by Ginger Scott
If there’s anything there to believe in at all, Dustin would be here right now, standing alongside everyone else important in my life. He’d be up front, in the most important place. But he’s not. He hasn’t been around for days. And I’m a foolish girl with a crush caused by years of proximity and shared experiences. I’m the victim of biological and social science, and that is all.
“Happy birthday, dear Hannah. Happy birthday, to youuu!”
I close my eyes and blush with my smile as everyone drags out the end of the song. I inhale and pause, filling my lungs to blow out the seventeen candles Tommy randomly spread around the cake Mom made. I open my eyes and blow while my head swivels from side to side, spraying the fudge topping with my germs. This is an incredibly stupid tradition, but since it’s my cake, joke’s on everyone else, I guess.
“What’d you wish for?”
His familiar voice sends a rush of goose bumps down my spine, up my neck, and over my shoulders, pouring down the center of my chest like warm liquid. I’ve gotten good at hiding this reaction from the rest of the world, but I savor the way it feels. As for hiding the playful banter that’s become a habit between Dustin and me, that’s another thing.
“Aw, now, if I tell you, it won’t come true,” I tease. I catch my brother’s glare as I turn to face our friend. Tommy is constantly reminding me that Dustin is not the sort of guy I should doodle about on my notebook with hearts and arrows. He’s right; Dustin’s not. He’s the guy who keeps me up at night with worry, the one who makes every other boy at North Highland High look juvenile and weak, and the only one I think about when I make wishes over fire and cake.
What my brother means is the three of us are friends and that’s as far as everything goes, not that I’m much of a part of their anything anymore. High school, it changed those dynamics. So did Colt moving back in.
“Happy birthday, Hannah.” Dustin holds out a small plastic bag from the drug store, a last-minute purchase that he probably grabbed before racing over here for cake. I should be offended, but I’m just glad he showed up.
My eyes slide up the length of his chest, up the wrinkled collar of his button-down shirt that only barely masks the deep red marks left behind from someone’s hand—a chokehold, I’m guessing. I’ve taught myself not to linger on these marks. It only pushes Dustin away when I notice them. I don’t dare speak of them.
“For me? You shouldn’t have,” I say, putting on a fake southern accent as I touch my free hand to my chest, a gesture to show how touched I am.
The contents of the bag jingles, so I figure it’s something like an Arizona keychain or a flashlight-slash-glitter pen. My parents have taken the cake away, and most everyone in the room has lined up to get a piece. Even at seventeen and eighteen years old, cake is a hit. My brother is just over my shoulder, so I keep the act up as I reach into the bag and pull out my gift, which it turns out is nothing I expected.
Tiny copper pipes are tied together, each one dangling from a swirled blue and gold metal wire that’s balled up to look like the moon. A faint, haphazard melody sounds as the small pipes clink into one another. The entire piece is the size of my palm, but the sound it produces is magical.
“Do you like it?”
My eyes drift from the miniature chimes to the boy who brought them. Hazel eyes, tired from never getting sleep, sit deep amid the sharp lines of his face. The baby fat that I used to pinch on Dustin’s cheeks disappeared two years ago, and now his skin is smooth, minus the rough scruff that grows in every two days. His lips raise on one side, pushing into his cheek and carving out the dimple that reminds me I know this boy. It’s the one thing that has remained the same on a face that has grown and survived and changed.
“I do,” I answer.
This wasn’t some gift bought at a drugstore last minute. I don’t have to ask him to know. Dustin made this. He made it for me. The moon and stars and the sound of angels. Something I bet he’s proud of and embarrassed by all at once.
Maybe I am not imagining things after all.
2
My house smells like toxic acid and smoke. Like embers ground into old carpet and covered with baking soda bought at the dollar store. I can’t stand sleeping here, and I rarely do. When I’m not spending the night with the Judges, I’m usually in my car. I’d rather take my chances sleeping in the back seat of a Supra than sleeping under a cloud of whatever shit Colt’s cooked up.
Sleeping in the car takes care of two things, actually. One, I’ve got some distance from Colt and my mom, and two, I can keep a close eye on my car. Colt’s “friends” tend to steal shit, and they’re savvy enough to know my car’s worth more than it looks like it is. Especially in parts.
Colt isn’t here today, and it’s the only reason I can slip inside my own damn home to take a shower. I usually end up taking those at school in the locker room or at the Judges’. Lately, though, it’s gotten weird with Hannah only a room away. We had a bathroom run-in last week when she opened the door I’d forgotten to lock. I couldn’t care less that she saw me naked, but Tommy sure cares a lot. I never would have told him about it because it legit only lasted a second, but he happened to be walking down the hall at the perfect time to catch it for himself. He says I did it on purpose. I didn’t. He’s just being the protective big brother.
“That you, Colt?” My mom’s nodding in and out of consciousness on a sofa that’s so rotted and stained by her bad habits that homeless people would reject it if I took it down to the shelter.
“It’s Dustin. Just taking a shower. Don’t worry, I’ll be gone in two minutes.” I don’t bother to stick around for her response because I know she’s just going to ask me to make her a shot or grab her pills.
My mom’s an addict. I don’t know her as anything other than an addict, besides the few short years Colt was gone and she was semi-sober. She never fully pulled it off, but she was at least able to hold down a job and be present for me, make me breakfast and shit. She smoked a lot, and I hated that everything I owned smelled of nicotine. I’d trade that for the constant chemistry invading my clothes now. I keep most of the things I wear in my duffel bag in the back of my car, and I have a lot of clothes in Tommy’s room. Sometimes when I’m there overnight I run a load of laundry. I’ve gotten good at squatting.
Yesterday was Hannah’s birthday. I could tell she was a little pissed I was late, even if she pretended it didn’t bother her. A person can’t know someone for most of their life and not be able to read their expression. For me, Hannah’s pretty much a large-print book, and she wears her emotions clear as day, no matter how hard she tries to hide them. I had a deal on a new intake for my car and had to meet the guy at a diner halfway between home and Flagstaff. I’d forgotten to take Hannah’s gift with me when I left so I had to stop back home to get it before making it to her party. I probably should have kept it in my car anyhow; there are a lot of copper strips on that thing and if Colt knew I had it, he’d sell the scrap.
It took me a month to find those pieces at work, and my hours at the tow and scrap yard are limited, so the good finds are pretty well picked through by the time I get on shift on Sundays. I think the piece turned out nice, though. I’m not sure Hannah remembers, but there was a wind chime like that at the cabin we stayed in when we raced in Colorado last year. Some artist made it and called it Moon and Stars. Hannah said it sounded like angels, and Tommy and I made fun of her for being so sappy. I felt bad and wanted to buy it for her to make up for it, but the thing cost like two hundred bucks or some shit. Mine’s not art, but I think she got the sentimentality.
I speed through my shower, lathering up and not even bothering to rinse all the shampoo from my hair. I’ll shove a hat on my head and take a dip in the Judges’ pool later. Whatever it takes to get out of here before Colt comes back.
I don’t even bother to walk through the house on my way out, instead opting to stuff what I need for the next few days in my backpack and crawl through my window. Good thing I do, too, be
cause I see the back of Colt’s piece of shit truck idling at the side of the house the minute I toss my stuff in the passenger seat of my car.
My phone buzzing in my back pocket, I round my car and make sure I get inside before answering. I hate that I’m still somehow afraid of that son-of-a-bitch. I quit calling him Dad when I was three, the first time I saw him put a fist in my mom’s face. That little act of defiance earned me the first beating I can remember.
Key comfortably in the ignition, I answer my phone on speaker while I crank the engine.
“Yo, you’re late,” Tommy says. He has a thing about punctuality. I think it’s because he’s never faced much adversity in his life. It gets harder to be on time for things when you have a lot of crazy shit in your way.
“I stopped at the house to grab a shower. On my way now,” I answer, flinching as a half-empty bottle of God knows what crashes against my windshield, busting it into a spider web of glass.
“Fuck!” I shout, my blood’s temperature instantly hot enough to burn me from the inside.
“Dude, what was that?”
“Hang on,” I say, tossing the phone in the passenger seat. Tommy’s questions are going to have to wait.
I get out of my car to pick away the green bottle remnants from my hood while I survey the damage. A few scratches and chips in a paint job I plan to redo aren’t the worst of it, but my windshield is trash. I toss the biggest shards into the gutter and turn to catch Colt’s wasted smirk as he wipes his sleeve across his nose then extends his arm and points his finger at me. He holds it there, and all I want to do is run up to him and break it off—break him.
“I have to pay for that!” I shout, as if he gives a shit.
Leaning forward and off balance, he spits into the gravel and falls back on his heels before turning toward the house where he’ll take my mom down to even lower depths of hell. I’ve quit trying to be her hero. It’s not my job. I wish the Judges would take me in full-time, adopt me or some shit, but I get the feeling Tommy doesn’t want that. We’ve never talked about it, but it’s the feeling I get, and going down that path might mess things up. Whatever. I’ll be eighteen in six weeks and then I can rent my own place, work on the car, and build my brand.
Tommy’s hung up already, so I leave my phone in the seat and take off fast enough to spit gravel at the trailer I’ve come to hate with a fiery passion. It takes less than twenty minutes to get to the Judges’. Life twenty minutes away from the highway is a lot different than the trailer park I live in under the service station’s neon lights. Tommy’s already working in the garage when I pull up, so I follow the curve to the side of the house where the floodlights should let us work into the night.
Tommy holds his palms out as I pull up, his face bunched up as his mouth hangs open. I kick open the car door before coming to a full stop, slap my work boot to the ground and let it slide to a stop along with the car. I push the gear in park but leave it running, my body still hot from my encounter with Colt.
“Dad’s home,” I say, waving my hand at the busted glass. Tommy’s already leaning forward to look at the nicks on the hood.
“Dude, bigger problems than the paint,” I huff, threading my hands behind my neck while I pace around my car.
My friend tilts his head up with a scowl. He hates when I take my anger out on him. It happens a lot, so I guess he has a right to be sick of it.
I walk a few long paces toward the street, bend forward with my hands still gripping the back of my neck and let out a deep growling scream. There’s a crack in the Judge driveway that zigzags right between my legs, so I stare at it while drawing in several deep breaths before righting myself and heading back to Tommy and my busted windshield.
“Sorry.” I apologize a lot.
“We’re gonna need to get it fixed. I mean, unless you want to take Hannah’s car to the drag races Friday night.” His famous honest, straight line cuts across his mouth, and I roll my eyes.
“It might cost less to rig up her sedan than do everything I need to do to this thing,” I say, kicking the rubber of my back tire. My foot rebounds hard because the tires are new, something Tommy reminds me of as I do it, as if I’m actually considering taking Hannah’s car out to the straights.
“Looks like I’m selling the intake to pay for some glass. Unless . . . ya know . . .” I leave the hint out there, already knowing the answer.
“Are you serious? I’m not buying a windshield for a car I don’t even drive, Dust. I’m sorry, but I’m staring down at college.”
“Yeah, yeah.” I wave my hand and flash a short smile. “No, I get it.”
Tommy swears he’s sticking with me for the racing season. We’re a team. But the more he brings up school after this summer, the less I feel I’ll be able to count on him. My stomach tightens at the thought of Tommy bailing on me, but I try hard not to let it color how I see him. He’s not Colt. My dad left because he’s a ruthless asshole. Tommy’s smart and has goals. It’s just . . . our goals were always in sync until last year. He brought up business school out of nowhere. Makes sense, though. If we get big and incorporate in a couple of years, he can run the business end and I can focus on driving and hiring a crew.
I round my car and flip open the trunk, pulling out my bag and the intake manifold so I can clean it up nice and get it ready to sell. I catch the oil rag Tommy tosses my way just as the air fills with the sound of heavy bass. My mouth curls from the sound of Hannah’s car thumping its way up the driveway. Tommy and I installed the stereo system for her when her parents bought the Buick for her at an auction last year. It’s the only thing about her mom-car that kicks any ass, and has not gone to waste—the girl has no shortage of tunes queued at all times. I swear she does it just to drive her mom nuts when she pulls in.
I drop my bag to the ground and set the manifold on the towel so I can hold my hand over my chest and thump my palm against my body with the beat of her latest musical choice. She leaves the car running for a few extra seconds when she spots me, rolling her window down and pumping her fist.
“Come on, Dustin. Show me your moves!” She tilts her head back in laughter, and her friend Bailey leans over her lap to shout at me through the window too.
“Dance! Dance! Dance!”
It’s impossible to ignore the request, and frankly, the attention is a nice distraction. I flip my Pro Racing Gears hat around backward and bust into the only moves I’ve got. I’ve always had a natural sense of rhythm, and girls seem to be into the way I dance. Tommy says I look like those asshats on Magic Mike. If I do, I’m fine with it because those dudes raked in the money.
Hannah jets from her car to join me for an impromptu driveway dance-off, turning around to pull off the ultimate distraction. Girl might be like a sister to me, but she’s not actually my sister, which means when she bends forward in her ripped up denim shorts and curves her back as she stands and leans her shoulder blades into my chest, I react in all of the ways any male who’s into girls would.
“Ohhhh!” I say with a tilt of my head, backing away and fanning myself with my hat. It embarrasses her when I tell her she’s hot. It also pisses Tommy off, which is the real reason I do it. I guess that move was too far, though, because the music cuts just before I threaten to tug my black tee up and over my head for the full Channing Tatum. I let go of my collar and jerk my head around to catch my friend’s death stare.
“We gonna sell this part or what?” His eyes flit from me to his sister as he marches toward her and tosses her keys at her chest. She claps them against her body, frozen in place with a locked jaw and open mouth.
I lean forward and brush my fingertips on her elbow.
“Sorry,” I mouth when our gazes meet.
Her mouth falls shut and her eyes blink rapidly as she shakes her head.
“It’s fine,” she breathes out, shoving past me to join her friend, who is now getting out of the passenger seat.
“We going?” Tommy asks. He’s already got the part in his hands
and has shined it up decently with the rag.
“Wow, got a hot date or something?” I’m deflecting because I know exactly what that’s about. Thing is, I’m not the guy he needs to protect Hannah from. Plenty of dudes at our school are into her, and none of them are worth shit.
“Something like that,” Tommy lies, getting into my passenger seat, leaving my duffel bag on the ground by the garage. I kick it into a corner so nobody runs over it and get into the driver’s side, thankful for the rumble of my engine and the blaring music I quickly crank up.
There’s only one decent place to sell parts in this town, and I’ll be lucky to get half of what I paid for it. Just as long as I can cover the windshield. My stripped-down bare bones insurance policy barely lets me take this thing on the road. I pull into the back lot for Earl’s Garage, a total racket that takes advantage of people who get stuck off the highway on their way heading north. I’m about to get out when Tommy reaches over and grabs my arm.
“What the fuck was that?” he demands.
I pause with one leg out of the car and my eyes squint at the busy oil bays overcharging people a dozen feet away from us. Sucking in my lips, I prepare myself for his lecture and roll my head to the side to meet his stare.
“You need to relax, you know that? I was just trying to chill out and have fun, dance a little and goof around. I don’t know, maybe get rid of this black pit burning a hole in my gut?” I rub my hand over my stomach while my face sours.
“Right. Right,” he says through an unamused chuckle. He glances down at my part held in his other hand, his jaw flexing.
“You don’t “goof around” with Hannah. That’s not what you and Hannah are about.” While I appreciate that he’s not gripping my arm anymore, I don’t love the air quotes he makes in my face.