Trade Me (Cyclone 1)

“No! That was the worst part. He refused to even try.” Blake drops his voice in a gravelly imitation of his dad. “‘If those dipshits are so fucking moronic that they’re afraid of a few, short Anglo-Saxon words, why should I give them good fucking money to teach you?’”

“Okay,” I admit. “That is pretty embarrassing.”

“He used to do this thing, too, where if he got mad about something I was being taught in school, he’d just show up in class and argue with the teacher. In front of everyone. And they never knew what to do or how to get him to leave them alone, because he was Adam Reynolds.”

“Let me guess: your dad got mad a lot?”

“The worst time was when I was eight and they made us make Mother’s Day cards. When my dad found out, he flipped his lid. He went in and…” Blake trails off and looks over at me. “Well, let’s just say that one was ugly. I think the teachers all fought just so they wouldn’t have me in their classes.”

I know the official story of Blake’s mother, which is that there is officially no story. The only thing that either Blake or his father have ever said in public is that his mother has never been a part of Blake’s life. There’s been no explanation why. Blake’s Wikipedia page is quite clear—someone went and looked up his birth certificate, and the only parent listed was his father. His mother was listed as unknown. How that happens, nobody quite knows. Money, I guess. Lots of it.

“Are you adopted?” I ask.

“Nope.” His face doesn’t flicker.

“Are you sure? Because I wouldn’t put it past your dad not to tell you—”

“First, it wouldn’t matter even if I were. But second, aside from the obvious physical resemblance between us, we tested a DNA app a year ago. I am one hundred percent certain that I am my father’s biological child. And in case you’re wondering, no, I have never wished I had a mother. My dad contributed about three parents’ worth of child rearing.”

“I know.” And, strangely, I do. I’m not even being sarcastic.

“If you’re thinking of asking,” he says, “I don’t even know her name. I’m pretty sure Dad would tell me if I asked. But I haven’t.” He doesn’t look at me. “I don’t want him to think that he hasn’t been enough for me. So I don’t ask.”

His hands grip the steering wheel tightly as if he expects some kind of argument.

“Okay,” I say to him.

After a long silence, he speaks again. “We all have our limits with our parents. You won’t be embarrassed by yours. And I won’t ever, ever hint, think, or in any other way countenance the implication that I need anyone other than my dad. Because it hurts him. Every single time someone asked in an interview if he’d been thinking of getting me a mother, as if he could just pick one out of a store, every time someone asked how he could possibly do it alone—I could just see him gritting his teeth.” Blake lets out a breath. “I don’t want to do that to him. That Mothers’ Day card…I started that one. My teacher told me I had to make a card for my mother, and I refused. She said I should be grateful to the woman who gave birth to me, and I—um—may have thrown a tantrum.” He shrugs. “I regret nothing.”

I look over at him. “You really love your dad.”

“Yes. I’d do anything for him.” There’s a roughness in his voice. “Doesn’t mean he’s not embarrassing, though.”

We drive for a while longer.

“There is one thing I know about my mother,” he finally says. “One thing that is not a part of the public record. And I’ll tell you if you promise to never tell anyone.”

“Oh my God.” I press my fingers against my temples. “You mean, nobody except Maria, right? I can tell Maria.”

“Not Maria. And you can’t ask any questions afterward, either. It’s a strict no-discussion item.”

I shut my eyes. We don’t need more secrets between us, but…I want to know. I want to know too much about Blake Reynolds, and it’s not a good idea.

“I promise,” I say against my better judgment. “But this better be a good secret, and not something stupid that anyone could infer from genetics.”

He smiles. “My dad told me that my mother was the only woman he’s ever kissed.”

“What!? But—”

“Nope, no questions.”

“But—”

“No discussion either.”

“That,” I say severely, “was rude. Really rude.”

He glances in my direction. “Okay. Here’s one you can tell people.”

“About your mother?”

“Kind of. You know how most kids, one of their first words is some variant of mother? Mom. Momma. Something like that.”

“I’m guessing that wasn’t the case for you.”

“Why would you think that?” His eyes are glinting. “Because I don’t have a mother? Wrong. Think about my dad. One of my first words was…”

He pauses for dramatic effect, and I have to admit that it works. I lean toward him.

“It was motherfucker.”

I laugh.

He sighs. “Dad was so proud.”

“That’s good, but it still doesn’t make up for what you said before. That was a good secret,” I admit. “A really good secret. I’m trying to figure out how to pay you back for that.”

“I’m sure you’ll think of something.”

“Unlikely,” I say with a sigh. “My mother tells everyone everything. There are no secrets.”

My parents live on the second floor of a concrete three-story apartment building in the middle of Rosemead. Despite my brave words to Blake earlier, I’m all too aware as we pull into the parking lot how my home must appear to him.

Browning weeds poke up through cracks in the asphalt; a crushed beer can decorates the gravel to the side. The sun is setting, giving color to an otherwise nondescript rusting car from decades past, propped up on cinder blocks in the parking lot. I’ve never seen Blake’s childhood home, but I can imagine. It’s nothing like this.

I shake my head. Screw this. I’m not dating him. We’re just friends—temporary friends at that—and three years from now, when he’s running Cyclone, he won’t remember this trip.

He puts the loaner car we picked up twenty minutes ago into park and pops the trunk.

“Well?” he smiles at me.

I smile back, but my expression feels like a tense, coiled thing, ready to spring out of alignment at the slightest provocation.

Before I can say anything, the door to my parents’ apartment bursts open. My little sister darts out, and she dashes down the concrete stairs.

“Tina, Tina!” She cannons into me; I grab hold of her. We squeeze each other hard. She’s getting so big now—she’s just an inch shorter than I am—and she hugs my breath out.

“Stop,” I croak. “Mayday, mayday!”

“I’m so glad you’re here. Can you tell Mom that I am too old enough to go to a coed sleepover?”

I give her a once over. “Sure,” I say, “as long as the parents kick it off by caponizing all the boys.”

Beside me, Blake chokes.

“What’s caponizing?”

“Removing the testicles,” I say. “It improves the temperament of the male animal. Try it sometime.”

Blake clears his throat.

“Oh,” I say. “Mayday, this is Blake Rivers.”

We’ve agreed—and by we’ve agreed I mean I’ve insisted—that we won’t give his real name. No point opening that door. Mom is bad enough when she thinks he doesn’t have any money. I can’t imagine what it would be like if she knew the truth.

“Blake, this is my little sister. Her name is Mabel, but I call her anything that starts with an M. Mayday, Maple, and Muggle are my favorites.”

She wrinkles her nose at Blake. “You can call me Mabel.” Mabel purses her lips and looks at Blake. Blake looks at her right back. Some people say that Mabel and I look alike, and I guess we do, in the most superficial sense. We’re both Chinese. But Mabel’s hair is short and dyed blue, a

nd she wears it pulled over her eyes. Her eyes are set more narrowly than mine. And—this is really unfair, but I swear I am not bitter about this—she is thirteen and she’s already in B-cups. Which, ahem. Is more than I will ever manage.

Mabel shrugs. “Hi Blake. You’re the guy who is definitely not Tina’s boyfriend.”

Blake shifts the shoulder strap of his bag. “One of many, I presume.”

“Nope.” Mabel twirls away. “You’re the only one. The rest of the boys aren’t dating her.”

“Oh, well,” Blake says vaguely. “That is an important distinction.”

I try to jab my elbow into his side, but he sidles away.

“And you’re the only she talks about like this: ‘Mom, he’s not my boyfriend.’”

Oh, that imitation. It’s just a little too spot on. I raise a finger at her, but she twirls away before I can get her back.

“Come on. Mom is cooking. This is the first time you’ve brought a boyfriend home from college.”

“He’s not my—” I stop, because my sister’s lips are twitching.

“Fine.” I pick up my own bag.