by Jeff Zentner
“You don’t know until you try. Thing about girls is—”
Dill chuckled and punched Travis in the arm again. “ ‘Thing about girls,’ huh? Now look who’s an expert.”
“I know a thing or two.”
“Like hell you do. Maybe you know a thing. You don’t know two.”
They pulled up to Dill’s house. The day begged for work outside—cloudy, crisp enough that you needed a long-sleeve shirt but not a jacket. The air smelled of brown grass and clothes drying somewhere.
Travis determined they’d need to get at the starter motor from below. They jacked up the car and put supports under it. Travis wiggled underneath with a set of wrenches.
“Can you help me get the end of my wrench over that top bolt?” Travis asked.
“Sure.” Dill helped him maneuver onto the bolt. “Where’d you learn how to work on cars?”
“My dad.” Travis grunted and broke the bolt free. He ratcheted the wrench to loosen it.
“Was that fun? Working on cars with your dad?”
“Not really.” Travis hoped Dill wouldn’t ask why. He didn’t.
Travis unhooked the electrical connection from the starter motor and clanked around with the wrench until he got onto the other bolt. He strained and loosened the bolt, supporting the old starter motor with his hand while he ratcheted the remaining bolt. The bolt came free and he lowered the starter motor. He wriggled out from under the car.
“You ever think about teaching your kids how to work on cars someday?” Dill asked.
Travis brushed dirt off his pants. “I haven’t thought much about having kids. But if I did, I’d teach them all kinds of things. And I’d let them read whatever they wanted.” Travis pulled the new starter motor out of the box and hefted it. He lowered himself to the ground and wriggled underneath the car.
He fitted the starter motor in place. He could see Dill’s face above him, through the engine compartment. They made eye contact. And all at once, Travis felt an overwhelming urge to relieve himself of one more weight that day, while he was on a roll. “Can I ask you kind of a weird question?”
“Sure. As long as it’s not about Bloodfall. Save that for Amelia.”
Travis slid one of the starter bolts in and hand-tightened it. “Did your dad ever hit you? Before he went away?”
Dill hesitated before answering. “Yeah, I mean, he spanked me. Sure.”
Travis finished tightening the bolt with the wrench. “That’s not what I mean. I mean did he hit you hit you. Really hit you?”
He and Dill made eye contact again.
“No. Not like that.” Dill didn’t ask why he asked. Travis gave thanks for that. Asking the questions indeed made him feel lighter. Less alone, somehow.
“When I have kids, I won’t lay a finger on them. I mean, except to hug them and stuff. But never to hurt them.” Travis slipped the other bolt in and hand-tightened it, finishing it with the wrench. He hooked up the electrical connection and scooted out from under the car.
“Okay,” Travis said. “Moment of truth. Say your prayers.” He sat in the car and turned the key. The engine spun immediately to life. It didn’t sound healthy, but it never did. At least it ran and would get Dill’s mom from point A to point B for a little while longer.
Dill whooped and high-fived Travis. “Dude, you’re awesome. You did it.”
Travis slapped Dill on the arm. “We did it. Now let’s go get your fourteen-dollar core charge.”
“I owe you one,” Dill said, as they got into Travis’s pickup.
“Pay me back by making up with Lydia. It sucks for me when you guys are mad at each other.”
Dill didn’t mind walking the couple of miles to Lydia’s house. It had just rained, and the streets were covered with wet leaves; their earthy tobacco scent hung in the air, mixing with the spice of wood smoke. A wispy veil of clouds covered the sky and the bright waxing gibbous moon. Dill pulled the denim jacket (that Lydia had picked out) tighter around himself and buttoned it. While he walked, he rehearsed what he’d say. I’m sorry. I was wrong. I only want what will make you happy. Even his church sign had been semihelpful (this once): GOD DOES NOT FORGET THE SINNER, HE FORGETS THE SIN.
I could use some forgetfulness. He knocked on Lydia’s door, his heart racing. Her dad answered.
“Hello, Dill. How are you?”
“I’m good, thanks. Is Lydia home?”
“Yes. Come in, come in. Lydia?” he called upstairs. “You have company, sweetie.”
Lydia appeared at the top of the stairs, wearing yoga pants and a hoodie, her hair in a messy ponytail. When she saw Dill, she folded her arms and glared at him for a moment. Dill gave her a kicked-puppy-dog look. She waved him upstairs and stalked back to her room. Dill started to head up.
“Hey, Dill, before you go, remind me to show you this new Strat of mine, okay?” Dr. Blankenship said.
“Will do.” He went upstairs.
Lydia sat at her desk, composing a document on her new laptop. It appeared to be a college admission essay. She didn’t turn around when Dill walked in.
Dill took in the ordered chaos of Lydia’s room. The sheer amount of visual information always overwhelmed him. Records. Books. Magazines. Posters. Photos. Stuffed animals. Weird antiques, including a terrifying dental phantom from the 1930s that her dad had given her. Clothes and shoes, everywhere—all representing her ever-shifting obsessions. What was different this time were the piles of marked-up college admission essay drafts. Half-filled-out college and scholarship applications. The incidents of a life moving forward with great velocity and determination.
Her room always made him feel wistful and envious for the abundance in which she dwelled—a stark contrast with his even starker room. The piles of college materials didn’t help. Her bed creaked as he sat on it behind her.
Lydia still didn’t turn around. She highlighted a line and deleted it. She appeared determined to make this hurt. “So. Talk.”
Dill faltered. His carefully planned apology speech—formulated on the walk over—evaporated. “I’m—I’m sorry. For the stuff I said.”
Lydia continued typing.
“And I’ve missed you.”
Typing.
“And I want us to stay friends.”
Typing.
“And I’m starting to feel stupid now, so I’ll leave.” Dill rose from the bed with another creak.
Lydia turned her chair around and sat cross-legged on it.
“All right. I accept your apology. But seriously. I can’t deal with the continued drama. I have too much to think about. So it has to stop, Dill. I mean it.”
Dill sat back down on the bed. “I can’t promise that I’ll be all smiles every time something reminds me that you’re leaving. That’s a promise I can’t keep.”
Lydia got up and walked over to her candle shelf (yes, a whole shelf) and lit two of her autumn candles. “I’m doing a mélange of autumn leaves, combining top notes of cider and cinnamon with a firewood-scented candle, bringing in bottom notes of cedar, birch, and vanilla. I should become a candle sommelier. Is that a job?”
“Did you listen to me?”
“Yes, I did. And I don’t expect you to be happy. I expect you to not allow your unhappiness with the situation to manifest in the form of unhappiness with me personally.”
“Okay.”
“If the tables were turned, that’s how I’d roll with you.”
“Okay.”
“I promise that not a teeny little thing I do regarding college is with the intention of hurting you. And I also promise that I have very good reasons for protecting your privacy by not talking about you on my blog. So promise me in return that you’ll start doing an amazing job of not taking out your issues on me for committing the sin of trying to make my life better.”
“Fine.”
“Say it.”
“I promise.”
Lydia’s face finally softened. “Look. I’m not happy we’re getting separated either. I get
that what I’ll be doing might be more fun than what you’ll be doing. But I’ll miss you. I missed you this week.”
“That’s an understatement to say that what you’ll be doing might be more fun than what I’ll be doing. It will be more fun.”
She sat next to Dill on her bed. “Come on,” she gestured. “Hugs.”
Dill gave her a long hug. Her hair smelled like oranges and magnolia blossoms. He hadn’t realized how long his heart had ached with a low-frequency hum until the ache melted away at that moment. And then there was the thrill of hugging Lydia on her bed—which was its own thing. If only.
“So. Where’re you at in the process?” Dill asked.
She flopped back on the bed and stared up at the ceiling. “My NYU early decision application is due in two weeks or so. That’s the biggie. I’m polishing my essay now.”
“Good luck,” Dill murmured.
She sat up. They regarded each other for a moment.
“It’s not too late,” she said.
It was Dill’s turn to flop backward onto the bed. He covered his face with one of Lydia’s pillows. “I can’t,” he said through the pillow. “I even talked with my mom about it.”
“And?”
“And how do you think? She went ‘Sure, Dill, go off to college and have fun and learn about evolution and pay tuition and go to class instead of working, and I’ll hold down the fort here and it’ll be cool.’ No. She crapped herself, obviously.”
“You knew she would. Why are you letting that weigh on your decision?”
“Um, because she’s my mom.”
“And the Bible says you’re supposed to respect her.”
Dill rolled his eyes. “Don’t. Come on.”
“You come on. Do you honestly believe that your mom’s not wanting you to go to college is in your best interest as opposed to hers?”
Dill sat up again. “I don’t know what I believe anymore. About anything. There’s definitely part of me that thinks that whatever’s in her best interest is in mine too.”
“How do you figure?”
“Because she’s my mom.”
“Fantastic answer. Hang on.” Lydia put an imaginary phone to her ear. “Hi, Debate Trophies ‘R’ Us? Yes, I’ll need one of your premium models.”
“You’re hilarious. Look, it’s just not happening.”
Lydia flung her hands up. “Whatever.”
“Now you have to promise me you’ll stop bugging me about college.”
“Nope, not gonna do that.”
“Why do I have to make all the promises?”
“Because I’m asking you to promise to stop being lame, and you’re asking me to promise to stop being awesome, which I cannot, in good conscience, do.”
“Please don’t make me feel shitty for making the choices I have to make.”
Lydia got up from her bed, walked over to her desk, and opened a drawer. “Nope again. But I will allow you to change the subject temporarily.” She pulled her old Mac laptop out of the drawer and wound up the power cord.
She returned to Dill and dropped the bundle in his lap. “Here. Merry early Christmas, happy late birthday, happy Halloween, happy whatever.”
Dill’s jaw dropped. “Wait. Hold on. You’re giving me this? Are you serious?”
“Yep. I don’t need two computers and I got a new one for college. That one’s about four years old. It’s what I started Dollywould on, so it’s got a lot of sentimental value to me. So maybe don’t break it. It still works pretty well. A little slow sometimes.”
Dill hugged Lydia again, knocking her glasses crooked. “Thank you. Thank you thank you thank you.”
“Okay, easy. Don’t thank me by breaking my glasses. Oh, and the best part is that because I’m not an awful, gross dude, the keyboard is one hundred percent semen free.”
Dill glowed, joyous. Not just because of the computer. Because he and Lydia had made up. The gift was evidence of that.
“Oh, here,” Lydia said, taking the laptop and opening it. “Let me show you how to take video of yourself with it. Then you can start recording your songs.”
“I’ve never recorded myself before,” Dill said. “We haven’t even owned a computer since the police seized ours.”
“Seriously? You’ve never recorded yourself? Okay, well, it’s time to start. That’s your first assignment.” She demonstrated how to shoot video and record using the laptop’s built-in videocamera and microphone. “You got it?”
“I got it.”
“Excellent.” She got up and sat back down at her desk. “Now scoot, because I have a lot of work to do,” she said, with a whisking hand motion.
“Lydia. Thanks.”
“You’re welcome.” She scrolled through her document, not looking up. “Oh, by the way, I have to cancel this week’s Friday movie night. Too busy with college and blog stuff.”
Dill’s face fell. Lydia gave him a cautioning glance and raised a finger, mouthing the words you promised.
Dill nodded, turned, and left.
When he got to the bottom of the stairs, Lydia called down, “Hey, Dad, I gave my old computer to Dill. He’s not stealing it.”
“Okay, honey. Hey, Dill, come in.”
Dill stepped into his study. Antiques filled the room. Leather-bound books. A large Dolan Geiman collage made from found materials hanging on one wall. A couple of guitars hanging on another wall. A vintage Fender amplifier.
Dr. Blankenship rose from his desk and got down one of the guitars: a gorgeous 1960s Fender Stratocaster in a tobacco sunburst pattern. He handed it to Dill, who handled it like it was a museum piece. It must have cost a fair penny.
“This is beautiful, Dr. Blankenship.”
“Put it on. Let’s play a couple licks, huh?”
Dill set down his new computer on Dr. Blankenship’s desk and slung the guitar over his neck. He played a quick run to limber up his fingers. Dr. Blankenship got out a cord and flipped on the amp. They waited for it to warm up.
Dill strummed a chord. “Where did you get this?”
Dr. Blankenship plugged in the guitar. “An estate sale in Nashville. Let ’er rip!”
Dill played, tentatively at first.
“Go on, go on! Screw the neighbors!”
Dill played harder and faster while Dr. Blankenship grinned and gave him the thumbs-up. It felt good. He played and played. And then a stab of nostalgia. The last time he had played the electric guitar in front of anyone was in front of his father, before his father decided not to hand him the snake. Before his father was arrested. He stopped playing and took off the guitar.
Dr. Blankenship took it from him and hung it back on the wall. “So? What do you think?”
Before Dill could answer, they heard Lydia calling down from upstairs. “Daddy, what’s happening down there? Why does your guitar playing sound so much better than normal? I’m scared. What did you do with my daddy?”
“I love my smartass daughter,” Dr. Blankenship muttered. “Anyway, you were interrupted.”
“Yeah. It’s beautiful. I’d say you scored on this one. I haven’t played an electric guitar in a long time.”
“Do you have one?”
“I used to. After…everything happened with my dad, we had to sell a bunch of stuff, so we sold it and my amp. It’s okay. I don’t have anywhere I can play it anymore.”
“How often do you get to see your dad?”
“A few times a year. Next time I go, it’ll be around Christmas. Assuming our junker car is still running by then.”
“If you need a ride to Nashville around Christmas to see your dad, I’d be glad to take you. I get my Christmas treats at the Trader Joe’s there. I could close the office for the day.”
“Are you sure? I mean, that’d be really cool, but I wouldn’t want to be any trouble.”
“It wouldn’t be any trouble. And to be perfectly honest”—he lowered his voice and looked both ways—“it’d be nice to hang out with another male every now and again. There�
��s a lot of estrogen in this house.”
“I totally heard that,” Lydia called down. “Don’t be sexist and gross.”
“Yeah, I can see what you mean,” Dill said, picking up his new computer. “You tell me when works for you.”
“I will. Hey, did Lydia offer you a ride home?”
“No.”
“Do you want one?”
Dill smiled. “No thanks. It’s a beautiful night.”
As Dill walked home, a brisk wind blew, drying the leaves, which skittered and danced in front of him in the moonlit shadows. Their scratching on the pavement was a song to him.
They sat at a cafeteria table, alone and apart as always. The cafeteria, reeking of fish sticks, buzzed around them. Dill had his unappetizing free lunch. Travis had a massive container of his mom’s mac and cheese. Lydia had her baby carrots, pita chips, hummus, and Greek yogurt. Travis read his Bloodfall book and Dill had in his earbuds, working intently on something on his new laptop.
Lydia read The Diary of Anaïs Nin.
Dill popped out one of his earbuds. “Hey, Lydia, any chance you could upload some videos to YouTube for me tonight? I tried, but the school’s got YouTube blocked.”
“Sure. What?”
“Some videos I made of me playing my songs. Five of them.”
“Five? I gave you that, what, two days ago?”
“I had a bunch saved up.”
Hunter Henry, Matt Barnes, and DeJuan Washington, three football players, walked by their table.
“Hey, Dildo, the police know you’ve got a computer now?” Hunter asked. His friends snickered.
“I think the school blocks kiddie porn,” Matt said. More snickers.
Dill popped his earbud back in and ignored them. Travis visibly tensed up, but he kept reading, also ignoring them. Dill and Travis knew the drill.
Lydia set down her book with a smile. “Yeah, we informed the police at the same time we put your names on the National Micropenis Registry. Don’t be surprised if you have trouble at the airport. Among other places.”
“I’ll show you my dick,” Hunter said.
“Remember, I wear glasses.” Lydia picked up her book.