I’ve driven in Dallas so the traffic isn’t that much of a headache. No, what sets me on edge is the fact that I’m not even really sure what I’m looking for, only that I’m sure I’ll recognize it when I run across it.
As I start to drive around, I stick to the main streets, but all that results in is pretty buildings with beautiful landscaping. Tourism and all its glory. I shake my head at the mall to my left filled with lots of trendy expensive vehicles. Matter of fact, all the vehicles I see are filled with nicely dressed people, obtuse in their affluence, which tells me I’m in the wrong part of town to find Lev.
I came to Knoxville for a reason. I’d looked up the gang problems here, and I knew if any place needed a sojourner for steady work, this place could be it just as well as any other large city. The trouble is that in order to find an angel like that, somebody’s got to be dying, which means that finding Lev will open myself up to a whole new world I am not really sure I want to face.
Brushing the hair from my face, I try to ignore the fact that the air conditioner isn’t working, and sweat is spilling down my face in thick runnels. Unsure which direction to go, I take a random left and head for some back roads. Even as I leave the public relations side of town behind, a little voice is telling me this isn’t such a hot idea, and while I know that, I’ve tried thinking of other ways to find Lev, or any other angels for that matter. The trouble is that I haven’t come up with anything else, and I’m not willing to live in the status quo. Life without Lev isn’t an option.
I fiddle with the radio, trying to ignore the static bursts grating on my nerves. It’s the one drawback to my Jeep, and most of the time I’ve been able to ignore it. It’s just that these days I’m having problems ignoring a lot of stuff. When I look up, I start seeing the first signs of economic struggle in the condition of the houses needing new paint and less than luxurious cars sitting in the driveways. For a moment my foot stutters on the gas pedal as another internal warning goes off, telling me I should turn around and head home.
Instead, I push the accelerator pedal and keep going, watching as the neglected houses slowly turn into slums and disarray. The cars passing by are no longer those of rich, affluent whites but have, for the most part, turned into lower end models of non-descript cars. Most of the faces I see blur past are of Latino descent.
I swallow hard, suddenly realizing just how far out of my element I am. The run-down houses on either side of me have numerous people milling about, including small children, which should make me feel a little more at ease, but it doesn’t, not with the look I keep getting, especially from the teenage males. I’ve seen lots of guys watch me, but these expression are feral and territorial. It has nothing to do with attraction and everything to do with trying to put people in their places. As an outsider and a female, I’m not sure what that place might be, but I’m also not slowing down to find out.
It’s then, of all times, that I feel my front tire start to wobble funny, and I cringe at the thought of a flat tire. Around me, there are so many people, and the houses are so small. The flow of traffic has all but died, suggesting that this neighborhood is really either very dangerous or a dead-end. Either way, I shouldn’t be here.
Knowing I don’t have a choice, I ease the Jeep to the side of the road and shift into park. Already I see lots of people staring. The kids who were playing with Frisbees or footballs suddenly stop and look at me. Yet another sign that strangers don’t come here. Or if they do, they certainly aren’t welcome. I nervously reach inside my purse, scanning for my cell. Then as my hand touching my wallet, my compact, my brush, I realize I’ve left it at home. My stomach falls like I’m riding a roller coaster and I just went down the first big hill.
For a moment I just sit there, half-considering turning the vehicle around and driving back toward the mall. At least that would put me in a line of sight where I wouldn’t feel so threatened, but I know the Jeep won’t make it that far with the ruined tire.
A light pounding at my window makes me jump, and I turn to face a Hispanic teenager in a white tank top. The cotton fabric stretches across his torso, highlighting the muscles beneath. He gestures for me to roll the window down. Trembling, I comply.
“You need some help with that flat?” His voice is calm, hinted with just a touch of a Spanish accent. He rests on arm on the roof of the Jeep and lets his grease-stained fingers dangle over. Then I notice the car on blocks in the driveway across the street where he’s probably been overhauling it. Although the sun is at his back, his black hair is so thick, no light bleeds through it. It only halos his head. He frowns like he’s not sure what to make of my silence.
Finally, I nod, realizing that I don’t really have any other choices. “That would be great.”
He nods. “Where is your jack at?”
“In back.” I lick my lips nervously.
“Can you open the door so I can get it out?” a thin strand of his hair curls against his forehead. He slowly steps back from the door so I can get out. Taking a deep breath, I yank my keys from the ignition and jerk the door open to get out. Even as my feet hit the street, I feel numerous gazes on me, and I keep looking at the ground, unnerved, aware of just how much space there is between his body and mine as I walk around the Jeep and open the back door. He steps past me and grabs the jack before shutting the door.
“At least you didn’t get this on the highway.”
“Yeah.” I fold my arms across my chest and watch him place the jack and begin lifting the vehicle. He pauses for a moment.
“You might want to step back.”
I turn toward the Jeep and realize for the first time how stable it isn’t as it lifts into the air on one side. So I take his advice and step back, giving him room to work. It’s obvious by his efficient movements that he’s probably done this a million times. He’s already got the ruined tire off, and if it were me, I’d probably still be figuring out how to work the jack. While I may have some good skills, figuring out mechanical things isn’t one of them.
“Thank you for doing this,” I say, scanning the people around me. The kids have resumed playing, figuring that while I’m not part of the usual landscape, I’m not exactly harmful either.
“You’re welcome.” He takes the spare off the back of the Jeep and rolls it to the wheel so he can mount it. “I take it you’re not from around here.”
“No. Just passing through.”
“You might want to be more careful where you pass.” He slips the lug nut on and screws it into place before moving on to the others.
“While this neighborhood isn’t great, you’re heading toward troubled waters, if you know what I mean.” He takes a break from the last lug nut and shoots me a meaningful glance. “And people around here can be funny about skin color. Just remember that.” He slips the last lug nut into place, and I am struck by how much he doesn’t sound like a teenager.
“What’s your name?” I ask, not really sure why I want to know. Maybe because despite my fears, he’s been kind.
“Miguel Torres.”
“I’m Elizabeth Moon. How old are you?” The question comes out before I can choke it back.
“Fifteen.” He lowers the jack, and when the spare touches the ground, he pulls the jack away and puts it in the trunk. Then he offers a smile. “Good as new.”
“Thanks.” I’m reaching into my pocket to pull out some money to give him. It’s the least I can do because I’m such an imbecile about changing tires. I probably wouldn’t have gotten the old one off in the first place. Then I hear the tires squealing just up the street.
Around me, panic breaks out. The parents and older teens start running toward kids and houses. I only get one look at Miguel’s face and the sheer horror of his gape-mouth expression and wide eyes.
“No!” he screams. The word is deep and long as everything slows to a bare movement of time. I see one of his hands grab me, and the other reaches for my door on the Jeep. The car speeds toward us. It is a white Buick with dark t
inted windows. The thump of a bass precedes it. A dark-skinned teenage male with long hair leans out the window, a black gun gripped in his hand.
Miguel yanks open my door and shoves me into the Jeep just as the car passes even with us. The snap of bullets ricochets over the thumping beat. Miguel’s mouth opens wider. He grunts and then falls toward me, knocking me backwards. My head slams against the steering wheel. The white car and thumping bass music edge past. The guy holding the gun leers at me. He half aims and then laughs.
About the Author
Maria Rachel Hooley has written over twenty novels, including When Angels Cry, New Life Incorporated, and Rising Tides. Her first chapbook of poetry, “A Different Song” was published by Rose Rock Press in 1999. When she isn’t writing, she is teaching high school students. She lives in Oklahoma with her husband and three children.
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