Radical (15 page)

“Not much. Uncle Skip would probably cut you a break, but he’d have to charge something for the labor. You could get the bulb at any automotive store, and you could probably change it yourself.”

She shakes her head. “I wouldn’t even know how.” She starts fiddling with the lighters by the register, sorting them by color so that each row in the display is all the same color, in rainbow order.

“I could do it if you want. Then all you’d have to pay for is the bulb.”

“Really?” She continues to sort the lighters but looks up in between placing them. “Do you know how?”

“Sure.” If she tells me the make and model, I can figure it out. I watch her straighten the sorted rows.

“I’d need it fixed before Monday.”

“We could do it Sunday. In the afternoon? We’re closed, but you can meet me here. It won’t take long.” And if I can’t figure it out, Mike can do it first thing Monday morning.

My heart pounds. Uncle Skip would probably do it cheap. But the thought of getting to see her alone is too much to resist.

“That’d be great.”

A car pulls up to the pumps.

I give her a piece of scrap paper to write down the make and year of her station wagon. When she hands it to me, I stare at her handwriting. It doesn’t look like I thought it would. I don’t know what I expected — maybe loopier.

“Well . . . should I just come by or . . . ?”

I shove the paper in my pocket. “I could give you a call when I know when I can meet you.”

She pulls out her cell and hands it to me. “Give me your number — then I’ll text you so you have mine.” Her cell is fancier than mine, and I fumble with the buttons. She takes it back, pulls up the right screen, and hands it to me. I can barely type with her watching me. My fingers keep hitting the wrong places. But I get my name and number entered and hand it back. She looks at the screen and smiles. “Great.”

“Great.”

We’re just smiling at each other like idiots. “Well . . .” she says. “So you’ll call?”

“Yeah, as soon as I know,” I say, trying to be cool.

“See you.” She leaves without taking the candy.

Uncle Skip is quiet when he comes through a few minutes later, but I don’t look at him, hoping he didn’t hear me with Lucy. It isn’t until I’m getting ready for bed that I remember I was going to talk to him about Mark.

It can wait until tomorrow.

I had a lie ready to go — different lies, in fact, for Mom and Dad and Uncle Skip, so that I could meet Lucy at the station without anyone wondering where I was. As it turns out, all that planning was completely unnecessary. They’re all vacating the house, unusual on a Sunday, but it means no one will miss me until dinner.

“David!” Mom yells up the steps. “We’re going to be late!”

Mom rechecks her hair for the third time. She’s wearing a dress and her nice heels. Must be more than brunch with Aunt Lorraine and Uncle Nathan; must be brunch at “the Club,” and when she and Aunt Lorraine say it, they mean country, not Clearview.

“Who will be supervising?” Mom asks, referring yet again to trying out the crossbows tomorrow night. I shouldn’t have told her.

“One of the adults, I’m sure,” I lie. “But Karen is practically one of the trainers anyway.”

“But she’s not.”

“Because she’s a girl,” I say. “A woman, really.”

Mom narrows her eyes. “Mom.” I close the book but keep my finger in to pretend to mark my place, like I can hardly wait to get back to it. “It will be totally safe.” She’s still looking at me like it’s a bad idea. “Isn’t this what you wanted? Me, making friends?”

“I’d hoped for friends who wanted to go places, do things,
normal
things,” she clarifies.

“Yeah, well . . .” Dad already said I could go. He’s thrilled, in fact, that I’m “in” with Karen and Cammie. I’d think he asked their parents to put them up to it, if he hadn’t been so clearly shocked when I told him they’d invited me.

“Well, just be careful.”

“I will,” I say, holding eye contact, making her see that it will be okay.

“There’s some leftover potato salad and chicken from last night,” Mom says. “I made a double batch of chicken. Plenty of sliced turkey and cheese for sandwiches. And a casserole for tonight, good for a few days of leftovers as well. That should get you through the week.”

“We’ll be fine.” Her mouth turns down and her lips suck in. She needs us to need her, and to thank her, so she can go to Aunt Lorraine’s without feeling guilty. “What kind of casserole?”

“Cheesy chicken and broccoli.”

“With the crunchy top?”

“Mm-hmm.”

I give her a real smile. “Thanks, Mom.”

“Well, I figured you’d mostly be the one eating it. There’s some vanilla ice cream and fresh strawberries, too.”

For that she gets an even bigger smile.

“You have everything?” Dad asks, still buttoning his cuffs as he comes into the kitchen.

“Yes.” Mom pats the plastic-bag-covered clothes hanging over the chair, her small bag next to it.

“Bex,” Dad says, “I should be home by dinnertime. Stay out of trouble.”

“Of course.”

Mom and Dad both give me a look. I cross my heart and hold up three fingers, even though I got kicked out of Brownies for roughhousing.

Uncle Skip left hours ago to go fishing with Sanford and Mr. Johnson, and I’m sure they’ll stop for lunch on the way back.

No one will miss me until tonight.

I wait an hour, just to be sure Mom and Dad are gone, and then I text Lucy.

In the bathroom at the station, I strip down to my tank and quickly wipe off the grime and sweat from riding my bike over. Maybe instead of a truck, I could just get a moped. I put on fresh cargo shorts. I layer up on top — leaving on the tank but adding a gray T and then a dark-blue polo. I step back far enough to be able to see in the mirror and try to decide whether to tuck in the T or leave it hanging loose underneath the polo. Eventually I decide to leave it loose and concentrate on combing my hair so it’s neat but not too neat. It can’t look like I’ve fixed it just for her. In fact, I pull on a clean work shirt and leave it open. Like I’m ready for the work, not like I’m ready for her.

I keep the lights off and stay in the service area, with only the back service-bay door open. From the street, no one would even notice we’re here.

The bulb for her taillight is ready and waiting, and so am I, a full half-hour before she said she’d be here.

I don’t turn on the computer. Too much chance of giving away that I was here. Uncle Skip’s emergency set of keys will be back where they belong, hopefully hours before he even gets home, and then no one will be the wiser.

Nothing to do but scroll through my phone, trying not to worry that maybe she won’t show up. Or, alternatively, that she will.

I’ve never been so nervous in my life.

Well, maybe the first time I tried to kiss a girl, but I was eleven then, and pretending to be a boy named Jake, and not wearing a shirt (best disguise for pretending to be a boy). And I wasn’t sure she would let me kiss her no matter who she thought I was.

But it’s the good kind of nervous, like the first time I shot a rifle all by myself.

When I hear a car pulling up around back, I hop off the counter and spit out the gum I’ve been chewing to keep my breath minty fresh.

Lucy. My head spins and sweat breaks out on my neck. I gulp some water from the bottle in the side of my backpack and try to talk my heart rate down. Could very well be that I’ll change the bulb, she’ll leave, and I’ll go home and think about what might have happened if she’d stayed.

I pick up the bulb, still in its package, and wave her through the service-bay door.

She carefully pulls in, intent and serious, inching in until she starts to trust me. Then she just focuses on me, waving her forward. There’s a flutter in my chest at her trusting me, following my directions. I like the playful, flirty Lucy, but she’s even more interesting when she’s serious.

Once in park, she smiles, relieved. By the time she’s out of the car, all that hip-swishing front is back in place.

“Hey.” She takes her sunglasses off the top of her head and fluffs up her hair, looking around. “It’s okay we’re in here on a Sunday?”

“It’s fine.”

“Really? I don’t want to get you in trouble.”

“Don’t worry.” I pick up the stuff I’ll need and walk around the wagon. “But don’t touch anything, and my uncle’ll never know.”

I give her my bravest smile, and she hesitates for a second before smiling back, still wary. Then she notices the stuff in my hand, and I can see her get more nervous.

“Are you sure you can do this?”

“Yes.” I put the rag, tools, and the bulb down and grab the printout from my back pocket. “Here are the pages from the owner’s manual I found online. We’re going to do exactly what it says. Unscrew a few screws, pull the casing out, switch out the bulb. Piece of cake.”

She’s still uneasy, glancing from the screwdrivers to the car, sort of rocked back on her heels like a rabbit ready to flee.

“Read it.” I put the stuff down and hoist myself up onto the counter. “Go ahead. We won’t do it unless you say it’s okay.”

Her face goes weird and then she cracks up. I replay the last bit in my head. “Totally not what I meant.”

“Sure it isn’t,” she says. “But good to know.” She looks up at me over the pages, a look that says we’re both feeling it. I’m glad I cleaned up.

She reads. I check her out. I don’t really have a type; I don’t usually go for slathered in makeup and perfume, but I can’t say I wouldn’t go there for a while. If I had a sweet spot, though, it would be Lucy. She’s got curves and she’s not afraid to show them off, not ashamed of the bit of belly or soft thighs. In fact, she’s soft in all the places I like soft. Her sundress looks old, blue cotton, pockets, straps that cross in back, and a neckline high enough that there’s not even a hint of cleavage, which makes me want to see all the more. Loose enough to allow access, but she could wear it to a church picnic if she wanted. Nice legs. Really nice. And short boots, well broken in and worn at the sides. I’d have looked even if I wasn’t thinking about touching.

I realize she’s been watching me watch her. I don’t even try to pretend I wasn’t checking her out.

“You really know how to do this?”

“Yes.” I try to exude confidence. Truth is the flutter of anticipation of what comes next has been chased away by nerves. I don’t want to screw this up, be forced to tell her I can’t do it, that I’m all talk. But mostly, I want this part done.

She looks over the instructions again. I hop down and pick up the stuff, because I know she’s going to let me fix it.

“Look,” I say, walking toward the back of the station wagon. “You hold on to the instructions. Read along with me and we’ll do this together. If at any point you want to stop, we stop and you can come back tomorrow and Mike can do it.” Mike would do it and not ask questions.

She nods yes and then squares her shoulders, like she’s all ready to assist.

“Great. Pop the back and we can start.”

She pushes the key cylinder button to pop open the rear window and then swings the rear door open. There are some boxes near the backseat and a smaller box, shoes, a few bags, and some trash near the bumper, where we need to be.

“Sorry,” she mumbles, pushing stuff over to make a clear spot for us to work. “I guess I didn’t think about how you get at the bulb.”

“It’s fine.”

I help clear a bigger area, moving a box of books and a pair of sneakers to make a spot for her to sit. She climbs in and then pushes the stuff even farther back, so she can scoot back until only the ends of her legs dangle over the bumper. I go ahead and unscrew the screws that hold the taillight assembly in place, but once that’s done, I wait for her to look at the next step.

“It says to remove the housing that covers the spare tire.”

I fiddle around with the panel and the area that I think is the housing. It doesn’t seem to want to budge, and I don’t want to break anything. The wagon may look pretty worn on the outside, but the inside is in good condition. “It doesn’t say how, does it?”

“Nope,” she says, turning the pages over and then back. “At least, not in this part of the manual.”

Crap. I didn’t think we’d need more of the manual. If we get stuck on this stupid step, I’m going to feel like an idiot.

“Try pulling it.” She leans over a little to see, and then lies on her side so she can reach over and pull at the panel. I can feel it wants to give.

“I’ve got it,” I say as it comes off. “Thanks.”

I put the housing to the side and wipe my hands on my shorts. She’s propped up on her elbow, hand in her hair, stretched out in the back of the wagon. Visions of blankets and her without that dress pop into my head. From the look on her face, she’s thinking along the same lines. I wonder how often she’s gotten comfy back here.

“Next it says to . . .”

“Unscrew the wing nut, right?” I ask.

“Right.”

I unscrew it and look at her, our eyes almost level. She grins at me. I could just climb on in there and we could finish this later. “Next?” I know the steps, but it’s her call.

She leans over to look at the pages. “ ‘From the outside of the vehicle, carefully pull the taillamp assembly away from the body.’ How are you going to get it off?”