I Wish (6 page)

“We could learn how to take apart a contract. Maybe there could be a unit on how to tell the difference between good content and bad content on the internet.” I was making this up as I went. Hopefully I would remember the good parts later for what could be a winning essay.

When Ms. Dewan laughed, we both jerked. Guess I wasn’t the only one who’d forgotten she was there.

“Uncontroversial? Lame?” She smiled. “If your papers are anywhere near as good as this discussion has been, I’m already looking forward to them.” She shooed us away. “They’re due to me on the second of October. Don’t forget.”

When I got home from school, our Ford Focus sat sparkling in the driveway. Grant reclined against the bumper, looking smug, which I would overlook since Car Repair Day meant I had transportation I trusted. “How’d your day go?” I asked.

“I’ve been rather busy.”

He showed no signs of annoyance. Cool. Maybe this wish had actually pleased him.

I looked toward the windows of the house. There was no visible movement inside. “Did my mom see you?”

“I really couldn’t say.”

He pushed up from the bumper and stretched, a sight which probably gave heart palpitations to the nosy neighbor across the street.

“Chief, you should warn your mother about me.”

I hadn’t come up with a description she would buy. An Eagle Scout looking for a project? A criminal with community service to work off? Since I hadn’t settled on an explanation yet, avoidance of the issue seemed as good a coping strategy as any. “I’ll wait until she brings you up.”

A noisy sigh. “Won’t I scare her?”

“Everything scares my mother.” I circled the Ford. The tires were getting bald, which would have to remain a problem since I didn’t have the funds to replace them. But the rest of the car looked amazing. Waxed and buffed. Vacuumed and scrubbed. Duct tape discreetly placed at effective intervals to hold the vehicle together. I couldn’t stop smiling.

“I think you should introduce us,” Grant said as he trailed me. “Just a thought.”

“I’ll get around to it.” I popped the hood and whistled. Everything looked shiny and new, from the fresh green coolant in the overflow reservoir to the clean oil on the dipstick. He’d done a remarkable job. “This looks great. Thanks.”

He nodded. “I’ve had practice. Auto repair is requested often.”

“I bet.” I listened as the hood fell into place with a satisfying
thunk
. Our car hadn’t looked this good in years, and I was itching to take it out. I could pretend it was a Mustang. Same manufacturer. Yeah.

“You should see a ten-percent improvement in your MPG.” He tossed the keys to me.

I caught them. “Want to go for a ride?” I smiled hopefully, oddly anxious for him to come with me.

“Where are we going?” He slid onto the passenger seat and buckled up.

“To buy gas.”

We drove around the town square (twice—because the car took the corners really well now) and through several quiet neighborhoods to the outskirts of town, passing a couple of convenience marts along the way. I could feel Grant’s curious gaze on me, but I didn’t explain. He’d find out soon enough.

I pulled into a full-service gas station, the kind with repair bays and vending machines burping out glass bottles of soda. The station was owned by a friend of my father’s. Allyn Taylor was the closest thing I had to a godparent. It felt good coming here, ’cause he was always glad to see me.

Mr. Taylor walked out with a huge smile of welcome. “Hi, darlin’,” he said in his sleepy drawl. Leaning down to peer in the car, he studied Grant for a few hard seconds, then returned his attention to me. “I don’t believe I’ve seen your friend around.”

“This is Grant, and we’re not exactly friends.”

Mr. Taylor frowned. “Is he one of your classmates?”

“No, he doesn’t go to…” Flustered, I stopped, wondering how to keep this vague. “Grant’s working for me.”

“Working?” Mr. Taylor narrowed his eyes at my BSB. “Is that so?”

“Yes, sir,” Grant said.

“Uh-huh. What kind of work?”

“Home repair.” Grant’s voice was crisp and professional.

“What kinds of repairs?”

I needed to end the interrogation now. “Painting and stuff,” I said as I opened the coin box and fished around for dollars. “Mr. Taylor, you
are
going to take my money today. Right?”

“Sure, darlin’.” Straightening, he patted the top of my car and reached for the pump. “How much can I get for you?”

“Eight dollars’ worth, please.”

He chuckled. “That’s not going to get you very far.”

“I don’t have far to go.”

The numbers on the pump whirred past the eight-dollar mark and still kept going. An extra two gallons later, he stopped. Mr. Taylor and I had an understanding. As long as he didn’t refuse my money, I overlooked how much he put in.

I drove away with a few more miles in the tank and a couple of free drinks.

Grant twisted the cap off his bottle, held it up to his nose, and sniffed suspiciously. He took a sip and cringed. “The proprietor regarded me with suspicion. Is he related to you?”

“Not by blood.” I slowed for a traffic light and flipped on my shades. And if those shades made it more difficult to read my expression, well, fine. Conversations about either of my fathers were uncomfortable, but I figured that I ought to share something with Grant after he helped me with the car. “My dad’s name was Eric Linden. He and my mom and Mr. Taylor all graduated from Magnolia Grove High the same year.”

“Your father served in the Marine Corps?”

I gave a sharp nod.

“Where is he now?”

Hard swallow. “He was killed in a training accident.”

Grant’s voice was solemn. “How old were you?”

“I was in kindergarten.” The principal and a policeman had shown up at the schoolroom door and spoken to my teacher. Although I didn’t understand what was going on, I could tell from their expressions that something bad had happened. It sucked the sound from the room. Or maybe that had been my imagination.

“My sympathies.”

I nodded away his response. Even though Dad died twelve years ago, I still didn’t like to talk about it. The events of that day and the weeks following were burned like scars into my being—which was why, when I thought about my dad, I focused on the good memories.

We drove around for several blocks before Grant spoke again. “Does Eric Linden have any family in town?”

“They moved to Florida.” My grandparents didn’t get along with my mother. Even if they had been healthy, they wouldn’t come up here to visit. And I couldn’t afford to go down there.

“Can they assist you?”

“No.” I hoped that Grant wouldn’t ask why, because I wasn’t going to answer. How could I explain the Linden family history? I loved Grampa and Nana, but it was hard to forgive all the mean things they said about my mom.

Yeah, I couldn’t let them know what was going on now. They would offer to send a little money, but in exchange I’d have to listen to nonstop criticisms of my mother and Josh. It wasn’t worth it. I wasn’t that desperate yet.

After turning onto a side street, I cut through an older neighborhood and headed straight for the town square. “I’m working a shift at the bookstore. Do you want me to drop you off at home first?”

“No. I’ll manage.” He hesitated before taking another sip of his peach-kiwi iced tea, screwed the top back on, and slipped the bottle into a cupholder. “How many AP classes do you take?”

I frowned at the unexpected question. “You know about AP classes?”

“I’ve been working the American circuit for a while. How many?”

“English Lit and US History.” Those two classes, plus pre-calc, were all I needed to earn my high-school diploma. If all went well this semester, I’d be able to graduate early.

“You’re carrying a tough workload. Why the job?”

I circled the town square, looking for an empty spot. “Someone has to buy the pasta.”

“You must have other income.”

“I get survivor benefits from the military. Mom and Henry get money from Social Security. Our checks cover the mortgage and not much else.”

His fingers drummed on the armrest. “Why did you pick a job in a bookstore?”

He sure was
Mr. Curiosity
today. “A lot of reasons.”

“Such as…?”

“Mostly ’cause I like being around books, but I also like that Mrs. Lubis lets me do my homework when it’s not busy. And the store’s close to home for those days when the car won’t start.” I felt his sudden, tense gaze rake my profile. “What?”

“You walk alone at night?”

“Sometimes.”

He grunted.

“Magnolia Grove is perfectly safe. Nothing bad is going to happen. I’m within shouting distance of neighbors the whole way.” After pulling into in a parking space, I cut the engine and fumbled with my seatbelt, while I thought about the route to my house. There were no street lights and, on moonless nights, it did get really dark.

I’d never worried much about it until he introduced the concept. Lovely.

“Grant?” I shifted sideways in my seat. “If I needed your assistance, is there any way to contact you?” It felt odd to have someone I could count on for help.

“I don’t carry a phone, if that’s what you mean.”

“No…” I meant something more metaphysical, but I felt stupid admitting it. “Can you hear me from a long distance if I call?”

“Not exactly.” He half-smiled. “But I could give you a panic button.”

The offer relieved me more than I would’ve expected. “Will it take a wish?”

He hesitated a second, then shook his head. “What are your thoughts on henna tattoos?”

Not sure where this was going, but I was willing to follow along. “Love them.”

“Good. Hold out your left wrist and close your eyes.”

I did as he said and waited. A touch like the flutter of a butterfly’s wing tickled my wrist. It wove in and out, tracing curves and circles. I remained still long after the fluttering stopped.

“Done,” he said. “When you want to contact me, touch your tattoo and call my name.”

I opened my eyes, peered at my wrist, and gasped. “It’s gorgeous, Grant.”

“Thank you.”

Twisting my arm first one way, then the other, I studied the design. It had tiny, overlapping leaves. Or were they hearts? The tattoo glowed against my skin, crisp and intricate in a beautiful coppery-brown. It made me feel happy and protected. “How long will it last?”

“Twenty-five days.”

I smiled at him. “Why did you do this?”

He frowned and looked away. “I suppose I was feeling generous.” With fast, efficient movements, he snicked off his seatbelt and slid from the car. Before I could get out of the car, he’d already crossed the street.

It was odd, letting him leave this way. The last few minutes had seemed almost friendly. I wasn’t ready to have them end. “Grant?”

He stopped on the sidewalk opposite me. “Yes?”

I waited for a truck to pass. It gave me time to decide what I needed to say, because it had been nice having a normal conversation with someone who didn’t mention college plans or soccer balls. I went with something simple. “Thanks for today.”

He nodded and then disappeared into the shadows gracing the courthouse grounds, blue smoke blending with the trees.

Status Report #5
Tuesday’s Wish: Auto Repair

Dear Boss,

I can’t imagine what you expect Chief to teach me.

Her behavior is rather unpredictable. She is the most closefisted teen I have ever met, yet she frequents a full-service gas station. She wants to control how I dress around her family, yet she has not warned them of my existence.

Is her mother my real mission?

Humbly submitted,
Grant

W
ednesdays were always pure chaos in the cafeteria.

Pizza somehow made the crowd louder. I looked around for a reasonably quiet corner and noticed an almost empty table in the back.

I started that way, hesitating when I noticed that Sara Tucker was already sitting there.

Should I find somewhere else?

No
. I hadn’t approached her like this in several months, but we had spoken at the art gallery on Monday. That had been civil enough. Here was another chance to not-ignore each other.

I slid onto a seat at her table. “Hey.” Cool. That hadn’t sounded too nervous.

“Hi,” she said without taking her attention away from her book.

I waited a few seconds to see if she was finishing a paragraph or something, but she flipped the page and kept reading. Okay, awkward. If she was going to pretend she was alone, I could do the same. Reaching into my lunch pack, I pulled out a plastic bag of raw veggies and munched.

The book lowered slightly. Her eyes flicked to the bag, widened, and returned to her reading.

I could understand her surprise. The old Lacey hadn’t been much of a health nut. Actually, the new Lacey wasn’t either, just less choosy about how I got my calories. “Want some?”

“No, thanks.”

The silence stretched. Underneath the table, my foot tapped in rhythm with the thuds of my heart. We had to move past the thing that had happened between us—a fight so rare and so awful that it would’ve taken a lot of groveling from both of us to get over it. We would have if Josh hadn’t died a few days later.