Roadside Assistance

by Amy Clipston

  “Whitney,” one of the girls called from the door. I was pretty sure she’d sat with my cousin in church. “Can you help us with the popcorn?”

  “Sure.” Whitney made her way to the back of the room, stopping at my table. “Do you want to come with us?”

  “That’s okay,” I said, scooping a handful of popcorn. “I’m good.”

  “I’ll be back.” Whitney followed her friend out into the hallway, closing the door behind them.

  The lights dimmed and soon the movie blared through the television. I leaned back in my seat and sipped my soda in between bites of popcorn. I was engrossed in the movie when I felt someone slip into the seat beside me and swipe a handful of popcorn from my paper towel.

  “Hey,” a voice said.

  I turned and found Zander grinning at me. “What are you doing here?” I asked.

  “I’m a member of the youth group.” His smile was playful. “What are you doing here?”

  “I think my family staged an intervention,” I whispered. “I was pretty much pushed out the door.”

  He laughed. “You really didn’t want to come, huh?”

  “Shhh!” someone up front hissed.

  “It’s not that,” I whispered, leaning closer to him and inhaling a spicy scent that must’ve been cologne. For a moment, the aroma made me dizzy. “I just didn’t think it would be, well, fun.”

  “Are you having fun?” he whispered, leaning closer to me.

  I shrugged and couldn’t stop a smile from overtaking my lips. Sitting next to him was fun, as corny as it seemed. “I guess it’s okay.”

  “Quiet!” someone else hissed.

  “We can’t hear,” another chimed in.

  Zander took my hand and helped me to my feet then led me through the door.

  “Where are we going?” I asked as he gently tugged me down the hallway.

  “Somewhere we can talk without being shushed,” he said, still holding my hand.

  He led me into the sanctuary, where he sank into the back pew, his hand still encircling mine. His touch made me feel as if everything was going to be okay somehow. For a split second, I hoped he wouldn’t let go. Then I felt silly and pushed the thought away. I knew that feeling of euphoria brought on by an attentive, cute guy could be very misleading.

  Zander let go and my hand fell to my side. “Have a seat,” he said, patting the bench beside him.

  I lowered myself into the seat next to him and glanced toward the altar, trying in vain not to think about how I’d lost it during the service.

  “I like to come in here sometimes to think. The sanctuary makes me feel at ease.” He shrugged. “I guess that makes me a little weird, huh?”

  “No.” I shook my head. “That’s not weird.”

  “Do you feel at ease here?”

  Nope. I studied a few strings hanging out from the hem on my shorts while considering my answer. I didn’t want to lie to him. “Not really.”

  “Oh,” he said. “Do you want to go somewhere else to talk?”

  “It’s okay.” I glanced up at his concerned expression.

  “Would you rather watch the movie?”

  “No. This is fine.” It’s nice, actually. I pulled my leg up onto the bench and hugged my knee.

  “So, your family staged an intervention?” He rested his arm on the back of the bench behind me. “Why did they feel the need to do that?”

  “They say I stay in my room too much.” The words slipped through my lips without a filter. Had the guy given me truth serum?

  I watched his expression. To my surprise, he simply smiled.

  “Do you think they’re right?” he asked.

  I nodded. “Probably. I just don’t feel like I fit in. I mean, how many girls would rather work on cars than go shopping or have their nails done?” The imaginary truth serum continued to work its magic on me as I opened my heart to this guy I hardly knew. But it felt good to be honest, and I liked talking to him. It felt as if he listened without judgment. Who knew I’d like youth group?

  “Liking cars doesn’t make you weird. It just makes you different.” He ran a hand through his hair and glanced toward the altar. “I know what you mean, though, about being different.”

  “You do?”

  “Yeah.” He crossed his ankles and cleared his throat. “I guess you could say my dad has big plans for my future and none of them involve cars.”

  I studied his face, looking for regret or sadness, but his expression was unreadable. “What are those plans?”

  “Medical school,” he said. “Not everyone is cut out to be a doctor, but he doesn’t want to hear that. He’s a doctor, his father was a doctor, and his father’s father was a doctor. Stewart boys are supposed to grow up to be doctors, so I’m different. Too different for his liking.”

  “Man.” I shook my head. “That stinks.”

  “Oh well,” he said with a sigh. “Dr. Stewart will have to get over it or die ticked off, I guess.”

  I studied his eyes, wondering what made Zander tick.

  “Why are you a Zander as opposed to an Alec or an Alex?” I asked.

  He smiled. “That was my brother’s doing. Andrew was four when I was born, and he couldn’t say Alexander or Alex. The story goes that he called me something sounding like Sander or Zander, and it stuck.”

  “So, you’re never Alex or Alexander?”

  “Only when my parents aren’t pleased.” Smirking, he turned toward me. “Last year I came home to find my father studying my report card. I knew I was in trouble. He looked up and he said, ‘Alexander Lee Stewart, this is appalling. A D in Biology? How could you get a D in Biology? Andrew got straight As. He aced Biology.’ “ Zander folded his arms across his chest. “Then he told me I couldn’t work during the week anymore. As if that would help my average.”

  “Does your dad compare you to your brother a lot?”

  He shrugged. “Everyone once in a while. I learned a long time ago to tune it out.”

  “Do you resent that?” I asked. “I mean the comparison. Do you resent your brother for it?”

  He shook his head. “It’s not Andrew’s fault he’s my dad’s favorite or that he chose to follow in my father’s footsteps while I didn’t. And he earned his straight As and worked his butt off to be the quarterback and all that. I can’t resent him for that. It just wasn’t what I wanted to do.” He tapped his right knee. “I tried football, but my knee couldn’t take it. And school isn’t really my thing. I guess you could say I don’t apply myself.”

  I grinned. “You seem to apply yourself to cars.”

  “Dad doesn’t see it like that. He sees a lot of wasted hours and money. Whereas Andrew is going to make a difference in the world as a pediatrician.”

  I studied his expression but didn’t find any resentment toward his brother. His words were more matter-of-fact than envious, and that fascinated me. “Are you and Andrew close?”

  He nodded. “Yeah, we get along well. I haven’t seen him in a while, but he calls me just about once a week to tell me what he’s up to and to find out if I’ve gotten the car running yet.”

  I absently wondered if that was who I’d seen him talking to on the phone when I was looking out the window the other day.

  “How about you?” he asked. “What are you called when you’re in trouble? Not that you get in trouble.”

  I chuckled. “Oh, I tick my dad off plenty. Just the other night he said, ‘Emily Claire Curtis, you need to lose the chip on your shoulder and be happy that we’re here instead of out on the street.’ “ I shook my head. “He just doesn’t get how hard this move was for me.”

  “Emily Claire,” he repeated. “That’s nice.”

  “Thanks.” I studied the altar again. “Claire was my mom,” I whispered, my voice suddenly thick.

  “I’m sorry about your mom,” he said, touching my arm for a nanosecond. “Whitney told me.”

  “Thank you.” I cleared my throat and rested my chin on my knee.

  “A
nd from what I’ve seen, you don’t have a chip on your shoulder. I can’t even imagine how hard this move was for you.”

  He was silent for a moment, and I searched for something to say. Although the silence was comfortable, I felt like I should say something to him to keep the conversation going.

  “There’s something you never did answer that day we fixed the timing on your dad’s truck,” he began.

  “What’s that?” I turned toward him.

  “What kind of car did you fix when your dad went out of town?”

  “Nova.” I held my breath, hoping he didn’t ask for more details. The car belonged to Tyler.

  “A Nova?” His eyes lit up. “What year?”

  “Seventy.” I crisscrossed my legs. “And my dad makes way too much of it. I just did the brakes.”

  “Yourself?”

  I nodded. “Yeah. My dad went out of town on business, and my friend Tyler had something going on that weekend. So I did all of the brakes to keep myself busy. It was no big deal.” That wasn’t entirely true. It had been a huge, time-consuming job, but not one I was proud of completing. Looking back, I felt like a fool for all I’d done for Tyler. I’d spent two days and a full paycheck fighting to fix those brakes as a surprise for him. In the end, all I wound up with was an empty bank account and a broken heart.

  “Wow.” He shook his head. “That’s amazing.”

  I shrugged. “It was just brakes.” I studied my hem again, hoping Zander wasn’t going to be intimidated by me or write me off as a tomboy because I’d fixed a car by myself. Working on cars was a great stress reliever for me, and the only time I could really feel like myself, but not many people understood that.

  “So why Chevys?”

  “What do you mean?” I met his questioning gaze. “It was my friend Tyler’s car. He was having trouble with the brakes, so I took care of it as a favor for him.”

  “No, that’s not what I meant. I mean, why do you prefer Chevys?”

  “I guess you could blame that on my dad. He raced Chevys before I was born.”

  “Really.” He leaned his arm on the back of the bench and rested his chin on his palm. “Did he race full-time?”

  “No.” I pulled my knees up to my chest. “He did it parttime on weekends, and he dreamt of moving up to a real league. But then I was born and he had to get a real job, or so he says. He got a loan and opened his shop. And the rest is history, I guess.”

  “That’s cool.” He ran his finger along the back of the bench. “It’s a shame that you only like to work on Chevys. I sure could use some help with the Dodge.”

  My eyebrows shot to my hairline in surprise. “You want my help?” I pointed to my chest.

  “Of course I do.” He gave a little laugh. “You’re like a mechanical genius, and the rebuild is a little more difficult than I’d imagined. I’m starting to wonder if my dad was right about how I’ve wasted my money on this car.”

  “Don’t say that.” I looked at him, incredulous. “A restoration is never a waste of money. It’s an investment — or so we’d like to believe, right?”

  “Right.” His eyes studied mine. “Why are you surprised that I’d want your help?”

  I hugged my knees closer to my chest. I considered dodging the question, but the truth serum won out again. “Not every guy likes the idea of a girl working on cars. Some find it, well … intimidating.” My cheeks heated at the honesty of my comment.

  He shook his head with disbelief. “That would be ridiculous.” Then he smiled. “Besides, if you helped me with my car, you’d be out of your room, which would make your family happy, right?”

  I laughed. “Yeah, it would get them off my back.”

  “Cool.” He nodded. “So it’s a deal. You help me with my car, and I get your family off your back.”

  “Okay.” I pushed an errant curl back from my face.

  “I have another burning question for you.” His expression was serious.

  “Oh?”

  “What was really bothering you at church last week? I know it wasn’t an eyelash.”

  I blew out a sigh and turned back toward the altar. “Wow. You don’t miss a thing, do you, Zander?”

  “You don’t have to answer,” he said. “It’s none of my business.”

  “It’s okay.” I studied my flip-flops. “It was the last hymn. It got to me.”

  “ ‘Beautiful Savior,’ “ he said.

  “Yeah.” My voice quavered and I cleared my throat. “It was my mom’s favorite,” I whispered, my eyes filling with tears. “It was the first time I’d been back to church since she …” My voice trailed off.

  “I’m sorry.” His voice was soft and tender. “You don’t have to discuss it.”

  “It’s okay. I appreciate that you asked.” I wiped my eyes. The look on his face caught me off guard, so I studied my hem again. “We sang it at her service, so it was difficult to hear it again. Brought back some stuff I was trying to put behind me.”

  “My grandfather used to always say that if God brings you to it, he’ll bring you through it.”

  I bit back a frown. Here we go.

  He gave me a little smile. “From your expression, I gather you’re not buying it, huh?”

  “Well …” I hesitated. But for some reason, I couldn’t be dishonest with Zander, and I found it unnerving — almost as unnerving as his obvious faith in God. “I’m sorry,” I began, shaking my head, “but I’m not buying it. Not at all.”

  He shifted his weight and I could feel the atmosphere change. “While I’m not one for clichés, I’ve found that this one is actually true. I’ve been through some rough patches, and even when I felt like God had abandoned me, he was there all along and got me through it.”

  Then he was lucky.

  I fingered my cross and stared at the large stained-glass cross hanging above the altar. “You really believe in God.” “And you don’t?”

  “I’m not sure anymore.” I turned to him. “Not since I lost her.”

  “But you wear a cross.” He nodded toward my collarbone. “It belonged to my mother. She said it gave her hope when she was sick.”

  He raised an eyebrow. “And it doesn’t give you any.” It was a statement more than a question.

  I shook my head. “No. I’d hoped it would, but it hasn’t happened yet.”

  His expression brightened, as if I’d admitted a secret faith. “But you’re not giving up.”

  I shrugged. “I don’t know why I wear it. I guess it’s in memory of her.”

  He paused for a moment. Then he opened his mouth to speak, but was interrupted by the sanctuary doors opening with a whoosh.

  “There you are,” Whitney snapped, hands on hips and impatient. “I was looking all over for you.”

  “We’ve been in here talking,” I said, wondering when she became my mother. Was she filling in since Darlene was at home?

  “We were tired of being shushed during the movie,” Zander chimed in.

  Whitney frowned. “You could’ve told me that you were blowing off the movie. It would be helpful if you had a cell phone, Emily. Then you could just, like, text me when you change your plans.”

  “You don’t have a cell phone?” Zander asked, his eyebrows arching toward his hairline in surprise.

  “Please, not you too,” I grumbled, standing. “No, I don’t have one.”

  “Interesting.” He stood and faced Whitney. “Is the movie over?”

  “Yeah,” she huffed. “It’s been over for, like, fifteen minutes.” She scowled at me. “I was going to leave, but I wanted to be sure you got home. I called the house and your dad was home, but he hadn’t seen you. Everyone was worried.”

  I stared at her. Was she serious? Was she really angry with me for not checking in with her? It was bad enough having Darlene on me about my attire, but being babysat by Whitney would probably send me over the edge. I opened my mouth to snap at her, but Zander interrupted me.

  “It’s my fault,” he said with a smile, p
lacing a hand on my shoulder. “I needed her advice on my Dodge, so I kidnapped her to pick her brain.”

  “Oh.” Whitney looked between us. “Well, we better go, Emily. I still have homework to finish.”

  “If it’s all right, I’ll give her a ride home.” Zander’s hand dropped from my shoulder. He yanked keys from his pocket, and they jingled at the motion. “We still have some car talk to finish up.”

  I looked between them, feeling like a little kid.

  “Of course it’s up to you,” he said quickly, looking at me. “You can ride with Whitney if you’d rather.”

  “Oh, well, if you need my help with your car, then I’ll ride with you,” I said, glancing back at Whitney, who was still scowling.

  “Fine.” She turned. “Would’ve been nice to have known that twenty minutes ago,” she grumbled, starting down the hall.

  “Why is she so uptight?” I asked.

  He snorted. “I guess she was really worried.”

  I shook my head. “I felt like her child rather than her cousin.”

  He held the door open and motioned for me to walk through.

  I fell into step with him as we headed toward his Jeep. “Thanks for saving me from a ride home listening to her complain about my behavior.”

  He wrenched the passenger door open. I hopped in and examined the interior. I didn’t know a ton about Chrysler, but the Jeep looked to be a late nineties model, complete with a tan vinyl interior. The truck was clean and well kept, and he had replaced the stock stereo with an impressive CD changer. It was obvious that Zander loved his vehicles.

  He smiled. “You may not thank me once we get on the road.”

  “What do you mean?” I inwardly groaned, hoping he wasn’t going to start in on my lack of faith again.

  “I really am going to pick your brain.” Once buckled in, he started the Jeep. “I do need help with the car.”

  I blew out a sigh of relief. Cars were easy to discuss; relationships and God were much more difficult. I think that’s why I loved cars so much. They were effortless and didn’t expect anything in return, except maybe some gas, a good paint job, and a periodic tune-up.