But the next thing I know, I pass the junked refrigerator, and I’m back in my neighborhood. My neighborhood for now. It seems incredible that the key to staying here might be the hunk of “vintage” junk rolling along beside me, but I have to believe that.
I look up to make sure Dad’s not looking out the window, then wheel the bike around the house and into the lawn mower shed. There’s a tarp over the hibernating mower, and I tuck the frame in under it. The engine is still in my pack, and I take that inside to see what I’m dealing with.
I’m hoping Dad will be asleep on the couch when I push through the door, the heavy pack digging into my throbbing back. But he’s awake and waiting for me. My knees nearly buckle. He knows I took the money! I can’t decide if I should make a break for my room or run back down the stairs.
“How’s that tower looking?” he says.
Oh. That.
“Cold night,” I say, which is true.
He nods, satisfied. I guess he needs to believe in his own dumb plan too. I head straight for my room, open my door, and pause. “Hey, Dad,” I say, trying to sound casual. “Where are your old tools? Got a project for school.”
“Sold ’em,” he says.
Blacking out in 3-2-1 …
But then I remember—I just saw a bunch of tools the other day: in maker space. I wasn’t planning to head back there. I’m not in the contest, and it violates one of my main rules for survival: Avoid bears, live wires, and Landrover Jones.
WHEN LUNCH COMES AROUND, my whole grade heads to their lockers before heading up the hill. It’s cold again, and people are wearing their jackets. I guess that’s good—a better chance the tower will last the week. But I can’t think like that, can’t be like Dad and rely on dumb luck. I grab my parka and my old backpack.
“What the heck?” I say as I lift it up. There’s a dark, greasy stain that has turned the faded blue bag black at the bottom. I brought the engine to school, and it must be leaking.
“What’s that, a diaper bag?”
I don’t even know who says it, because all of seventh is shuffling by me.
A few people laugh. I feel my face get hot. It does kind of look like that.
I rustle around in the mess at the bottom of my locker and find an old plastic shopping bag. I drop the pack inside, and even through the white plastic you can see the slick black stain.
Once we reach the upper building, I keep my eyes on Mr. Feig near the front of the line. Sure enough, as soon as we’re all inside, he raises his hand and says, “Where my makers?”
I raise my free hand but drop it quick when no one else does. Instead, I just shuffle over and join the little group forming alongside the line. I keep my head low and look around from under my hair. I feel like I should be running the other way. Haley’s there, her nose still a little bruised along the bridge. Landrover is talking to his friends Gino and Dunk and hasn’t spotted me yet. I wonder if he’ll be surprised or angry or even care at all when he does.
At least Nephi is here. Maybe I could say something to him? If he talks to me, it might even help me with the others. He’s a regular. Just Hey, Neff or something simple like that. It has to be casual enough that if he doesn’t answer, it’s not a big deal. We haven’t really talked in a while.
But before I can say anything to him, Landrover looks up. “What’re you doing here, Freak?” His voice is a deep, low rumble. He keeps it just above a whisper so none of the teachers hear over the noise of the line.
I push my shoulders up and back out of some weird defensive reflex, but I still don’t look him in the eyes. I guess it makes sense that he’d be here. His dad owns the auto parts store, which is like adult maker space if you think about it. It’s a good job in a town like this, where everyone has old cars that are always breaking down. Landrover always has the newest, coolest stuff.
“I just, um—” I mumble.
“Nice bag,” he says, cutting me off. “That your lunch?”
“It’s his diaper bag!” says Gino.
I turn my head slightly to see if Nephi is witnessing this, but he’s huddled with a few of the other regulars.
“Hey, I’m talking to you,” says Landrover, but this time he says it loud enough for Mr. Feig to hear. He’s one of my favorite teachers. Last week in science class, he filled a balloon with hydrogen and ignited it. Poof: instant fireball. So he’s used to handling explosive situations.
“And I’m talking to you!” he calls cheerily. “Let’s move out!”
There are a bunch of us now, and we all turn and follow Mr. Feig to the library. I hustle up and put a few bodies between me and Landrover.
When we reach the maker space door, there’s already a group of eighth graders waiting. Mr. Feig opens the door, and they cut in front of us. One of them is a tall girl whose hair is black with bright purple streaks. Her clothes are black, and her nails are too. I don’t know her name, but I know the word people call her. She’s a goth—pretty much the only one in our school. It’s only when she shoots me a nasty look that I realize I’m staring. Her hair is just really interesting, you know?
Most of the room is taken up by a long table. Some of the kids I know, some I don’t. We sign in and the seats fill fast, like the music just stopped. My heart starts to pound. I don’t want to sit near Landrover or Haley. I look around for Nephi, but he’s sitting with the same two dudes he was talking with before. The goth girl already has the spot I wanted in the back corner.
There are still three open seats in the center of the side near the door. I head that way. I don’t know the people sitting on either side that well. A girl named Chrissie is on the left and one of the four Joes in my grade is on the right. It feels a little weird to pick one to sit next to. Instead, I take the middle seat. I put my plastic bag down with a thunk, take off my parka, and put it over the back of the chair. I smooth out both my shirts and make sure nothing’s riding up. Finally, I sit down and take a look around.
There are two empty seats at the table, and they are the ones on either side of me. I am radioactive. This is starting to feel a lot like the caf.
Everyone pulls out their lunches, so I get the paper bag out of my Royston’s bag. “Mmmm, diapers,” says Landrover. Gino laughs. I pretend I don’t hear.
I eat my sandwich (bologna and cheese) and little bag of chips slowly so that I can watch the others and see what to do.
“You brought in the form last time, right?” Mr. Feig says to me right as I take a bite.
“Mmm-hmm,” I say through a mouthful of sandwich. He’s got a good memory. It was some kind of legal form to let the school off the hook in case I mangle myself in here. Dad signed it without even reading it.
“Excellent!” he says. “Lose as many fingers as you want.”
I hear a few kids laugh and try to join in, spraying some crumbs. Ha-ha! Lost fingers!
The table is covered with a heavy plastic sheet, and as I run my fingers over it I can feel little splotches of dried glue and thin cuts from sharp blades. I look around the room slowly, hiding my eyes under my hair and trying to be subtle about it. I’m surprised by how many different kinds of kids are in here. One by one, they start setting their lunches aside and getting to work.
They head over to a tall metal cabinet against the back wall that Mr. Feig has just unlocked and take their models out. The contest is next weekend, so a lot of the projects are already taking shape. I see models made of tubes, boards, wires, papier-mâché. Landrover slides a huge slab of metal out of the cabinet and grabs a monkey wrench.
It’s time for me to get started. I have to get the engine running if I’m going to be able to sell the bike. I want to get to the library, watch some YouTube engine repair clips, and things like that, but in the meantime, I can at least get it cleaned up and sort of, you know, assess the situation.
I throw my lunch bag out in the garbage can in the corner. On the way back, I see a roll of rough brown paper next to some tape and glue in the center of the table. I grab the rol
l and tear off a long sheet, rolling it around my hand until I have enough. When I get back to my seat, I tear the brown paper into strips and make a kind of place mat in front of my spot.
I feel eyes on me as I reach inside the greasy plastic bag and open the top of the cloth sack. I feel like a mad scientist about to lift a brain from a jar. The metal engine is cold, greasy-slick, and a little heavy as I lift it out. It’s smaller than a lawn mower engine but more complex. I’ve got to say, it’s pretty cool.
“Uh, Ked? What is that?” says Mr. Feig.
“It’s a broken motor,” I say.
“You know this isn’t a garage, right?”
Suddenly, I’m afraid he won’t let me work on it in here. I begin rattling off my excuses rapid-fire. “It’s small! There’s plastic on the table! I made a place mat!”
“It’s a fire hazard,” he says. My heart sinks. “And you absolutely may not start it up in here.” But when I look over at him, I see that he’s smiling. “You may, however, work on it, using the proper safety precautions.”
I can’t help it—I grin. I gently lower the little engine onto the table, and the brown paper blackens around it.
The room is completely quiet for a few moments. I know everyone is looking at the engine, and I honestly feel kind of proud of what I’m hoping to do. I think it’s cool.
“Beep! Beep! Beep!” It’s Landrover, and for a second I have no idea where he’s going with this.
But Gino does. I guess he’s more clever than I thought. “Beep! Beep! Beep!” he repeats. “Here comes the garbage truck!”
The room explodes in laughter.
“Back it up to the dump!” calls Haley, and even though it’s the exact same joke people still laugh.
“That’s enough!” calls Mr. Feig.
The laughter gets quieter but doesn’t quite stop.
I look over at Nephi. He’s not laughing, but his friends are. He’s just giving me a look. It’s not angry, exactly, but I can read his thoughts so clearly. Don’t do this to me. Don’t follow me in here and ruin this for me.
And he’s right too, because I know him. He’s going to feel like he has to stick up for me and tell his friends to shut it. I’m going to cost him something in here, in this place that he found for himself. When I first met Nephi, when his family first came here, he stuck out—and that’s not necessarily a good thing here. He wore crisply ironed khakis and bright polo shirts and even tucked them in. He looked so serious, so—I don’t even know what the word is—formal, maybe? He kind of spoke the same way. For me it is that way too, he’d say, instead of just Me too. But he dresses like everyone else now. And when he finally says something, he’ll sound like everyone else too. But his mind is still really neat, really tucked in, if that makes any sense. Nephi likes everything to fit. This place is perfect for him, and he’s perfect for it. I don’t want to make him stand out again. And so I do the only thing I can.
Just as he’s turning toward his friends, just as he’s about to open his mouth, I open my mouth first.
I open my mouth, and I laugh at myself.
“Ha-ha-ha!” I laugh. “Garbage truck! Special delivery!”
The whole room erupts in a fresh round of laughter. From the back corner, the goth girl joins in, louder than the others: “Beep! Beep! Beep!” Mr. Feig throws up his hands in frustration. I just sit there trying hard to look like I don’t care.
I STILL HEAR SOME WHISPERS AND SNICKERS, and I just tell myself, So what? They already straight-up laughed in my face. I laughed in my face. If they are still talking about me, who cares? It’s like flicking me in the ear after punching me in the head.
My goal is to look for damage to the engine and figure out why it’s not running. The first step is finding the leak. It doesn’t take long. A cap on the fuel tank is missing. That’s a relief. I was afraid it would be a huge hole or something. But where’s the cap? I look back at the grungy bag.
I don’t want to, but I reach in with my right hand and start fishing around. I feel something hard sliding around down there, and I pinch it tight and slowly pull it out. It’s an oily cap.
“Dude, it’s like you just pulled a bullet out of a chest cavity,” says Joe, looking over. He’s been sketching a complicated design on a big sheet of graph paper all class. Metal ruler, mechanical pencil: very official.
I smile, glad someone’s finally talking to me. A fat drop of oil drips off my fingers and back into the bags. “It’s like I’m operating,” I say.
“Looks like a turd,” says Gino, and I can’t argue.
I rub off the oil with a paper towel and screw the cap back on. With that done, I grab another handful of paper towels and start wiping off the engine.
Once it’s semi-clean, I hold it up in the light and examine it from all angles. I’m looking for cracks or any other obvious damage, but all I find is a few small dents and dings. I lean back a little and exhale. No obvious external damage. That’s good.
I look around the table. No one is looking at me anymore. Everyone is busy doing their own thing. Maker space was a lot more collaborative when I was in here before, like: “Let’s all work together to connect these little circuit thingies so they do something fun!” We talked about the best way to do it, and Mr. Feig sort of guided us along. I can tell right away that it’s different now. It’s all about the contest, and he isn’t supposed to help with that. No one is. The do-it-yourself vibe is strong.
Haley is across the table, bending squares of pastel construction paper into little boxes. Buildings, I realize. Houses. The girl in black is building houses too. Hers are made of thin plastic. Guess what color? Landrover is loudly tightening something with the monkey wrench. He’s got a hunk of machinery in front of him that’s even larger than mine. And Nephi is working on a small, electric motor, testing things out with his fingers and carefully turning the gears before he flips the switch.
So I’m not the only one working on machinery, or even the only one with a motor. For the first time in recorded history, Landrover has made me feel like I fit in more.
All of their models look really good, though … It’s intimidating. But I guess the models have to be good. There are town-wide bragging rights on the line. Whoever wins the Building a Better Norton contest will be on the morning announcements, in the paper, maybe even on the news. All I’m trying to do is rebuild a pocket bike—but I’ve got a lot more riding on it than the morning announcements.
I look down at the disembodied engine again, trying to visualize how it connects to the rest of the bike. The next thing I want to do is look for anything that might be too worn down: blunt gear teeth, weak connections. Mr. Feig sits down next to me just as I get started, peering down through those massive glasses of his. I’m afraid he’s going to yell at me, but he stays quiet, examining the engine. Finally he says, “So, Ked. What is this? Go-kart engine?”
“Pocket bike,” I say.
“You got the body of the bike squirreled away somewhere?”
I nod.
“You know what you’re going to do to fix it?”
I wish I could just say yes. Instead, I tell him what I’ve got so far. “I think I need to find some diagrams online, plans or whatever. And I know they have these, like, fix-it videos on YouTube. But it’s pretty old and they don’t make this kind of bike anymore.”
“The good news is that these little two-stroke engines are all pretty similar,” he says.
I nod. I was kind of counting on that already. This whole time, I’ve had the phrase “Like a lawn mower engine” stuck in my head. I’m not sure why I find it comforting. I’ve never fixed one of those either. I guess it just seems like more of an everyday thing, like there’d be a lot of stuff out there on it. “I’m going to have to take it apart, huh?” I say.
“Yeah, take it apart, find the problem, put it back together.” I kind of deflate in my chair. Hearing it out loud makes me realize how much work this is going to be.
“Can I use the tools in the cabinet?�
�� I say.
“That’s what they’re there for,” he says before getting up and walking away.
I eye the engine’s metal case, trying to figure out how it comes off. I run my fingers over the screws and bolts on the front. Which ones need to come off and which ones need to stay on? Then—WHOOMP! Something heavy slaps down on the table next to me. Mr. Feig has dropped a thick old book: Your Internal Combustion Engine and You.
“Old school,” says Mr. Feig. “Read up before you get started.”
I should’ve known there’d be schoolwork. I flip the book open and turn to the section on two-stroke engines. I skim past the hedge trimmers and find the section I need: “Fixing your minibike: Vroom for improvement.” I spend the rest of the period looking at diagrams and hoping the advice in this book is better than the jokes.
Toward the end of the period, the girl with the black and purple hair raises her hand to ask a question.
“Yes, Esme?” says Mr. Feig.
It’s a nice name, but she’s been pretty nasty to me, so it makes me think of a hissing snake: ESS-may. She says her X-Acto knife blade is getting dull and asks if there are more.
The warning bell rings.
“Can I borrow this?” I say, holding up the book to Mr. Feig.
“Sure,” he says. “Just bring it back when you’re done.”
I don’t look over at Landrover. I know he’s there, and I know he doesn’t like me, but avoiding him is just not an option right now.
I put my engine away and afterward we all file out of the library to head back down the hill. For a moment, I feel something, and I’m not even sure what it is, but it’s something good.
That lasts like two minutes, of course. We’re in the big hallway lining up with the lunchers filing down from the caf. I’m trying to find an open spot and maneuver my way in when I hear “Beep! Beep! Beep!”
On Thin Ice Page 6
