“Good,” he mutters. “Should be ready for you two in a couple of days.”
“You don’t have to go to so much trouble. The house was lovely.”
“Eh.” He waves his hand in the air. “Needs freshening up.”
Who am I to tell him what to do with his house? I just hate for him to go to all this trouble when we’re not staying long.
“Turn right.” He points, in case I don’t know right from left, I guess.
The neighborhood’s full of houses similar to Stump’s. He tells me to keep going straight. Right up a steep hill. Before I crest the hill, he places his hand over mine on the shifter. “Stop.”
“Here? Why?” I jam the clutch down and press my other foot to the brake, while wiggling the shifter into neutral. “Now what?”
“Go.”
As soon as I take my foot off the brake, the car rolls back. Scared, I slam my foot on the gas and release the clutch too soon. The car stalls.
And I’m still rolling backward.
In between roars of laughter, Stump yells at me to, “Brake! Brake!”
“Shit,” I mutter, twisting the key.
Heart pounding, cheeks burning, I try again.
And again. The engine’s screaming by the time I finally get the right balance between clutch and gas.
“Drive around the block,” Stump orders.
He has me stop in the same spot.
I don’t stall the car this time, but it does roll back quite a way before I move forward.
“Again.”
I loop around the block.
A hundred and seventeen—give or take—tries later, Stump’s finally satisfied. “Good girl,” he praises.
“The neighbors are going to think we’re nuts.”
“Fuck ‘em.” He waves at the open road in front of us. “Drive.”
“Where?”
He guides me downtown to a shopping area and has me pull in front of a little record store. “Let’s get you some music for the car.”
“Uh, okay.”
He smiles when I remember to pull the parking brake up. “Not too bad for your first time driving stick.”
“Thanks,” I mumble.
He opens the door to the record store for me and waves at me to hurry.
The cassettes are in the back, and he nods for me to go ahead. “I need to speak with the owner.”
While this is certainly the strangest morning I’ve had since we came home, it’s also the best one. I find myself smiling for the first time in days as I peruse the store’s collection of cassettes. I gravitate toward the Ks in the Hard Rock section and squeal when my fingers brush over Kickstart: Throttle Down. I pull that cassette out and continue to the V section. Vicious Vandals has at least four albums in their catalog. Impressive. I slide one out of its slot and laugh at the picture on the front. The whole band’s wearing mean, scary faces and Andrew’s shirtless, of course. I check the dates and decide to buy their most recent one. The W section has one lone Wishing Well tape, and I stick out my tongue at it.
Stump’s waiting for me at the register. I’m expecting him to laugh at my choices, but he seems more sad than amused. He glares at me when I reach for my purse, so I watch as he hands the cashier a twenty.
“Thank you,” I say outside.
“Chaser used to spend hours here.” Stump turns and gives the building another look, before motioning for me to get in the car. “At least you’re decisive.”
More like heartbroken.
“Can you find your way back to the clubhouse?” Stump asks.
“Uh, I think so.”
“Show me.”
I mentally go over the streets and landmarks we passed on the way here.
“I’ll get you a map, but I want you to know how to get to the clubhouse without it.” He taps the ashtray, which I now notice is filled with quarters. “In case you ever need to stop and use a payphone.”
Touched by his thoughtfulness, I thank him.
“Go on.” A sigh follows his gruff order.
I manage to find my way to the road that leads to the clubhouse, only to almost miss the driveway. Stump grins as I shift into reverse and back up a few feet to make the turn. “Good job.”
More bikes line the side of the clubhouse than were there when we left this morning. Stump searches the lot and asks me to park next to the garage. When I shut the engine off, he takes the keys from my hand. “Listen to me, Mallory.” He waits until he’s sure he has my full attention. “What we talked about this morning stays between you and me. Anyone asks you what Chaser’s up to, tell them it’s club business and you don’t know anything about it.”
Under his intense stare, I mutter, “Of course.”
“Good girl.” He pats my arm and opens his door while I turn over his words. “Oh,” he turns and hands me the keys again. “One more thing. This car is yours. No one drives it, but you or me. Chaser asks to borrow the keys, you tell him no.”