Stolen Car

by Patrick Jones

  “Carl isn’t my family,” I reply. Ashley has a family; I have the wannabe parade, a long-gone father, and Mom. Carl tries to be nice, just like he tries looking for a job, but like his job search, he fails.

  “Families are complicated, baby,” Mom replies, then offers me her coffee, which I refuse. She doesn’t offer a cigarette, however. She must suspect that I smoke, but she also knows she really can’t say anything about it, given both her and Carl’s two-pack-a-day habit.

  I take the towel from my wet morning hair, so Mom can see my eyes when I repeat, “Carl isn’t part of my family.”

  “He cares about us, that’s enough,” she says quickly, then takes a drag on her smoke.

  “Whatever,” I say.

  I go back inside to get dressed, which will take longer than usual. I want to look good. I want Reid to see me again, just to prove that the other day wasn’t a dream. Actually, I know it’s not, since the past few days of not seeing him have left me sleepless.

  “When you were in the shower, that Evan boy called again,” Mom says when I emerge.

  “Okay,” I say, without much enthusiasm.

  “You should be happier,” Mom says as she motions for me to sit on the porch next to her. I need that cigarette now so we can have one of those Circle Pines mother-daughter moments.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Having some nice boy care about you like that,” Mom says. Her voice is rough, and I realize it isn’t the cigarettes or the years of secondhand smoke from waitressing. She sounds like I do, after I’ve been crying.

  “So Carl isn’t just not here, he’s gone,” I say.

  “For now,” she says, burning the tobacco down to the very last fiber. “I sent him packing again, at least for a while.”

  “Is he coming back?” I ask. Mom’s looking off into the distance, over the concrete and the nonexistent pines of Circle Pines. As I wait for an answer, I study her for bruises. I heard yelling last night, but no more than normal—or so I thought.

  “I don’t know,” she answers after a long pause, then puts the cigarette out under her ugly waitress-sensible shoe.

  I don’t say anything, but I feel another “sorry” creeping up my throat. I can’t believe I have any apologies left to give. Truth is, I don’t want my mom hurting, no matter what.

  “Mom, can I ask you something?” I say, almost like I didn’t want to be heard.

  She pulls back her hair and rubs her eyes. I take that as a yes.

  “Why do you let Carl stay after—”

  “Baby, relationships are really complicated when you’re my age,” she cuts me off, then smiles. “I’m not eighteen or even twenty-eight anymore.”

  “But Carl is … ”

  “Look, Carl is Carl. He wasn’t like this when I met him. Do you remember?” she asks, and I think we both flash back to last fall and how happy Mom was, and how nice Carl was to both of us. Mom’s never happy when she’s alone. “Well, I guess I’m just waiting.”

  “Waiting?”

  “Waiting for him to be that way again,” she says, trying to smile. “I know Carl’s a good person inside or I wouldn’t have liked him in the first place. The waiting is the hardest part.”

  I sigh in frustration, at Carl and at Mom.

  “You just have to show a little faith in people, baby,” Mom says.

  “Why don’t you start with me?” I say. “Why don’t you trust me?”

  Mom goes silent, then heads back into the house. Once inside, she looks at me. And then she says, almost like it hurts, “I guess you should call Evan back.”

  “I will.”

  “He must really like you,” Mom says, turning toward the kitchen. She quickly pours some water into a cup, stirs in some instant coffee, and puts it in the microwave. “I think it’s kind of sweet, don’t you?”

  “I guess,” I mumble.

  “Boys are always going to like you, Danielle. You know that by now, right?” she says.

  “I don’t think so,” I tell her, using Ashley’s most sarcastic tone.

  “It’s just that you’re so young.”

  “I’m not young. I’m almost sixteen,” I remind her. “I’ll be driving before I can date!”

  “Danny, you’re still my pretty baby, my special lady.”

  “Whatever, Mom, whatever.” We both knew that “baby” was the magic word. It wasn’t that I was her baby, but that she doesn’t want me to have one. My mom’s talk with me about sex when I got my period was short and to the point: don’t even think about it.

  “You’ll have to trust me,” Mom says.

  “Trust you? You said I’m pretty. How can I believe anything you say?” I grumble.

  “Let me show you something,” Mom says, taking the coffee from the microwave. We walk toward her bedroom, and she actually lets me enter a normally off-limits area. She doesn’t know, of course, that I look through her stuff all the time. She’s rummaging through boxes in the closet, and I’m trying not to look guilty. I’ve learned more about my mom’s life from snooping around her room than from anything she’s ever told me. As usual, there are empty bags of chips and piles of magazines—Glamour, Redbook, Cosmo—on the floor, but not a single book. Most of the dresser drawers are half-open and her non-work clothes, mostly jeans and T-shirts, spill out.

  “Danielle, look at this,” Mom finally says, pulling a shoebox from the closet. She motions for me to sit down next to her on the floor.

  “What is it?” I ask, wondering both what’s in the box and why I’d never found it before. Maybe Mom’s better at hiding things than I imagined.

  “Promise not to laugh,” she says, then laughs herself. A nervous laugh.

  “Promise,” I reply. She pretends to spit in her hand, as do I, then we shake. One of the Dad wannabes—I think Mitch—taught us the spit shake. It’s gross, but it’s cool too. And it’s ours.

  “Okay, this is me at your age,” Mom says as she hands me a classic school picture. She was wearing a big black T-shirt and trying not to smile. Her hair was light brown and greasy, and her skin was pretty bad, even with all the makeup. She looked like a scared, self-hating fifteen-year-old. She looked like me. “I don’t know why I didn’t show you this before.”

  I bite my tongue. I want to say about a hundred things. For instance, “You never showed me because you never cared.” But I figure there’s something else going on here. I know my mom better than she knows herself. If she’s doing something nice—and this was nice—she wants something in return. That’s how she succeeds as a waitress and survives as a single mom.

  “Now, let me show you something else,” she says, obviously not wanting to look at the picture of her fifteen-year-old self any longer than necessary. “This is me at sixteen.”

  I hold out my hand to take the picture, but she clings to it for a few seconds. “What happened?” I ask, looking at this slightly older version of my mom. Her skin had cleared up, she was thinner and wearing a tight top, her hair was dyed blond and done up—ridiculous but right for the time—and her smile was sly, half-sexy and half-smirky. It’s the same cool “I don’t give a crap” look that Reid wears.

  “Things change,” Mom says as she hugs me. “Never think of yourself as not pretty.”

  I need a camera to capture this moment: my mom acknowledging my feelings, offering empathy, and reaching out to me. “Thanks, Mom,” I say, trying not to cry.

  She takes the picture from me, returns it to the box, and pulls back her hair. I lean into her, kind of, just soaking up the moment. We sit together in silence for a while, then she finally looks at her watch. “I’ve got to get ready for work.”

  “Okay, Mom,” I say, and pull myself off the floor. I start toward the door as she fumbles with the pile of makeup on one of the dressers.

  “I just want to protect you, baby. I know how men can be.”

  I shake my head. The parade of wannabes has taught me that lesson just as well, although Mom seems intent on repeating the same course over a
nd over again.

  “I don’t want you to make my mistakes,” she adds, sipping some lukewarm coffee.

  “You have to trust me.”

  “I do trust you, Danny,” she says, then laughs. “But I don’t trust teenage boys.”

  “They’re not all like that.” We both know I’m lying. She lets it pass.

  “I just don’t want you to—,” she starts again, but I cut her off.

  “To have a baby at sixteen, to make your same mistakes,” I say.

  “No, it’s not just that,” she says. “I don’t want you to make the biggest mistake.”

  “What’s that?”

  “To think your life can’t be complete without a man,” she says, softly and sadly. “That’s what I most want to protect you from, baby.”

  “Thanks, Mom.” I don’t know what else to say. For once, she isn’t treating me like a child.

  “But I guess you need to make your own mistakes, right?” she goes on. “Maybe I’ve been wrong in not letting you do that.”

  “It’s okay.”

  “Just protect yourself, that’s all I’m saying.”

  “You mean—”

  “No, not just that,” Mom says. “I know you kids know all about that stuff, not like us when we were growing up. I know you, Danielle. I know that you want a better life than this, a better life than me. I know you’re too smart to do something so stupid, like I did.”

  I suck in every word of my mom building me up, even if she puts herself down to do it.

  “No, I’m saying protect yourself from getting hurt, that’s all.” She sighs.

  “I will,” I promise her and myself.

  “I can’t shield you forever,” Mom says. “It is just so hard to trust—”

  I interrupt her. “What did you say, you have to show a little faith in people?”

  She laughs, rubs my head like old times, then after a long pause says, “You should call Evan. And if he wants to take you on a date, then it’s okay with me.”

  “So, it’s okay if I have a real boyfriend?”

  “Yeah, baby, it’s okay,” Mom says. Another sigh, another smile, and then we do the spit shake again.

  I wipe my hands on my pants as Mom gulps down the rest of her coffee and gathers up her purse, cigarettes, and car keys on her way out the door. I don’t think she’s put the car in reverse yet before I start dialing. She hasn’t even pulled away when I hear the word “hello” and say, “Reid, it’s Danielle.”

  • • •

  “So how’s Kate?” I ask Reid, my head spinning, both from being with him and from just coming off what seemed like a hundred revolutions on the merry-go-round.

  “All right, I guess. We don’t talk much,” he says as we move over to the swings at Fenton Lawn Elementary playground. Afraid Mom might return, I asked Reid not to pick me up at my house; instead, the Viper swooped me up at the 7-Eleven at the bottom of the hill. I left my bike behind.

  “I should call her,” I say quickly, trying to hide my nervousness.

  “I’ll get you her number,” he says, but he doesn’t reach for his cell phone.

  “I feel bad about how things went down with her.”

  “Hey, shit happens,” he says as he pulls out a cigarette. Then we’re both silent, a big change from the ride over, which was filled with rap music blasting and Reid’s cell ringing.

  As he’s lighting up his Newport, I say, “I’m sorry about what happened before.”

  He’s quiet for a second, then says, “Well, I was just a kid.”

  “So was I.”

  “Well, you’re not a kid anymore,” he says, offering me the smoke. I take it, and he leaves his hand on my leg. It tastes nasty, but Reid’s touch makes everything feel good.

  “I guess not,” I mumble, then hand him back the smoke.

  “I mean it, Danielle, you’re so grown-up.” His fingers dance around my leg.

  “Really?”

  “I’m glad you’re not still mad at me. You’re pretty cool to hang with,” Reid says.

  “I liked you,” I admit, realizing that “like” is the strongest emotion I’ll confess to. Now.

  “Your hair looks great. It’s a lot longer now,” he says, brushing it away from my face. “And I think your smile is bigger too.”

  I blush, the red in my cheeks almost strong enough to reflect off his white T-shirt. I stare at the ground below us, when his hand lands on my shoulder. He starts moving his thumb slowly and softly up and down my neck. The short hairs stand up tall.

  “Hey, Danielle, look at me,” Reid says. Then he whispers, “Let’s go back to my house.”

  “Is your mom there?” I ask hesitantly as waves of guilt, doubt, and fear lap at my feet.

  “If she’s sober, she’s at work. You never know.” His smile vanishes as he takes a long drag on the smoke.

  “I’m sorry,” I say. “That must be rough.”

  His thumb runs from my shoulder down my arm, making small circles as he speaks. “I just try to stay out of her way. I live in my basement—the cave. I keep my door locked and my friends away when she’s around. Our understanding is, we don’t get into each other’s business.”

  “You have a lot of friends.”

  “What can I say?” He winks. “I’m just a popular guy.”

  “It must be nice,” I mumble, feeling jealous, seeking sympathy.

  “Hey, you hang with me and you’ll be fucking queen of the ball,” he says, then laughs.

  “Okay.”

  “Better than okay,” he says, and he kisses me. The kiss is longer than before, harder at first and then softer. His tongue’s teasing the roof of my mouth, while his hands explore my body, starting at the shoulder, then slowly working their way down the sides of the lowest-cut shirt I own.

  He finally breaks the kiss, then whispers, “So you wanna come back to my house?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “I’ll let you play with my toys,” he says. “Like I told you, kid, I got some cool toys.”

  “I thought you said I wasn’t a kid anymore,” I say softly.

  “You’re all woman.” He moves in for another kiss.

  “This is pretty fast for me,” I say truthfully. He frowns, but doesn’t move away.

  “Then your other boyfriends have been pretty weak,” he says.

  “Well, they were just stupid immature boys.”

  “You’re better than that,” he purrs. “You understand me, not like everybody else.”

  “Really?”

  “To other people, I’m just a party guy,” he says. “But I know you can see the real me.”

  “And you understand me too, I know.” Now I’m thinking: so that means this thing between us is real. I wish I could tell him that what I want most is to be like him, with his great car, his always-ringing cell phone, his house full of friends, and his eyes full of confidence.

  “You’re so hot,” he says. His lips aren’t on mine anymore, but his hands continue to race around my body from knee to shoulder, and all the places in between.

  “I just don’t think of myself that way,” I confess.

  “Baby, then that’s the only thing wrong with you,” he says.

  “Really?”

  “Really.”

  I answer by kissing him. I lean against him and don’t push his hands away. We move from the swings to the slide. I lie down, feeling the steel, hot from the summer sun, against my back. Reid’s on top of me, sliding his tongue in my mouth and his hands under my shirt. I pull him closer, trying to remember how to breathe. I’m on fire: all the oxygen in my atmosphere is burning up. When his hand slips between my legs, I break away and scoot from underneath him to the ladder of the slide. He doesn’t say anything for a second, then starts laughing loudly and climbs up the slide to the top. He takes off his shirt, pounds his chest like some alpha-male gorilla, and slides down. I rush to kiss him when he reaches the bottom.

  “Your turn,” he whispers. Does this mean I’m supposed to take
off my shirt? I’m too embarrassed, not just about Reid seeing me, but about what might happen if some little kids come into the park. Still, I climb up and slide down, and he greets me with a kiss. I respond with wild laughter.

  “What’s so funny?” he asks.

  “I just love that feeling of going down the slide,” I tell him. “It’s like how I love coasting down a big hill on my bike.”

  “You ever hit that big-ass water slide up in Frankenmuth?” he asks.

  “No, I really don’t…” Before I can finish, he’s already shifted gears.

  It all happens quickly. I use his phone to make sure Mom’s at work, then slip into my house to get my bathing suit. I’m back in the car in thirty seconds and we’re busting down the freeway at well over eighty mph, landing us in front of a water park in Frankenmuth, this tourist town north of Flint, in less than an hour. All the way up, Reid’s talking really fast about the water park, then about us going skiing or snowboarding in the winter. As we’re speeding down the highway, Reid’s racing through the past few years, telling me about things he’s done, stuff he’s had, cars he’s owned, and stunts he’s pulled. I’ve been barely alive while he’s been really living.

  A sign says that the water park is for registered hotel guests only, but Reid starts talking to the girl running the ticket booth. I don’t know what he says to her, but she laughs once, and then he waves for me to join him. He gives me a quick kiss, then we go into the locker rooms to change. He comes out wearing blue jean cutoffs, while I debut the black bathing suit, sort of—it’s still hidden under a too-big T-shirt.

  “Here comes my girl,” Reid says, plenty loud enough for the tacky tourists to hear.

  “What do you want to do?” I ask him, pointing at the sign listing the rides.

  “Everything,” he says, leaning in next to me. “But first I want to see you. All of you.”

  “Wow” is all he says when I peel off the T-shirt. He grabs my hand and pulls me toward the biggest slide. As we climb up, he’s touching me the entire time. I should be feeling self-conscious about showing my body, but I’m not. Pretty soon, we’re at the top of the sixty-foot waterslide. I get ready to slide down, but he wraps himself around me. We laugh all the way down, and hit the pool at the bottom with a mighty splash, earning dirty looks from everybody. We visit everything in the park a few times, like we owned the place. After about an hour, I’m exhausted from laughing, splashing, and climbing. I wish I had a camera so I could prove that all of this is real.