by E. M. Moore
Well, the only thing that’s changed is the fact that Dad used to be the only person who got me. Now, there’s no one.
The good thing about leaving Saint Clary’s today though is that I’m a lot drier than when I walked in. The blazing sun coats me in heat, and the dry air makes me take in a deep breath. I make my way down to the bike rack and pause. No bikes. Not a single one. If my math is correct, there should be at least one bike parked here: mine.
My hands fall to my sides. Having my hair up all day has given me a splitting headache, and I just don’t have time for this shit. A stolen bike? Who the fuck would want to steal that rusty piece of junk? I’m pretty sure it was my grandfather’s and squeaks the whole time I’ve been riding it.
“Oh, Blue’s Clues,” a sickeningly sweet voice calls out from behind me.
I turn to find Meghan standing next to Stone. Her arm lies loosely around his waist, as comfortable as can be. Jealousy spits fire inside me, matching the temperature of the desert heat. If I was a dragon, I could probably roast them right now. Roast the whole damn school, including Wyatt and Lucas who hang back behind the new power couple of Saint Clary’s. That can’t be right, though. It’s only been a couple of hours and already, Stone has something I’ve never been able to accomplish in Clary: Friends.
Their high school nickname for me burns like acid in my ears. My greatest enemies now know the truth. Dakota Wilder is a nobody, and she will always be a nobody. That’s my family’s true legacy. We may be good at one thing, but we fail at everything else.
This is not what I needed today.
“Missing something?” Meghan asks, a cruel tilt to her lips.
If I hadn’t already given up on Clary residents, I’d slap the smirk right off her face. How dare she.
The thing is, she can’t hide from me as much as I can’t hide from her. I know the only person who really loved her, her grandma, died two years ago in the trailer they live in outside of town. Her mother’s a drunk, has been ever since her husband ran off with her sister and moved to Sedona where they can be the artsy, spiritual people they claim themselves to be.
So, if you’re wondering what I’m getting at, it’s that I’m the better person. But that only goes so far.
Meghan takes a piece of paper from Stone’s fingers, wads it up, and throws it at me. It bounces off my chest and hits the ground. She sneers at it. “If I were you, I wouldn’t lose that if you want to see your bike again.” The way she says bike sounds as if she has a limo waiting for her when I know damn well she’s driving a shitty Ford Focus with an engine that barely starts.
I don’t lower myself to pick up the paper in front of the growing crowd. I don’t want them to see how weak I truly feel in this moment. Not only are Stone, Wyatt, and Lucas here, they’re apparently here to make me more miserable than I already am, enlisting the help of the people who’ve tortured me my entire life. Awesome. If I would’ve known today was going to hold this, I would’ve stayed in my dorm room.
The crowd disperses after Wyatt gives me a wink and Lucas looks past me like I’m not even a blip on his horizon. Both reactions dig their claws into me, leaving scars behind. When the loud engines and coughing mufflers leave the parking lot, I finally bend over to retrieve the paper. I unfold it, using the metal piping of the bike rack to smooth out the wrinkles.
I glare at what’s in front of me. It’s a map, crudely drawn to reflect a treasure map, including a big X. I can only assume that’s where my bike is, and their digs just keep getting bolder and bolder. Yes, of course the girl from the famous treasure-hunting family of Clary would need directions to her stolen bike in treasure map form. That’s the thing about the Wilders though. We’re big treasure hunters, we’re not big treasure finders.
If my bike isn’t where this X is, I swear to God... Yeah, I’ll probably do nothing, but the movie playing in my head where I gouge out Meghan’s eyes is good enough for me. The boys? Well, I haven’t quite figured out their punishment yet, but Meghan holds her looks close to her heart. I’d definitely go for uglying her up a bit.
I trek back into the school and find the janitor. I tell him my predicament, pointing toward the map which, according to the stark lines and offensively drawn landmarks, my bike should be on the roof of the school.
The janitor tears the map away from me, tells me to stay put, and then goes in search. Five minutes later, he curses as he tries to maneuver the bike through the stairwell exit at the far end of the hall. The heavy door closes on his fingers while he holds the handlebars, and a slew of insults pollutes the air. When he emerges, I hurry from my spot, profusely thanking him as I grab the rusted-out bike and start walking out of the school.
“Take care of your stuff!” he yells after me.
Yes, of course. I’ll definitely do that because I certainly asked them to steal my bike, hide it, and then leave me a map to find where it was.
The tires bang against the front stone steps as I lead it down. As soon as I hit flat cement, I throw my leg over and start to pedal when something doesn’t feel right. I frown down at it, and as soon as I see the tires my shoulders sag. Bastards let the air out. My throat gets scratchy, but I haven’t cried since my father went missing, so I’m not going to waste them on Stone and his cronies. I get back off the bike and point it toward Dickie’s garage. Hell, I was headed there anyway. I might as well add fixing a bike to the bill I already can’t pay.
When I turn the corner of the short street to head down Prospector Boulevard, the glint of silver catches my eye. By the time I turn, all I see is the back end of a silver car, rolling in the opposite direction.
3
It takes me a lot longer than I wanted to get to Dickie’s in the afternoon heat. I stop off at a tiny grocery store to sip from the fountain that I know is near the bathrooms just to cool off for a bit before heading back out into the blazing sun. By the time I make it to Dickie’s Garage, literally the last building before there’s nothing, I’m drenched in sweat and breathing heavy.
“Hello?” I call out. There’s no telling where Dickie could be. Under a car, inside a car, in the office. Ever since he had a heart attack one day when a customer snuck up on him, I’ve called out to him when I first arrive. And by the way, when I say “snuck up on”, I literally just mean he entered the garage like a normal person asking if his car was finished being serviced.
What can I say? Dickie’s old.
He also happens to be my father’s best friend and former partner.
The smell of grease and stale cigarette smoke hits me as soon as I walk in farther. The clank of metal on metal of a tool fitting around a part clinks before wheels rolling on concrete sound. “Over here,” he calls out.
I walk around a white Dodge Caravan that’s up on lifts and peek around a tan sedan that Dickie’s just now rolled out from under. He narrows his gaze when he sees me, and as soon as he recognizes my face, he smiles. He’s missing a few teeth in the front, and he’s about as aged as aged can be. He’s lived a hard life of manual labor and then didn’t treat himself any better on top of that with the cigarettes and alcohol, even though he damn well knows he shouldn’t be smoking anymore with his heart the way it is.
He stands up slowly, taking his time as his knees creak, belying his age. “Dakota, there you are.” He limps over to me, brushing a stubbly kiss to the top of my head. He has grease stains across his cheeks and hands. The rag he uses to wipe it off only smears the brown-black over his skin because there’s enough grease already on the ratty old piece of cloth that he could probably cover his whole body with it.
My stomach tightens. Dickie’s one of the OG’s of Clary. He owned the only garage in town for many years before NAPA came in twenty miles away. Like my father, Dickie spent any spare minute he could in the Superstitions with a pick axe and a dream. He and my father worked together for years until Dickie had his heart attack and couldn’t actually go out searching anymore. To me, Dickie is one of the last true blue treasure hunters. When he goes
, who’s going to send the tourists on a wild goose chase through the unforgiving terrain?
Yeah, I know. We’re fucked up around here, but someone from Clary deserves to find the gold. Not a damn outsider, and certainly not the fucking Jacobs.
I squeeze my eyes shut as soon as I recognize my father’s words flit through my brain. It’s harder not knowing what happened to him.
“How’s my sweetheart doing?”
I groan. “My bike’s fucked. I tried to find paperwork on the truck, and I’m...” I gaze up at him warily. “...hoping you have good news.”
Dickie presses his lips together. His salt and pepper stubble sticks out like prickers on a cactus. His skin is about as weathered as it can get, almost like dirty leather. Creases and wrinkles dot the landscape of his face like tumbleweeds through the desert. That’s what years of baking in the sun and thinking you’re above sunscreen gets you. The old man clicks his tongue as he lowers himself to a grease-stained stool. He leans against a workbench and breathes in. His breath catches, bringing on a coughing fit that lasts about thirty seconds.
I go to the corner and grab a bottle of water out of a dirty fridge in the back. “Dickie,” I say, trying not to sound chastising. “You know you’ve got to give the nicotine up.”
He gives me that look that says, Little girl, I’m about three times your age and need your life advice like I need a cactus spine up my ass.
He doesn’t say it though. He just takes the water from me, downs half of it, and then plops the bottle down on the workbench. “You should get yourself one of these, Dakota. You look like you walked yourself here from Texas.”
“Ha. Ha.” But I’m not about to pass up that offer. I’m thirsty as hell. I grab myself a water and then wave him out to my bike that I leaned against the side of his garage when I first got here. Outside, in the full rays of the sun, Dickie looks even worse. The shadows tend to hide a bit of weathering, but not out here under a spotlight. I’m seriously worried for him. His skin is too ashy gray.
He cocks his head, then uses his grease rag to wipe the sweat from his neck, but only manages to smear grease on the one area that didn’t have any yet. He whistles. “What did you do?”
I grind my teeth together. Not at Dickie. At the assholes who thought it would be funny to hide my bike on the roof of the school and let out the air in the tires. Privileged people don’t understand what a big thing having your own transportation can be, even if it is only two wheels. “Just tell me you have good news on the truck.” I worry over my lip as I wait for his answer. A couple of days ago, the truck wouldn’t start, so I had Dickie tow it here. I know he’ll give me a fair price, but what I really don’t want to hear is that my father’s ancient truck can’t be salvaged. There’s zero chance of me affording a new ride right now.
Dickie presses his lips together again, and I know it can’t be good news. I slip one of my book bag straps off and bring my bag around to the front. When I was avoiding the Stone, Wyatt, and Lucas show in the cafeteria, I finally had a chance to look at the paperwork I’d stuffed in that morning and believe it or not, I found a receipt from Dickie’s that’s a few years old. I don’t know what I’m trying to do with it. I’m just grasping at straws.
I scan the paperwork again. “It looks like you fixed the muffler a few years back.”
Dickie peeks at me. His eyes have a dull shine to them, and not a good one. Almost like I can see the cataracts taking his vision away right before my eyes. The look he gives me tells me everything I need to know. You ever just have someone older look at you like you’re a little kid? That’s when I know I’m being naïve, and worse, he feels bad for me because of it.
“Fuck,” I sigh.
“Sorry, kid.”
“What is it then?” I ask tentatively. Dickie’s the best mechanic I know, but you know, maybe someone else could do something. Not that I could afford to pay them either.
“It’s the engine, Dakota.” He shuffles toward another bay in the garage, and I follow after him. He smacks the side of my father’s old truck a few times, and I swear some of the rust falls to the garage floor like confetti. “Seeing as how it’s a classic, it’s gonna cost you more than it’s worth.”
To Dickie, every car older than this millennia is a classic. My father’s truck is a 1979 Ford. Yes, it’s old as shit, but it’s not the kind of car you’re going to see at a classic car show or anything. I have no doubt he’s right though.
I lean against one of the wood beams spaced throughout the garage and sigh. What the fuck am I going to do now? Sure, riding the bike is okay, but I thought it was only temporary.
“Talk to me, Dakota. What’s going on with the bitch?”
The bitch is none other than my stepmother, Marilyn. The one my father had to have. At times, I thought it was more about getting something a Jacobs had, and I’m probably not too far off. Normally, I’d laugh, but she ended up fucking me over, so I’m not in a laughing mood.
I shrug. “She cleaned out the accounts. Dad has a life insurance policy, but it’s not worth much. The insurance company won’t release the money because he’s still listed as missing and not—” I can’t even say the words. You ever think something is probably true, but you just can’t believe it. Saying it would be believing it, and I’m not ready. “If the life insurance ever decides to pay out, I don’t know if I would get it anyway. She’s married to him, and if my father had a will, I can’t find it.”
“I oughtta track her down and whip that money out of her until she’s spitting quarters.”
Can’t say I disagree with the sentiment. I can add Stone’s name to his list. If he’s taking hit orders, it would be a shame to leave his name off. Coming to Saint Clary’s feels like a direct attack. I just don’t know what game he’s playing. With the Wilders and the Jacobs, it’s always something though.
Dickie takes his hat off, scratches his balding head, then puts it back on. “About the only thing I can do is junk it and give you the money. It won’t be much, but it’ll be something. I’ll also put air in your bike tires and keep a look out for a cheap car.”
I hold out my hand, and he puts his blistered fingers in mine. “That’s more than enough,” I tell him. I’m not Dickie’s charity case nor would I ever want to be. His wife died many years ago, and as soon as his kids were old enough, they got the fuck out of Clary. I used to blame them, but I don’t anymore. From what I can tell, Clary is a dead end where all the stragglers end up. I want more for me than that. I always have. That’s where the treasure dream came in, but without my father… I have no idea if that’s even a possibility anymore.
“Hear anything from Lionel?”
I kick the cracked concrete at my feet. The last I heard from the Chief of Police was at the press conference, but Dickie asks me every time he sees me in case something’s changed. “Not lately,” I say, almost refusing to believe that I’m truly in this search by myself. Dickie would help if he could, but he can’t, and everyone else seems to have forgotten. Or never really cared in the first place.
“I knew that kid never could figure out his ass from a hole in the ground.” I smile because I’ve heard this conversation more than a few times between my father and Dickie, and it never once changed. Lionel is a good-for-nothing.
I guess I’m just racking up the list of people Dickie’s going to go ape shit on. Good. I could use someone on my side.
When Dad didn’t come back, Dickie swore he was going to go out after him, but everyone told him to stay put, including me. He feels guilty because he thinks he could’ve found him, and he’s probably right. No one knows the Superstitions like my dad and Dickie with me a few steps behind. “Can’t argue with you there.”
Dickie rubs his face. His tell that he’s itching for a cigarette. “You know, if you need anything—”
“I know, Dickie,” I say to cut him off. Asking Dickie for help would be like trying to get blood from a stone. There’s just none of it to be had here.
Apparen
tly, he’s had about enough of the sentimental shit as I have. He moves away from the truck and goes back outside to grab my bike. He pulls it into a bay in front of the air compressor. It starts with a whine, and I watch as he fixes the hose to my tire. Thankfully, it starts to inflate. Dickie checks the tire pressure. “It’s holding air,” he calls out like we’re at a rock concert instead of standing right next to each other in the confines of a garage. Even with the air compressor going, I flinch a little at how loud he is. He really is going deaf.
“That’s great,” I yell. I shout my response as loud as he did because otherwise, he won’t know I’ve said anything.
That’s something, I think as Dickie inflates my back tire. They could have ruined my bike altogether, but at least they just let the air out. I’m not saying those assholes deserve a humanitarian award, but I am saying they could have dropped it off the three-story roof, instead of just leaving it up there with no air.
I clench my jaw as I think about their smug as fuck faces handing over that map. Whatever they’re trying to accomplish by coming to Clary, I can’t let them get to me. Not now. Not ever.
4
At least I have my bike when I make my way back into town after sharing a spaghetti dinner with Dickie. He’s always been good to me, but he’s definitely stepped up since Dad went missing. Even if my father couldn’t find treasure, at least he found good friends. Well, one good friend. Let’s not go crazy. His other relationships were an epic disaster. My mother died when I was young. Clary old-timers whisper that the desert killed her. As a woman from Minnesota, she hated the heat, she hated the barren landscape, and if you ask one of them, she hated my father, too.