.
There was a small part of me that while lying, felt good about doing it in the spirit of cleaning up my own mess. But there were still so many questions that circled around Mickey. He was in Honors English. That meant at some point, last year’s teacher recommended him, promoted him based on his previous academic work. Why was he going out of his way to fail now? What did he have to prove by doing so and why was Mr. Romano so adamant that Mickey do the work the traditional way? Mr. Romano had nothing to gain by Mickey passing. It still made so little sense to me. But anytime I went down that road, Mary’s eyes were there to remind me that helping someone else was the right thing to do to balance out my wrong.
****
After the tire-changing went smoothly, I went to the bookstore and milled around. It had been too early to go to Mickey’s. Apparently he liked to sleep in. I wondered if it had anything to do with his Friday night life. The fighting was obviously illegal. I wondered why Mickey did it. I also was curious if he actually did it for fun. I had always pegged him for trouble, but as I remembered my hands against his bare skin, him kissing me, I tried hard not to dwell on the fact there was something about that, about him, that attracted me.
Driving toward Glen Dale, I tried to shake those feelings. They would only get in the way. Mickey and I were two very different people. I had a task and feeling attracted to him was not part of it. I had to stay on course. Besides, any interest he had in me had to be fleeting. Last night he was only doing me a favor. That’s all there was to it. Nothing more. But then, why did he kiss me the second
time? Was he toying with me?
I pulled into the Glen Dale city limits and passed several low-income housing developments. It had been a long time since I was in this part of town. I wouldn’t dare tell Mickey, but I had to rely on my GPS to find High Street. I was a girl from an entirely different part of town, a girl who relied heavily on electronic mapping systems.
Turning right onto High Street, I slowed down scanning for house number fifty-three. I took the neighborhood in. It wasn’t exactly what I was used to, but there was something quaint about it. Both sides of the street were lined with single-story homes, small lawns, and the occasional yard gnome. Those would never be allowed in my community. My community had rules, strict curbside stipulations and a committee that made sure the standards were executed.
I spotted a little brown house with a kid playing out front. Number fifty-three. It had to be Mickey’s house. I pulled up alongside the mailbox and spotting a motorcycle parked beside the house, and I felt pretty confident this had to be his house. As I unbuckled, the boy in the front yard approached my car. I got out of the Jetta, I looked down at him and I could see a resemblance to Mickey. It wasn’t like we’d ever talked in school, so I had no idea if he had brothers or sisters. But with the same blue eyes staring up at me, I knew this kid had to be Mickey’s brother.
“Hi, I’m Autumn. Is Mickey here?”
The boy eyed my car then glanced back to me. I guessed him to be roughly nine or ten years old. He turned quickly and ran into the house. I wasn’t going to second-guess myself. This had to be where Mickey lived. I walked up on the porch. Just as I went to knock on the door, a woman propped open the front door. I recognized her. She worked at the Country Club.
“Um, hi. I’m Autumn. Is Mickey around?” I asked, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear.
“I know who you are, honey,” she said, smiling. “Mickey, you have company,” she yelled over her shoulder. “Come on in. We were just getting ready to eat some late lunch.”
She must’ve recognized me from the Country Club, too. If I wasn’t mistaken, she worked in the kitchen. I only knew her from seeing her there from time to time, generally providing the catering for the parties they frequently held.
“I don’t want to intrude,” I said, proud of myself for remembering manners. I thought Mary would be proud of me too.
“Nonsense. It’s not often Mickey has any girlfriends over,” she said.
I stepped through the doorway. “Oh, I’m not his girlfriend. We only needed to meet about some schoolwork. We’re partners and I had to go over some stuff with him about our project.” I didn’t exactly lie, but I didn’t want to divulge too much information because I wasn’t sure how much Mickey had told his mother about our present situation.
I slipped out of my ballet flats as my gaze roamed over their living room. There were family pictures scattered across the walls. It looked like his mother hadn’t missed a single year. There were pictures of Mickey and his brother that chronicled their entire lives. I caught a glimpse of a family portrait that included Mickey when he was considerably younger, his mother who was visibly pregnant, and who I presumed to be his father. It was a vague memory, but I remembered in grade school, Mickey’s father died. As my gaze explored their living room, Mickey silently stole into the room. He caught me looking at their pictures.
“Um, hi,” I said.
It looked as though he just fell out of bed. His hair was tousled, covering his eyes. He wasn’t wearing anything but jeans. I averted my gaze, slightly embarrassed by his lack of clothes. He didn’t speak, and the silence stretched on so long I finally spoke up.
“Is this a bad time?” I asked.
“Of course not! Mickey, don’t be so rude. Tell your girlfriend to come in and sit down for lunch. Boys, wash your hands and get in here,” she said in a crisp motherly tone.
“I’m not his girlfriend,” I said under my breath.
“Hungry?” Mickey asked.
“Uh, sure,” I said.
“Kitchen’s this way,” Mickey said, unhitching himself from the wall and turning the corner.
I followed behind him. I expected to turn the corner and walk into a dining room, but when he said “kitchen”, that was exactly what he meant. Their kitchen was a small room with two countertops, a stove, a refrigerator, a few cabinets, and a small table situated in the middle with four chairs. Their kitchen and dining area combined was the size of our breakfast nook. I was soon distracted by the delicious smell wafting through the kitchen.
“Please have a seat,” Mickey’s mom said. “And for the love of heaven, Mickey, put on a shirt!” His mother swatted at him in a fuss.
Mickey grinned. “Oh, Mama. It’s nothing she hasn’t seen before.”
“I don’t care. You’re going to get dressed before you eat at my table.”
“Yes, Mama,” he said, turning the corner toward what I presumed to be his bedroom.
While stirring something that smelled amazing, his mom looked back at me. “I’m Cecilia, by the way.”
She had warm brown eyes, a friendly demeanor, and had somehow produced Mickey.
“It’s very nice to meet you,” I said.
“So, Mickey tells me you’re his tutor. That boy of mine got into a fight at school and was kicked out for a week. Well, he’d better get it together soon,” Cecilia said.
So, Mickey had lied. I guess I wasn’t the only one not exactly telling the truth. What precisely had he told his mother? Mickey had been there the evening we decided to graffiti the school, but thinking back on it, I wasn’t entirely sure he’d actually done anything other than simply being there. According to his mother, he told her he’d been kicked out of school for a week for fighting which wasn’t true either. I owed him for last night. I wasn’t going to blow his cover. I guess we would keep each other’s lies.
“Yeah. But with us pairing up, he’ll get caught back up in no time,” I said.
“Jimmy, set the table please,” Cecilia said.
I glanced to my right where Mickey’s brother was staring at me. He blushed, and then jumped up to the counter. He rushed around, placing four plates and forks around the table, and sat back down to my right. I glanced over to Jimmy. He was a cute kid. Like Mickey, he had the same dark hair and blue eyes. I imagined he would grow up to be as good-looking as his brother. At that thought, I straightened in my chair. My thoughts were taking a direction they shouldn’t.
Mickey strolled back through the kitchen and grabbed a seat directly across from me. Frying pan in hand, Cecilia scooped out what looked to be some sort of skillet quiche. And it looked amazing. I couldn’t help but think of Mary. If she were here she’d be asking Cecilia for the recipe and as I bit into it, I knew Mary would be agonizing over how good it was.
“Mrs. Costello, this is amazing,” I said between bites.
“Please call me Cecilia, and thank you.”
“Mama could cook anything and make it taste wonderful,” Mickey said, giving his mother a wink.
“You should try her pasta e fagioli,” Jimmy said, shoving mouthfuls of the quiche in as fast as he could.
“I’ll have to fix that next time Autumn’s over,” Cecilia said.
Mine and Mickey’s eyes met momentarily before I fixed my gaze back on my food. I hadn’t exactly thought about how I was going to meet Mickey again. Would we meet up at school? Would I come back over here? Could I sneak him over to my house? No. I couldn’t do the last. Even if my dad was working out of town and my mom was at one of her Country Club meetings, there would be someone in the neighborhood who would break his or her neck to tell one of my parents, and then I’d have a lot of explaining to do.
I glanced back around to Mickey, his brother, and their mother. They talked. They smiled. They ate together. All in close proximity. Cecilia asked Jimmy how school was going and I observed as she and Mickey were both watching him, listening, genuinely listening. Cecilia and Mickey smiled in between mouthfuls of food as Jimmy told a story about this kid
that picked on him from time to time, puked in math class, right behind the pretty girl the bully had a crush on and how he felt some kind of inward victory at the bully finally being the object of ridicule for once.
Something stirred inside me. Sitting here with Mickey and his family eating lunch together, I realized that my family paled in comparison in the family-oriented department. There was something about the quiche being made and served by his mother, something about the way their mother smiled when they told regular day-to-day routine stories, something about the warmth permeating the room, that made the thoughts about how my own family functioned feel very cold.
I was on the other side of the tracks, and never in my life had I ever thought that anything could be better than the side I lived on. But the smallness of this house wasn’t noticeable. It felt huge, because it was filled up and brimming with love. My big house felt all the more empty. It took a family to make a home and I had a family. One that I loved very much. But my mom was never home. She was always at the Country Club, or when she was home, she was engaged with her next bottle of wine. And my dad worked and worked and worked.
I hadn’t realized before that perhaps it wasn’t all the other families that were dysfunctional, but maybe it was mine.
Chapter Eight
For the first time in, I’m certain, ever, I helped clear the table and actually hand-washed dishes. They made machines for that. This was all so new to me. After cleaning up, Mickey slipped into a pair of Vans. He turned to me and said, “Well, come on, tutor.”
I absently followed him, thanking Cecilia over my shoulder for lunch as I walked out of the door. I stayed a few steps behind Mickey as he led me around the house into the back yard. He walked up to a small outbuilding and unhitched the lock. I didn’t wait for him to ask me in. I helped myself. I heard the flick of a light and instantly the room was illuminated. Mickey turned around to an iPod dock and messed with the shuffle. I gazed around the small shed. There was a twin bed tucked away in the corner. On the opposite side of the wall was a heavy bag. Situated in the center of the room was a weight bench, a seat with ripped-up red vinyl and yellow cushion poking out. There were posters scattered haphazardly all over the walls. A calendar. A Guns-N-Roses t-shirt framed. A speed bag dangling from the ceiling, and there was a mini refrigerator sitting on top a card table. This totally looked like a bad boy pad. And I was standing right in the middle of it. After a few moments, Mickey turned his iPod on. It was so loud it felt like the walls were vibrating. I glanced at Mickey and saw his lips moving, but couldn’t hear anything over the music.