Roadside Assistance

by Amy Clipston

  chapter thirteen

  Zander and I walked side by side on our way from Fellowship Hall to the classrooms. I’d made it through the service without tearing up once, even though my mother’s letter was still fresh in my mind three days later. I almost felt as if she was with me today.

  Last night I’d dreamt that she was in my room, sitting on the edge of the bed while chatting with me and reciting the words from the letter. I could hear her voice and see her bright, green eyes. In my dream, my mother’s curly brown hair had grown back and fell to her shoulders in the bob style she’d worn since I was a little girl. She wore a white, flowing nightgown, and her skin was pink and shiny. She’d looked like an angel.

  I could still hear her parting words: “Forgive your father, Emily. He’s coping the best way he knows how. Remember he loves you. And God loves you, Emily. God loves you.”

  “Emily?” a voice asked, wrenching me from my thoughts.

  I turned and found Pastor Keith standing by his open office door. “Hi, Pastor,” I said, pushing a lock of hair behind my ear. I’d worn my hair down today, and it flowed to the middle of my back. It had driven me crazy during church, falling in my face at inopportune times when I was trying to follow along with the readings and hymns. I made a mental note to pull it up when I got home.

  Pastor glanced at Zander. “Good morning.”

  “Hi, Pastor.” Zander gave a slight wave and smiled, his dimple appearing.

  Pastor looked back at me. “I was wondering if you had a moment to talk.”

  “Oh.” I twirled a curl around my finger, wondering what to say. Why would the pastor want to talk to me? I felt like a delinquent who’d been sent to the principal’s office. Was I in trouble?

  Zander touched my arm. “I’ll come get you after J2A, and we can go out for an awesome burger.”

  “Okay.” I watched him disappear into the crowd of kids heading to class and then I turned back to Pastor.

  “Come on in.” He gestured for me to enter his office.

  “Thanks.” I sat in a chair across from the pastor’s desk and expected him to sit behind the desk in a formal sort of way.

  Instead, Pastor Keith sat across from me and smiled. He was a handsome man, with a kind face, dark hair, and warm brown eyes.

  “So,” he began, clasping his hands together. “How are you doing?”

  “Fine.” I shrugged and smoothed my jean skirt.

  “How’s school?” he asked, leaning back in the chair.

  “Good.” I glanced around the office, taking in the family photos showing his pretty blonde wife and two blonde girls. Framed photos with Bible verses and paintings of Jesus on the cross peppered the bright white walls. The office reminded me of Pastor Rob’s office back home.

  “Jenna mentioned you joined youth group and are going to J2A,” he said, still smiling.

  I nodded. “Yes, I am.”

  “That’s good.” He folded his hands in his lap. “Is there anything we can do for you at the church?”

  I shook my head. “I don’t think so.” I wondered what this was all leading to. Was he looking for volunteers for a committee? Or was it more personal? Had my dad told him I needed counseling due to my lack of an appropriate social life and my snarky attitude?

  Pastor’s expression turned to concern. “How are you really doing, Emily?”

  “Fine,” I said, forcing a smile.

  He raised his eyebrows. “Are you sure?”

  “Yup.” I nodded with emphasis.

  “You know you can always talk to me. Or if you’d rather speak to someone closer to your age, you can talk to Jenna.”

  “Thanks, but I’m really fine.” I cleared my throat and twirled a curl around my finger. I felt as if I were on display. I wanted to get out of the office and be a member of the J2A class — just another kid trying to find her faith. Then another question occurred to me — did other kids my age “lose” their faith? Would I be declared a heretic if I even admitted it out loud?

  “I see you and Zander have become friends.”

  “Yeah, we have a lot in common,” I said. “We both like to work on cars.”

  “I heard from your father that you’re quite a car enthusiast. That’s unusual for a girl your age.” He leaned an arm on the edge of his desk. “I find it very interesting. My girls are five and nine, and they are all about dolls, clothes, and makeup.”

  “Yeah, I was never interested in that kind of thing,” I said. “My mom told me that she wasn’t much of a girly-girl either, so it must be in the genes. I had a few dolls when I was younger, but my toy boxes were mostly full of Matchboxes and Hot Wheels.”

  “Hmm.” Pastor rubbed his chin, deep in thought. “How did you get into cars? I assume it was your father’s influence, but how did your love of cars come about?”

  “I don’t know.” I crossed my legs and settled back in the chair, getting comfortable. “I always had an interest. I started handing my father tools when I was really little — about four, I think. Then as I got older, I graduated from handing him tools to actually putting the tools to use. I started working in my dad’s shop when I was about twelve, and I was officially on the payroll at fourteen.”

  “Why cars?” he asked. “What I mean is — why did you choose cars instead of sewing or stamp collecting?”

  “Stamp collecting?” I asked. He had to be joking.

  He chuckled. “Your expression is priceless. The stamp collecting question was a joke. I’m just wondering why you love cars so much. What is it about working on a car that brings you joy?”

  I shrugged. He was making something that was so simple way too complicated. “Cars are easy.”

  “Easy?” He rubbed his chin again. “I can tell you that when I tried to fix the radiator on my wife’s van last year, it wasn’t easy. It was hard and also expensive when I had to pay a mechanic to fix my mess.”

  “To me, cars are simple because they just are what they are.” I gestured with my hands as if I were pointing to an engine. “Cars are basic. They all pretty much have the same parts. They’re just in different places if you’re working on a Ford instead of a Chevy. They’re kind of like a big puzzle, and I love trying to figure out how to solve it.”

  “Your dad mentioned you’d worked at his shop before your mom passed.” His face became sympathetic. “How are you doing without your mom, by the way?”

  So this is why he called me in here. This must be Dad’s doing. “I’m okay.” I shrugged.

  “What helps you cope?” he asked.

  I paused, not sure what to say, because truthfully, I didn’t know the answer. “I guess being with friends.”

  “Like Zander?” he prodded, his smile back.

  “Yes,” I said, twirling a curl again. “Zander and I have been working on his car, and that’s a lot of fun. I also spend time with my friend Chelsea.”

  “What else helps?”

  “Staying busy. School is a good distraction.”

  “Do you ever talk to God?” he asked.

  I blanched, feeling as if I’d been caught doing something terrible, like shoplifting. How could I possibly lie to a pastor? That would get me a ticket to hell for certain. “No,” I whispered.

  “You know his door is always open,” Pastor said. “He’ll listen to you any time. You can say anything to him, anything that’s in your heart or on your mind.”

  I nodded.

  “Are you afraid to talk to him?” he asked, his expression gentle, full of understanding.

  “No.” Deep down, I knew my answer wasn’t the whole truth. Fear was only one part of it.

  “Sometimes we’re afraid to share our thoughts and feelings because we think he won’t approve, but I can assure you nothing is off-limits when it comes to sharing with God,” he said. “No problem or concern is too big or small for Jesus.” He checked his watch and then stood. “I better get you out in the hallway before Zander thinks you left for lunch without him.”

  I followed him to the doo
r and out into the hall, where a group of kids hurried by, talking excitedly.

  “Thank you for visiting,” Pastor Keith said. “Feel free to come by anytime to chat. My door is always open.”

  “Thank you,” I said.

  “Have a good week,” Pastor said.

  “You too.”

  I looked down the hallway toward our classroom just as Zander and Whitney approached. “How was class?”

  “Good,” Zander said. “How was your session with Pastor?”

  “Good,” I said.

  “Are you guys going out for your car session again?” Whitney asked.

  “That’s right.” Zander looped an arm around my shoulders.

  Whitney smiled. “Have fun.”

  We started to step away, and Whitney gently pulled me back.

  “Are you doing okay?” she asked.

  “Yeah.” I shrugged. “Why?”

  She looked concerned. “Zander said you were meeting with Pastor Keith, so I wanted to make sure you were all right. I haven’t had a chance to talk to you.”

  I twirled a lock of hair again. “I’m fine.”

  “If you need to talk,” she began, “I’m here.”

  “Thanks,” I said.

  “Go have fun.” She gestured to Zander, who was chatting with another boy while he waited for me.

  “Okay. See you later.” I turned to Zander, and an overwhelming feeling enveloped me. There were people around me who seemed to really care — Zander, Pastor Keith, and even Whitney. Come to think of it, my former church was the same way when Mom got sick, reaching out when I needed them most.

  I stepped over to Zander, and he steered me out to the Jeep with his arm once again around my shoulder. I wondered if he enjoyed being close to me as much as I enjoyed his proximity, and worked to suppress a smile.

  At the diner, we sat at a corner booth by the window and ordered cheeseburgers, fries, and Cokes. Once the server walked away, I leaned in and studied Zander’s eyes, summoning all of my emotional strength to ask him the question that had been haunting me since I found the letter from my mother.

  “You look like you’re going to burst if you don’t say what’s on your mind,” Zander said with a smile.

  I sighed. “There you go again, reading my mind.”

  He laughed. “Just say it. You can speak freely with me.

  We’re friends.”

  I took a deep breath. “When you lost your grandfather,” I began slowly, “how did you deal with it?”

  He sipped his Coke and ran his finger over the condensation on the glass. “It wasn’t easy. We were close. He was like my best buddy, you know?”

  I knew exactly what he meant. My mom was more than just the woman who’d given birth to me. She was my best friend, my confidante. I shared everything with her. When Tyler broke up with me, I cried — mostly because I couldn’t share my heartache with her and hear her say, “Emily, he wasn’t worth your time. You’ll meet someone someday who will cherish you and treat you right,” like she’d told me when Bobby Matthews broke up with me.

  “I would say that God got me through it,” Zander continued. “I still miss my grandpa, and sometimes I’ll see something that reminds me of him. But I hold onto my favorite Bible verses, and they help more than anything.”

  I sipped my Coke and thought about the letter I’d found a few nights ago. I wanted to share it with Zander, but I was afraid it was too personal. Would he think I was weird for sharing it?

  “Is there something else on your mind?” he asked, running his fingers over the table.

  I paused, trying to find the words. “I found something a few nights ago while I was going through boxes.”

  “What was it?”

  I swirled the straw in my drink. “First I found my mother’s Bible. All of her favorite verses were highlighted in it.”

  “That’s really cool.”

  “There’s more.” I glanced up and found his warm expression encouraging me, giving me the strength to share what was in my heart. “A letter was in the back of the Bible. It was addressed to me.”

  “Wow.” His eyes widened.

  I shared some of what the letter said, including the verse she quoted at the end. When I was finished, my eyes were full of tears and my voice was thick. I cleared my throat and wiped my eyes.

  “That’s powerful,” he whispered. “It’s as if she and God were speaking directly to you.”

  “I looked through the Bible and that verse I read in J2A last week was highlighted too.” I sipped my Coke, hoping the carbonation would help me reclaim my voice.

  He shook his head. “That’s incredible. God’s really speaking to you. Remember what I told you: Open your heart. Don’t stop listening.”

  The server brought our food. We ate in silence for a few minutes, and I let Zander’s words soak through me. While I understood his words about God speaking to me, I wasn’t certain I agreed, at least not completely. I was certain I didn’t want to push it and get into an argument. As I continued to ponder things, another question I’d been wondering about occurred to me, and I decided to ask it in order to change the subject.

  “The other day at school,” I began, “you made a comment about college being a sore subject. What did that mean?”

  He grunted while finishing a fry. “It’s a sore subject with my father. We have different ideas about my future.”

  “Med school?” I asked.

  “Well, we’ve come to an understanding on that. I’m not going to med school, and he needs to stop pushing. My grades last semester established that.” He took a bite of burger and was silent while he chewed. “Now he’s pushing about what kind of college I go to.”

  “What do you mean?” I asked, pushing a few fries through the blob of ketchup on my plate.

  “He wants me to go to the local university, but I want to go somewhere else.”

  “Where do you want to go?” I asked, wondering why he was hesitating to tell me.

  “Promise you won’t laugh?” He gave an apologetic smile.

  Now I was truly intrigued. Did he want to be a minister? Is that why Whitney made that comment about Zander being the most harmless guy at Cameronville High?

  “It’s a technical school.” He studied the burger on his plate. “It’s to learn how to build racecars and stuff.”

  “You mean Motorsports Tech in Spencerville?” I asked, a smile growing on my lips. “I’ve heard of that place. It’s very cool.”

  He shrugged. “Yeah, it is.”

  I leaned forward, even more intrigued than before. “Why were you afraid to tell me that?”

  “My dad and my brother think it’s a stupid dream. I guess I thought you might too.”

  “Are you kidding me?” I laughed. “Why would I think it’s stupid? You know I’m into that kind of stuff.”

  “Yeah, but how is building racecars a career?”

  “How is it not a career?” I shook my head, wondering why Zander would think I wouldn’t support that decision. Then another thought hit me: Why was he so worried about my opinion? Did my opinion truly matter to him?

  “So, what about you?” he asked, lifting his glass. “Where do you want to go to college?”

  I shook my head. “I have no idea. There’s no money for college.”

  “There’s always scholarship money,” he said. “I imagine you’re smart and will get some of it.”

  “My grades are okay, but they’re not really honor-roll worthy. I’m pretty much a straight B kind of girl.”

  “Straight Bs are nothing to sneeze at,” he said. “It’s way better than me. School was never my thing. I find it an extremely tedious waste of time that could be better spent in the garage.”

  “I agree there.” I glanced out the window, thinking about what my plans had been before we lost Mom.

  “What’s going through your mind now?” Zander asked.

  “Where do you see yourself in five years?” I asked.

  He laughed. “I have no id
ea.”

  “Sure you do.” I shrugged. “We all have hopes and dreams.”

  He blew out a sigh. “I guess I see myself graduating from some type of mechanical school and maybe running a shop or working on a race team. How about you?”

  “Before my mom died, I always thought I’d get a degree in business and then help my dad run his shop. Now, I just don’t know. I don’t even know where I’ll be living next year, but hopefully it won’t be in Whitney’s house.”

  “Is it that bad?” he asked, his expression sympathetic.

  “No,” I said with a grin. “I guess I don’t mind the guy next door with the cool garage.”

  “So, you’re using me for my garage.”

  “Yeah. Pretty much.”

  He cupped his hand over his heart and feigned a dramatic sigh. “You got me right here in the heart.”

  I laughed and tossed my napkin at him.

  chapter fourteen

  I waved to Zander across the cafeteria, and he grinned and waved back while taking his place at the end of the food line. He gestured to ask if I wanted a drink, and I nodded before sinking into the seat across from Chelsea.

  “So, are you guys, like, officially dating yet?” Chelsea asked, shaking her container of chocolate milk.

  “No.” I pulled my sandwich and pear from my bag.

  Chelsea’s eyes studied me. “Has he confessed his feelings yet?”

  “No.” I shook my head and unwrapped my sandwich. “We’re friends. That’s it.” Although lately, I wasn’t entirely sure.

  Chelsea’s eyes probed my face, and a grin turned up her lips. “Has he kissed you?”

  “No!” My cheeks flushed. “We’re friends, Chelsea. How many times do I have to tell you that? We’re just friends.”

  “Yeah. Right.” She rolled her eyes. “For more than a month now you’ve been riding to and from school with him. You spend nearly every night in his garage helping him rebuild his car or working on your dad’s truck. You’re riding to and from church and youth group with him. If that isn’t a relationship, then I don’t know what is.” She sipped her chocolate milk.