by MB Austin
someday. “So you just stick a screwdriver in there, the flat kind, and pry it open. Cracks the plastic, but now you can pull the wires out, touch the right two, and vroom! Less than 30 seconds, if you practice.”
“Well, that's easier than stalking your neighbors, figuring out who keeps their keys up for grabs. Why don't we just do that?”
“Cause joy-riding gets you community service, or a scolding. Breaking shit can send you to juvvie. Tambien, Chica, not everybody’s got the cash or the time to get their car fixed.”
Bingo. She pretends it's about juvvie, but really it's about not hurting somebody by mistake. I won’t call her on that, though. She’ll never admit it, just get moody on me. Brat.
So that night we took the key from under the mat, where half the people in Oyster Cove keep them, and drove the Civic to get ice cream down by the marina. Well, Maji drove and I rode, like always. We left the AC off, and rolled down the windows. I love to feel the wind in my face, the horrible daytime stickiness gone after dark. Maji says I’m like a golden retriever, shiny blond hair blowing in the wind, nose in the air, grinning. I never had a dog before; but now I notice them all the time, cruising by in town, noses poked out of back windows. They look really blissed out, the original joy-riders.
“Maybe the first car thief was poor, and just wanted to make his dog happy,” I suggested.
Maji laughed, a thing that totally softens her face. “Maybe.”
Now I think, maybe the Andersens realized somebody’s been borrowing their car, and started locking it up. Which makes me feel bad. Maji shrugs that idea off, though. “Nah, their son’s home again from college. A few months in the City, and he’s probably driving them crazy locking everything all the time.”
“So how ‘bout this one?” I ask, tapping the Aerostar we’ve been hiding behind.
If we grab a car and go right now, we can still follow Rule #3: Always bring the car back where you got it. Before they know it’s gone. Another serious pain in the butt, that one; but Maji knows half the people in this town, and things like where they work and when they come home. I thought she’d have some kinda notebook; but she keeps a million details in her head. If she did anything bad with all those bits and pieces, like gossiping or blackmailing, or acting stalkery, it would be wicked creepy.
But then that would break some other Maji rule, wouldn’t it? So I guess it’s just part of her weirdness. And also how I know she won’t tell anyone else the stuff I tell her, not even Hannah or Ava, or her own Papi. Mr. Rios might be the kindest man I ever met, but still. I need to be able to look people in the eye, and not wonder what they’re thinking about me, you know?
She still hasn’t answered me about the Aerostar. It looks perfect to me - boring, dusty. Old enough to have a cassette player. Not a cop magnet, for sure.
I cross my arms, ready to give up and go home. “So what’s wrong with this one, Maji-san?”
“Look in the back seat.”
I try to see in, but even the street lights aren’t enough. “Gimme the flashlight.”
She hands it to me, and I shine the pale beam into the back. So close we both jump, a siren wails. We hit the ground in a blink, nearly landing on each other. I start laughing, hiding in the damp grass, sheltered by a minivan. The patrol car flies by, reds and blues flashing, the wail getting softer as quickly as it had grown piercing, just a few seconds before.
“Jesus, Bubs,” Maji exhales. “You are such a brat.”
“Am not,” I say, still laughing, pushing myself off the ground. “You are.”
“Am not.” Already on her feet, she bumps me with her hip.
I bump her back. “Are too. That cop had grilled us, you'd have been all, ‘Occifer! Help! We drove off without the baby, and now we’ll never get to babysit again!”
She laughs finally, and shakes her head. “Loca. You did see the car seats, then?”
“Yeah. So. Little kids go to bed early, right? Parents have to stay home and watch them, right? We could borrow it for an hour, still be home in time.”
Maji sighs. “Here's the thing. I was gonna start teaching you to drive, since I won't be here soon, ’cept some weekends. And this one’s no good for that. The owner’s a single mom, can't even afford the car wash, much less body work, you know, if.”
I’m kind of stunned, can’t even think of a comeback, for once.
“Hey, maybe tomorrow night,” she offers. “Grab that douchebag Carpenter’s Beemer, go up to the campus parking lot. He's so rich, we could total his ride, he'd just order a new one.”
“Um, Maj?” I’m still swimming, looking for words. “I don't want to drive, yet. I just wanna ride around with you.”
“But, what if you need to get away, and you don't know how?”
“Chica, I won't need to get away. I'm safe here.” When I say it out loud, it feels real. Not like when Ava said it to me, letting me try out the idea. “I can wait two years and get my license like the normal kids. Right now, I just want to be a kid.”
I didn't mean to cry, but sometimes it just hits me like that. At least now I can, you know? Maji puts an arm around me, and we lean against the minivan. When we stand up straight again, our shorts are dusty.
“Hey,” I say. “Why don't we wash it for her?”
Maji shakes her head. “Car wash is too public. Also, it closed at nine.” She might be the only 14 year old in New York who tracks details like that. How is her brain not full, already?
“What about out at the Fairchild place?” A lot of the old Gold Coast estates, that used to be owned by obscenely rich people who went bankrupt, are being restored by non-profits now. The volunteers go home at night.
The brat smiles that smile that creeps over her face, like she can't help it. “They have water, and enough light. Cops don't make a sweep ’til after midnight.”
I want to ask how she knows that last bit, but hold my tongue. Finally, a yes!
Maji pulls the little van away from the curb carefully, and hands me tonight’s soundtrack. Not an actual movie soundtrack, like Star Wars, but ours. Well, Maji’s, anyway. I'm still figuring out what I like. There's so much! All they played at the squat in Brooklyn was Zeppelin and AC/DC, and that just made my head hurt. Maji laughed when I called it noise, said I sounded old and crotchety like Hannah. Who's what? 45, maybe.
Surprise, surprise, tonight we have Ani diFranco. She's cool, really. Kind of angry in a good way. That about sums up Maji’s taste in music, except for the Latin stuff. Now, that stuff is fun. Maybe it'll be part of my soundtrack, when I can follow the words better.
The drive out takes less than one side of the tape, and Maji turns the van off in the middle of Lullaby of South Brooklyn, which will go on my soundtrack for sure.
Washing a car in the dark, with a hose and just a baby bib we found in the back seat, is a little, well, imprecise. The hose won't reach to the floodlight by the grand entrance, so we have to drive back and forth, washing and then checking our work. After the second go at it, we’re both antsy about curfew, and a lot damper than we'd meant to get. So we give it one last hose-down, and drive back to town.
Maji goes exactly the speed limit, stops at every sign, and pulls the van back into its spot exactly like it was before. As she puts the keys away under the floor mat, I look down the driveway of the closest house, and what do they have? I start giggling, pointing, until Maji comes around the front of the mostly-clean Aerostar, shushing me. She sees the hose I'm pointing at, and it's all over. We start jogging home, our sneakers squelching, laughing even though it makes our sides hurt.
Ava's in the kitchen when we come in, reading a book at the table, under the light that hangs down from the ceiling fan. She looks us over, and her eyebrows both lift. “Oh, my.”
“Sprinklers at the park came on and got us,” Maji lies smoothly.
“Well, get everything into the wash, please. The dirt got you, too.”
Maji nods, and I smile. I love Ava. Hannah too, of course, but Ava most of all.
So I picture Maji jogging back, her easy stride, scanning the empty streets for trouble - people, dogs, cops. Nothing in her way. I see her get back into the Aerostar and then - no! There’s a patrol car cruising down the street, shining its light right and left, and I nearly yell out loud for Maji to duck down. I see her flatten out on the seats, waiting; and I breathe again.
I rewind to when the wind was in my hair, the speakers singing me the Lullaby. I’d like to stay there; but we’re on the buddy system and I need to get Maji home safe, somehow. So I decide that even if that cop spots her, she’ll be cool. It’s not illegal to be in an unlocked car, after all. Is it? I’ll ask her when she gets back. Besides, I gave her that great line about babysitting. It could work . . .
And what if the cop in my head took Maji to the station? Hannah would go there and bring her home, that’s all. She'd want the truth, and gives us extra chores, but that'd be ok. That’d be fine, actually. Maji would try to say it was all her; but I wouldn't let her. And Hannah and Ava would see that I am learning to Be Accountable.
