“Nope,” he says. “Your car insurance covers the tow.”
“Okay, thank you.”
I breathe a sigh of relief before walking into the shop. The first thing I see is a familiar face wearing a stiff, blue Ruddick’s Auto cap and matching blue button-up shirt with the logo on the pocket. It’s that Joel guy from school, the possible drug dealer slash guidance aide. The uniform makes his eyes look really blue. But I have to laugh at how his shirt is untucked and his pants hang a little low.
When he sees me walk in, he freezes for a second, then turns to look at the window to the shop where two men work on a truck on a lift. Before he turns back, he takes his hat off and turns it backward. Then he looks at me.
“Zae Monroe.” He glances out at the tow truck driving away. “What kind of trouble’d you get into?”
“Flat tire.” I walk up to the counter, still shaking a little. “I don’t have any money, though. Can my mom come by on her way home from work?” I don’t tell him that she doesn’t have any money either. Parents always seem to find some way to make it work, but the guilt I feel is massive.
“Yeah. Carrie Monroe, right?”
“You know my mom?”
He shrugs. “She’s been coming for years. And Xander.” Wow, he knows my parents? He comes out from behind the counter. “Let’s take a look.”
I follow him out the door, watching as he hikes up his baggy blue work pants and continues to swagger, in no hurry.
He squats by the nearly flat tire and runs a hand over it, looking closely. When he gets down near the back, he goes, “Ah. There it is.” He glances up at me. “A screw. Let me get it out and see if I can plug it. You can have a seat while I get the stuff.”
I nod and sit on the sidewalk, which makes him chuckle.
“I meant a seat inside, but if you wanna hang with me, that’s cool.”
I feel my face flush warm as I nod. I am an idiot today. I sit there, feeling stupid, while he goes and comes back with a bunch of stuff. Then I watch him work, and I can’t help but be impressed at how his biceps and triceps bulge while he handles the tire—pumping the jack to lift the car, yanking out the screw and getting the plug in, then filling the tire with air. It looks solid. His hands are dirty now, and there’s sweat along his blond hairline. It’s kind of hot.
I’d kiss him.
I’m so into my moment of lustful staring that I jump when he pats the tire and says, “That should hold it.”
I stand and brush my butt off. “So, we don’t need a new tire?”
“Nope.”
Thank God! “How much will it cost?”
He shrugs again, pulling out a rag from his back pocket and wiping his hands absentmindedly. “Don’t worry about it. Friend discount.”
Gratitude rushes through me, making my stupid eyes water again. Judging by the concerned look that crosses his face, he notices. “You okay?”
I want to hug him, but I hold back since he’s at work.
“Yeah.” I clear my throat and swallow. “It’s just been a long week. Thank you so much. Really.”
“Just don’t tell my dad.”
“Your dad?”
He hitches a thumb to the sign. “The owner. He’s a cheap ass.”
“Oh.” Ruddick’s Auto. Joel Ruddick. I smile. “It’ll be our secret.”
“Take care, then.” He shoots me a quick, cute grin and turns his hat forward as he goes into the shop, leaving me exhausted and thankful as I call my mom to tell her all is well.
Chapter Sixteen
When I get home, Zebby is sitting on the couch like a lump. He’ll stay in that exact spot all spring break if I let him.
“Wanna walk with me to Seven-Eleven?” I ask.
“Eh . . .”
“I’ll buy you a Slurpee.” My piggy bank still has a few dollars in change.
This gets him to sit up. “Okay.”
I make us both pepperoni, cheese, and spinach wraps to eat while we’re walking. My brother is a bottomless pit. He gets a giant Slurpee of mixed flavors and finishes it as we get back to the apartment. Mom’s not home yet, but she will be soon. We both stop and stare up at our building. Dread fills me at the thought of leaving the sunshine to go back into that dreary place.
“You know what? Let’s go to the skate park until dinner,” I tell him.
“Really? Yes!” He runs up the stairs and puts on his flat, wide skater shoes, grabbing his skateboard that he hasn’t used since fall. It was a brutally cold winter plagued with too much sleet and slush for skateboarding.
Though the sun is shining, it’s cool in the shade, so I pull on a hoodie with my jeans, but opt for flip-flops to show my purple-and-teal toenails.
The skate park is packed, and thankfully Zeb finds a couple of nice kids he knows from school who are happy to let him join them. I sit on a bench soaking up vitamin D. It’s the most contentment I’ve felt in a while.
A few guys and a girl are doing amazing tricks and jumps over at the tallest ramp. Zeb and his friends stop to watch. I can’t take my eyes off one of the guys with sleek black hair that shrouds his face under a backward hat. He’s got total control of the board in a way that’s super hot. He’s effortless in his jumps, making the board spin under his feet, then landing gracefully back in place.
When he lands a 360 ollie, everyone cheers, including me. I stand and move closer to watch. What I see makes my jaw hang loose. I know that guy! Taro Hattori, from my English class, whose hair is always blocking the beautiful angles of his face as he’s hunched over a drawing. I didn’t know he had these kinds of skills. I take a short video to show my friends.
When they stop to take a break, and the crowd disperses, Taro catches my eye and his widen in surprise. He quickly looks down, taking off his hat and turning it frontward, low, hiding much of his face beneath the bill and his hair. That’s the kid I know. But we’ve already made eye contact. I can’t just walk away without it being awkward, so I approach.
“Hey, Taro,” I say. “I didn’t know you could skate like that. You’re awesome.”
He reluctantly takes the compliment, looking down. “Thanks.”
We’re both quiet. It feels like I’m making him uncomfortable, and I don’t want that. I’m about to turn and go back to the bench when he asks, “You skate?”
I let out a laugh. “No.” I point over to Zeb. “My brother does. Or tries to.”
“Ever tried?” He lifts his head enough for me to see his shaded eyes, and my heart jumps as if we’ve touched.
“Not unless you count sitting on the board and rolling down a driveway.”
He laughs, and I can’t help but smile as his burst of personality shows. We look over at Zeb, who’s trying and failing to do a trick he’s been working on for a year now.
“I would, like, pay you to teach him how to do that . . . whatever it’s called.”
“Fakie frontside one eighty. Okay, yeah.”
“Seriously?” I can’t stop smiling.
“I mean, I can try,” he says.
I take Taro over to Zeb and introduce them. He and his friends have stars in their eyes for the older guy and his skills. Taro works with them, and I watch with rapt attention. For the first time ever, Zebby gets the trick and we all cheer. He and Taro bump knuckles, and Taro joins me on the bench as we watch the younger boys trying to perfect the move.
Mom texts me to find out where we are, and I write back. I know we should head home for dinner, but I’m not ready to leave just yet.
“Thank you so much,” I tell Taro.
He gives that nonchalant shrug again, as if embarrassed by the praise. Zeb and his friends take off down the smooth sidewalks, racing, leaving Taro and me virtually alone.
I stare out at the fluid bodies around the skate park, dipping low into the U-bends, then swooping back up. I glance over at Taro’s lips, which are truly shaped like a soft, round heart. I would happily kiss him if he made a move, but I doubt that would happen. It has to be me. I try to picture
Taro as the poetry writer. Could it be him?
My phone dings and I look down at a message from an unknown local number.
Yo, Z. It’s Dean. Party tmrw nite at Devonshire Farm.
Everything inside me does a 360 trick, and I silently cheer. I can’t believe he texted me! The first real party I went to in ninth grade was at Devonshire Farm. It’s the last true farm on our side of the county, and it’s owned by the grandparents of Bodhi Stein, one of the football players. When his grandparents go out of town, he offers up the back field for a party. Since it’s private property and nowhere near neighbors, it’s safe from cops.
Thnx, I text back. See you there! I probably shouldn’t have put the exclamation point. It looks like I’m overly excited. Oh, well. I shove my phone in my back pocket. I need to get home and tell the girls.
I stand, giving Taro a wave. “Thanks again.”
“No problem. Your brother’s rad.”
I have to agree. I call Zeb and he skates my way, stopping when he gets to me. “Hop on, Zae. I’ll pull you.”
I climb on his board and hold his shoulders as he walks down the sidewalk pulling me. Taro watches us go, shaking his head in amusement. We laugh the whole time as I try not to fall off. It’s crazy how much coordination and balance I have when it comes to cheer, but put me on moving wheels and it all disappears.
When we get down the street I realize I didn’t get to ask Taro if he was the poet, but I can’t go back without looking stupid. Besides, I’m pretty sure I know who the probable culprit is, and now I have his number.
Zeb is sweating by the time we get back to the apartment. Mom points him directly to the bathroom since he stinks like only a boy can.
After dinner, before Zebby can get lazy again, I say, “Let’s play,” and toss him a controller. We play boxing, and I kick his butt two out of three times. He’s a good sport, though, and we even manage to laugh a few times.
As he’s switching games he asks nonchalantly, “Heard from Dad?”
My heart tightens with sadness, then burns with wrath.
“No,” I say. “But I’m sure he’ll call soon.”
Whenever he can spare a moment away from her. Whoever she is. The woman he’s playing house with. No kids to worry about. No wife to nag him. Just fun and freedom while we sit here hurting and waiting.
I wonder what she looks like. How old she is. If he’ll get bored with her eventually and miss Mom. Miss us. Would Mom accept him back? Would I want that? Right now, the answer is a definite no. I don’t know when, if ever, I’ll be able to forgive him. I don’t care if I ever see him again, but Zeb does. Dad can ignore me all he wants—whatever—but it’s unacceptable for him to ignore his son.
After we play a round of a game of Zeb’s choice, in which he slaughters me without mercy, I go to the bedroom and text Dad.
Zeb misses u. Make time for him.
I don’t care if I sound bossy, rude, or disrespectful. I hope it annoys him.
He doesn’t respond. Jerk.
But then I hear a chirp from the living room followed by Zebby’s voice. I open the door to listen.
“Hey! . . . Yeah, I’m good. When can I see you and your new place? . . . Okay, I understand.” His voice falls, and I lock my jaw. “Okay . . . Love you, too. Bye.”
I walk out just as he’s hanging up, his shoulders slumped in despondence.
“He’s working double shifts to pay his new security deposit,” Zeb mumbles. The burn of anger is back in my chest, seeping up my throat until I swallow it down.
“I’m sure you’ll get to see him soon.”
I ruffle his hair.
Mom comes through the front door and smiles at me inquisitively. “So, how did you manage to get no charge for the tire?”
“I know the owner’s son from school,” I tell her. “Just don’t tell his dad that he did it for free.”
Mom wears the same look of tearful gratitude that I had earlier today as she nods.
“How was your first day at the job?”
“Good,” I say. “I’m tired though.”
Her mouth opens like she wants to chat, but I turn and head for my room. I try not to feel guilty when I think about the look on her face, so hopeful, only to be denied again. We used to talk a lot. I enjoyed time with Mom. I loved confiding in her, but it’s too hard now. Everything’s changed. She and Dad upended our lives. If they can be selfish, so can I.
I put my headphones on tight and blast the music, staring up at my international dream-destination posters.
Let the forgetting commence.
Chapter Seventeen
Wednesday Night
I can’t believe spring break is nearly halfway over already, but I’m looking forward to tonight. Vincent is gone to Williamsburg with his family until tomorrow, so Kenzie is all ours. When she starts gushing about how amazing he is, I shut her up by passing around the video of Taro from yesterday afternoon and telling them all about it.
“Okay, that’s hot.” Monica.
“Damn, he’s good!” Lin.
“Aww! He’s so sweet!” Kenz. “Did you kiss him?”
“No. I was too distracted by the text from Dean.”
“Mmm . . . Dean.” Monica gives me a sly look from the front passenger seat, and I cut her some side eye.
“I will fight you, D-dub.”
“You can try, B-diddy.” She laughs and I shake my head, watching the road. I sincerely hope she’s joking.
It’s dark when we arrive at nine, and a huge bonfire lights the way as we park in the dirt field and make our way through long grasses. The place is lit. Bodhi Stein’s pickup truck is pulled close, filled with firewood. His doors are open and his speakers are blaring a mixed playlist of country, hip-hop, and rock. There’s a keg of beer with a stack of plastic cups. I have no idea how they were able to get that, but people are crowded around it, screaming and laughing. I’m happy to see that I recognize almost everyone here from school. Athletes and potheads, dancers and hoodlums. All so different, yet so much the same. It feels comfortable, like we can all let loose without fear.
My friends get in line for a beer, while I sip a bottle of Coke, peering around for Dean. He must not be here yet. After the girls get their drinks, we move aside. A group of baseball players spots us and they holler out, having apparently been here drinking a lot longer than us. Kyle is already stumbling.
“Oh, no,” I whisper when I make eye contact with Brent Dodge. His poor face lights up when he sees me, and he jogs over.
“What’s up, Zae?”
“Hey, Brent. Having fun?”
“Yeah.” He adjusts his Peakton baseball hat, looking at me with that cute baby face. “Hey, can we go talk?”
“Brent . . .” I let out a quiet sigh, and he gives me a bashful smile.
“What?”
“No talking.”
“More kissing?” His voice is hopeful.
“No. I’m single, and that’s how I like it.” I give him a friendly punch in the arm, and he throws his head back, staring up at the sky.
“Fiiiine.”
Kenzie bounds over with half her beer gone already. “Hi, Brent!”
“Hey, you coming to all the games this season?”
“You know it.” She wouldn’t miss watching her third baseman for the world. Our team is supposed to be amazing this year. She takes another long swig.
“Are you getting drunkies?” I ask.
“Maybe.” Her huge smile shows she’s already headed in that direction. Then she frowns. “I wish Vinny was here.”
“Vinny.” Brent chuckles. “That is awesome.” He laughs heartily, and Kenz shoves him, laughing, too.
It doesn’t take long for the party to get rowdy. The sweet, skunky scent of weed blows on the spring breeze, mixing with bonfire smoke and pine. Spilled beer soils the ground beneath our feet. Darkness. Music. Dancing. Drugs and alcohol. Guys and girls on the cusp of independence. Seclusion. It’s a recipe for success. Or disaster. But I’m onl
y feeling the success right now because Dean and a carful of football players just showed up to a chorus of low howls from their friends.
Kenzie with a buzz is like a butterfly, flittering around to chat with as many people as possible and to hand out her famous hugs. For a little thing, she has a strong embrace. Lin, Monica, and I laugh as we watch her go. Thankfully she keeps her distance from where Sierra and Meeka are standing with a few guys from the basketball team and some of their dancer friends. If Kenz has a run-in with those two tonight, she’ll end up inconsolable, and drunk tears are the worst.
“Don’t look,” Monica whispers with her cup close to her mouth, “but Rex Morino is at three o’clock and he’s staring hard.”
“Crap,” I whisper, not daring to look.
“Holy stalker,” Lin says.
“Tell me if he comes this way so I can run,” I beg.
They both nod, sipping their drinks and taking surreptitious glances in his direction.
“He’s totally watching you, waiting for you to look his way,” Lin says. “Man, he’s super sexy when he’s intense like that.”
“Let’s go to the other side of the bonfire,” I suggest, not caring how sexy he looks.
I breathe easier when I’m out of his line of sight, and I realize we’re standing right next to redheaded Flynn Rogers and two other guys from his band.
“Hey, Flynn!” I say.
He turns and blinks with surprise before smiling. “Oh, hey. Good to see you.”
“Did you have the auditions yet?” I ask.
His face falls a little. “Yeah. There were hundreds of bands, and only ten made the cut. I don’t think they were fans of Celtic folk rock.” He gives a low chuckle.
“Aw, that sucks,” Monica says.
Flynn shoves unruly red curls behind his ears. “There was a man there who runs a local pub, though, and he asked if we’d come perform some Irish music.”
“That’s awesome!” I tell him. “You’ll have to tell us when so we can come.”
“I think you have to be twenty-one,” he says. “I don’t guess you have fake IDs?”
“Nope.” My mouth pulls to the side and I scrunch my nose to show I’m disappointed.
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