“Hey, Ricky,” I say, waving to her even though she barely seems to notice I’m there.
“Hi,” she says, flicking her eyes to me for a second, then looking away.
Last out of the gate is the kid in all black who was into Harry Potter. Rafe called him Anders. He’s clutching his violin case in hand. When he gets closer, the first thing I notice is that his expression looks different than it did last week. Then he looked… I dunno… sweet and happy, even if he was shy. Now, his expression is shuttered, distant, like he’s thinking hard about something. And if he reminded me of Daniel before, with his dreaminess and his little-kid enthusiasm for some weird book, now I can see it quite clearly.
Today, he looks like Daniel did after kids at school started picking on him—after we started teasing him more, moving from the typical brother ribbing to giving him shit because we thought it was girly that he wanted us to read to him and would sometimes absently pull on our mother’s too-large robe if he got cold. But most of all, after he realized that he didn’t have anything in common with us anymore.
He’d come into the garage sometimes when he was twelve or thirteen—around the time it became clear he was just… different than us—and he’d look around like he was spooked. Like he wanted to hang out but was afraid we wouldn’t let him.
“Let’s welcome Colin back,” Rafe says to the kids. “And let’s wish Anders a belated happy birthday.”
“A be-what now?” says Carlos.
“Belated. Late. It was Anders’ seventeenth birthday yesterday.” Jesus, I thought the kid was fourteen or fifteen, he’s so small.
“Well, why didn’t you just say that, Conan?” says Carlos, his joy at fucking with Rafe clear in his expression.
“You got a problem with my vocabulary, Carlito?” Rafe says, his consonants crisp and mock fierceness in his voice.
“Nope.” Carlos grins, and I get the feeling they do this often.
Various versions of Happy birthday issue from the group, including a lingering kiss on his cheek from Mikal—who’s wearing a sweatshirt with a glittery unicorn on it that says “I even shit rainbows”—which makes Anders blush.
I start by taking them on a tour of the Beretta’s ruination, explaining why the owner decided to scrap it. The kids are pretty into it, especially when I assure them that they’re going to get to actually work on the car, but none of them approach when I ask them where they want to start.
I thought Ricky might step up, but she’s like a ghost today, hovering at the edge of the group, her white-blonde hair in her face so I can barely even tell if she’s looking at the car. She stands with her ankles crossed like a messed-up ballerina and her arms around her skinny chest like she’s a twist the wind could just pick up. There’s something about her—how she’s absent and focused at the same time? I don’t know. I envy her. She doesn’t seem fake.
“So could you fix anything on a car?” one of the twins asks—well, even if they’re not twins, I can’t tell which is which.
“Well, almost anything on a car can be fixed. But some things are so expensive that it’d cost more to have them fixed than to buy another car.”
“But, like, if we tried to fix stuff on this car and we messed it up, could you fix it?” She looks anxious.
“How about this: I can fix almost anything. But I promise that if you do something to this car that I can’t fix, it’s still fine.”
“Yeah?”
“Yep. This car is just for showing you guys stuff, so it’s no big deal. It’s a, what do you call it, learning tool.”
They all seem to relax a bit after that. It’s fun to show them stuff about cars—things that’ve become such second nature to me by now that I don’t even remember when I first learned them. All week at work, while I was doing repairs and maintenance, I imagined how I could best translate that stuff to explain it to the kids. What would be useful for them to learn. What they would think was cool or interesting.
While we’re working I forget about everything except their questions and trying to keep up with their jokes, which all seem to start out being about the car and end up being about sex. And something about how they’re trying to come up with a better nickname for me but none of the characters the actor they have in mind for me has played have interesting names, only Jack and James.
All the while, I keep reaching for tools and trying to do things with my right hand, forgetting that it’s messed up. I definitely need to change the bandage when I get home because now it’s filthy. In fact, by the time 1:00 p.m. rolls around, all our hands are grubby from the insides of the Beretta and a few of the kids have endearingly comical smudges of grease on their faces.