I whip my head around. It’s a girl’s voice, and at first I think it’s Esme again, but she’s back with the eighth graders. It’s Haley. Of course. I look her right in the eyes, but she doesn’t stop. Her BFF Becca is with her again, and now she starts up: “Beep! Beep! Beep!”
I sure am sick of this joke, but most of the teachers have no idea what it means and just let it slide. Most of the class doesn’t know what it means either. But some of them do. Up and down the line I hear chuckles, just little laughs here and there. It’s the kids from maker space. They know what it means—and who it’s meant for. And of course Landrover is laughing the loudest.
I want to disappear into the floor. And that’s when I realize what I was feeling before, leaving the library. I felt like I was part of a group. For just a moment, I felt like I belonged somewhere. Now it feels like the opposite. My face starts to burn with embarrassment.
I shoot a look back at Haley, but she can’t see me. She’s turned around, explaining the joke to the girls behind her. Pretty soon the whole line will know. What’s her problem? I didn’t mean to hit her nose.
But it doesn’t matter. Not really. I can be lonely. I can be embarrassed. I don’t like it, but I’ve had lots of practice. What I can’t be is homeless, or in some boarded-up dump on the edge of town or sharing a motel room with Dad out by the highway. That’s what matters most right now. I need to fix this bike—even if I get wrecked in the process.
I’M RUNNING A LITTLE LATE on my way to maker space on Friday. I know I have to go, but it feels like enemy territory. I don’t enjoy being laughed at. I don’t like being around Landrover. Even if you really need the honey, you’re not going to be too excited to stick your hand in the beehive.
So maybe I’m dragging my feet a little, but I’m still surprised when I pick up the clipboard and see that there’s only one spot left. There were two empty seats last time, but I guess that’s not much: one friend, one absence, whatever. I sign my name in the last slot. Mr. Feig walks over and takes the clipboard from my hand.
“Sorry, Landrover,” he says.
Landrover? Where? I turn and look and there he is, filling the doorway behind me. Uh-oh.
“You know the deal,” Mr. Feig is saying to him, “only as many spots as there are seats. Come back next time.” Landrover doesn’t even look at him. He’s fixing me with a death stare. I’m caught in it, like a tractor beam, staring right at him as he mouths two small words: “You’re dead.”
Then he slides sideways out the door and disappears. The death stare flickers out, and I am released. I look around the table. There’s only one seat left, and it’s between Landrover’s two BFFs (Bully Friends For-evil). Gino and Dunk must have been saving him a seat.
One look at them tells me they’re not happy with the change of plans. Believe me, I’m not either.
I want to leave, to go back into the library and just sit there and read something. But I don’t. I can’t. I head over to the open metal cabinet for my engine. It’s still lying there on the old towel I left it on. Keep calm, I tell myself as I carefully walk it over to the table. I tell myself that Landrover’s friends aren’t going to do anything to me with Mr. Feig right there.
But even with those space telescope glasses of his, Mr. Feig can’t see under the table. As soon as I sit down, Gino delivers a sharp punch to my thigh, grinding his knuckles in at the end.
“Ow,” I hiss.
Mr. Feig looks up.
Gino looks over at me, fake surprise plastered onto his face. “What happened?” he says, and now both he and Mr. Feig are waiting for my answer. He’s daring me to say something. I play it out in my head.
If I say, He hit me, Gino will deny it. There are no witnesses, so Feig will issue a warning. I’ll get the worst of both worlds: I’ll snitch but won’t get justice. It’s really the first part that’s the bigger issue. Telling on someone is considered super uncool at this school—maybe at every school. In fact, as uncool as I already am, snitching might be the only way I could sink any lower.
“Nothing,” I mumble. “Cramp or something.”
Gino nods, and for a brief, pathetic moment, I’m glad he approves. As soon as Mr. Feig looks away, Gino leans in.
“That’s for taking Rover’s spot,” he snarls. It’s definitely menacing, but I can’t help it: I laugh. The little chuckle slips through my lips before I can press them closed.
“Something funny?” he says.
I just can’t help it: “You call him Rover?” It just seems really funny to me. He’s already named after a truck, and now his nickname sounds like a dog? That’s ruff. Landrover is a total golden boy, but when it comes to names he just cannot catch a break. One last tiny giggle slips out, and I immediately wish it hadn’t.
Gino narrows his eyes. “You are so dead.”
“I know,” I say, looking down at the table and doing everything I can to keep a straight face. “Rover told me.”
A second later, Dunk (real name: Duncan) drills me in the other thigh. All I can do is bite my lip and take it. The punches stop after that. I don’t know if they don’t want to push their luck, or if they’re waiting until they can hit me for real, above the table. All I know is that they’re not done with me—and neither is Rover.
I try to tune it all out. I’ve got work to do.
The engine is in front of me on the table. I reach into my backpack and pull out a few pages I printed at the library yesterday. It’s a diagram of a Road Rokkit engine. Next, I carefully pull out a ziplock bag. It’s like I brought an engine-repair picnic. I peel a damp, soapy washcloth out from inside the baggie and spend a few minutes wiping any grease I missed with the paper towels off the engine. When I’m done, the washcloth is black and the engine is gleaming.
I walk back to the cabinet and get the tools I’ll need. There’s a regular tool kit in here, like you might have in your garage. I’ve gone over the diagrams, so I know what I need: the socket wrench, the Allen wrench, and a screwdriver. I grab a can of WD-40 too.
Once I have the tools, it’s time to start taking the engine apart. I’ve already read the minibike section of the book twice, and I’ve got the printouts right in front of me, but this part still makes me nervous. It’s just a two-stroke engine, like on a hedge trimmer or chain saw, but it’s still got some small, breakable parts. I take a deep breath and get to it.
I stand up for this part. I spread my hands and wiggle my fingers to loosen them up before I start. Now I really do feel like a surgeon about to operate. The first thing I do is separate the fuel tank and carburetor from the rest of the engine. Just some unscrewing and tugging and it comes apart.
I’ve cracked the coconut.
I eye the carburetor nervously. That’s the part that mixes the fuel with air so it will ignite. It’s small and self-contained, like a heart. I know from the diagrams that there are thin rubber gaskets and other tricky little parts. Some of those pieces are delicate and I don’t have replacements. There’s absolutely no way I’m starting with that. I need to get used to working with the engine first and build up to it.
The rest of the engine looks more durable, like you could drop it and it would probably be fine. According to the book, the engine has a few different systems. First there’s the ignition system. The spark plug sticking out of the top is scuffed up and looks pretty old. It could be dead or close to it. I mentally add a new one to my shopping list.
Then there’s the compression system: the piston and the cylinder. It’s the pumping heart of the bike, and that’s what I start with. I find the socket size I need, put it on the socket wrench, and get cranking.
Taking it apart goes faster than I expected. There’s some gunk for sure, but the little engine is not that complicated: If you see a bolt, take it off. Set it aside. Repeat. So I take off the armature coil without too much trouble. Taking off the flywheel is harder. I have to use a screwdriver as a pry bar because the thing is on a taper.
This is probably more detail than you need, but I’ll be hone
st: I kind of want credit for it. No offense to those epic LEGO space stations, but this is by far the most complicated thing I’ve tried to build or rebuild.
I fit the Allen wrench through the cooling vents to take off the cylinder. It’s a little tricky getting at the bolts that hold the crankcase on. And the whole time, some of the pieces are sticking a little. They’re putting up a fight, but not as much as I expected. I guess all that grease and oil was good for something.
Plus, the WD-40 is amazing. It’s like Super Grease, and it has a long, thin plastic barrel so you can aim it like a laser. If a bolt is really sticking or I see a scab of old gunk at the base, I give it a quick blast: PSSST! The smell is slick and sweet. It’s not as strong as I expected, but there is definitely a whiff of every garage/workshop I’ve ever been in.
I look up and see Esme glaring over at me from the corner. She’s giving me the total stink-eye, and I can’t tell if it’s the smell that bothers her or if it’s just me.
Every time Mr. Feig checks in on his trips around the room, I’m afraid he’s going to shout: Stop! You’re ruining it! But mostly he just nods and says little things, like Looking good or Those two pieces go together. It feels good, like I’m doing an okay job, and it gives me the confidence to keep going.
By the time I separate the crankshaft I’m officially in that same zone I get into with LEGOs or Minecraft. It can be almost hypnotic, you know? Building, taking apart … It’s like some deep part of you takes over and your eyes and hands work together perfectly and all of your loud thoughts get quiet.
And other things get quiet too. I know that Gino and Dunk are saying things to me whenever I lean down close or the room gets loud. Insults, threats—the usual, I guess. But I’m not listening. I’m in my own world, and in my world there are NO JERKS ALLOWED.
And then it’s done: The engine is taken apart. For a second, I just stand there looking down at it. All the parts are laid out neatly. Now that I’ve drifted back to reality, I realize that my back is throbbing from standing so long bent over like that.
There’s not much time left in the class, but I want to get started cleaning things up. I see a bunch of gunk on the exhaust port and check the book: It’s probably carbon. I want to blast it with the WD-40, but the book says to scrape it off with the edge of a flat-head screwdriver. I figure the book knows more than I do, so I do that. I put a paper towel down and tilt the port down so the black, charcoal-looking flakes spill out of the engine and onto that.
Now that it’s cracked open, I can see plenty of gunk that I couldn’t get to before. Honestly, if the spark plug or the connections aren’t the problem, all this crud in here could be. But there’s not enough time left even for a once-over with the soapy washcloth—which is now more of an oily rag anyway.
All I can manage is putting some of the bolts and stuff in plastic sandwich bags so they don’t get lost or mixed up and then laying out the whole thing on the towel on the bottom shelf of the cabinet. It’s a big disassembled mess right now, but I can see a way forward: Cleaning it up and putting it back together with a new spark plug, then seeing if it starts. But I’ve got to tackle the carburetor before that.
Once the engine’s in the cabinet, I stand and turn—and almost smack right into Nephi. Even with his own armful of parts and pieces—a glass tank, a plastic engine, some tools—he manages to duck back out of the way. The last thing I need is to deliver another head-butt, especially to him.
“Sorry,” I say.
“Nice engine,” he answers.
Those two words surprise me so much that I just stand there staring at him. Before I can snap out of it and respond, he motions toward the cabinet with his armful of stuff. “I’ve got to put this away,” he says.
I step aside and head back to my seat in enemy territory.
The last thing I do before the bell rings is write down a list of parts I need so far. Now that I’ve read the book and had a good look at the engine, I think I have a decent idea what I need: a spark plug, carb cleaner, two-stroke engine oil, spray paint for the frame, maybe some new gaskets and diaphragms if they have them … It’s small stuff. It’s probably not a lot of money, but it’s more than I have. Where am I going to get the rest? I think, but somewhere at the very bottom of my heart I’m pretty sure I already know.
I have this weird thought that people are like engines: We’ve got dark corners inside where the gunk collects too.
Gino and Dunk shoulder past me on the way out of the room. “You’re dead meat, Freak,” says Gino.
“Dead,” echoes Dunk. “And you used like half of Rover’s WD-40.”
That was his? I didn’t see his name on it, but he is making some big metal thing. So maybe I greased my way to the grave even more today, but I still feel like I got off to a good start on the engine. I just hope I live long enough to reach the finish line.
SCHOOL IS OVER, and walkers are dismissed. We bumper-car our way through the crowded hallway toward the exit. A wintry mix has started up outside—sleet, freezing rain, maybe some hail. I can hear it slap and tick against the window, like it’s waiting for me out there.
I see Nephi over at Maps’s locker, and it kind of surprises me. How often do those two talk? About what? As I’m looking, Landrover slides up beside me. It’s the end of the day, and I guess I just let my guard down. I’m cursing myself for not being more careful. But at first all he does is walk alongside me. “What d’you want?” I say. I’m trying to sound calm but will settle for anything less than terrified.
He slides closer and puts his arm around my shoulder. The nylon of his jacket slides against the nylon of mine. His arm comes to rest just above the curve in my upper back. We’re walking slowly, his arm controlling my pace, my direction. It’s a super-aggressive move but one that’s completely invisible to the teachers. We pass right by Mrs. Gallego and she smiles. She’s happy we seem to be getting along so well.
The hallway is loud but Landrover leans in. “You shouldn’t have done that,” he says.
“I didn’t mean to—”
“And I heard something else too.” I don’t bother to ask what. I know he’s going to tell me. “I heard you were giving my buds a hard time.”
“What?” I say, honestly shocked. “That’s not true. That is, like, the opposite of true.”
“You calling them liars?” he says, wrenching me to a stop.
I stare down at my boots as the flow of kids breaks around us like a river around a rock. There is no right answer to that question.
“You think my name is funny?”
“No,” I say, and I’m telling the truth too. I think his nickname is funny. I can see how being named after a luxury automobile might be a sore subject, though.
“Yeah you do,” he says. “They told me.”
I don’t know what to say. It doesn’t seem like clarifying the whole name/nickname thing is going to help, but I need to say something. All I manage to do is stammer out some half denials: “No … I … just … not your … name …”
He leans in close and whispers into my ear: “If I see you in maker space again, I’m going to have to really hurt you. Got it? Stay. Away.”
A chill drills right down to my core. His arm unlatches from my shoulder and he heads up the hallway, covering the short distance to the exit in big, confident strides. Landrover reaches the main door just as it’s closing and punches it open with a two-hand shove. I hear the ba-DOOOMP echo through the hallway. It’s a violent sound, and I flinch.
I lean against the wall and tell myself to breathe. This is bad. Landrover could slaughter me, and there wouldn’t be anything I could do to stop him. He’s big and fast and strong. He’s a predator. And me? I’m prey. I’m playing the encounter over and over in my head, every part of it, everything I said and did that was wrong—but especially his threat.
I need maker space in order to fix the engine, but I can’t go back. I’m stuck on this impossible puzzle as I leave school, and then—OOF! Someone bumps into me right
before I reach the street. I brace myself, expecting to see Landrover again. Instead, two dark eyes glare out at me from under an overhang of black and purple hair, a black hood above that. Esme. It just feels unfair, like I’m being ganged up on.
“Watch where you’re going,” she says. You bumped into me, I want to say, but I don’t. Even when it’s true, it just ends up getting me pushed to the ground.
I expect her to keep going but she stands there, glaring at me.
“That engine’s wrecked,” she says. I have no idea why she cares. She’s really angry and intimidating. I can’t tell if she wants me to stay out of her way or is trying to start an argument. My head is buzzing like it’s full of bees, and all I can think to say is: “Yeah, that’s why I’m trying to fix it.”
“So you can have a new toy?” she says, mocking me with a little-kid voice.
That’s not fair. A little spark of anger scares off the bees. “No!” I say. “It’s not even for me!”
It surprises her, either the words or the volume. For a second she just stares at me, but she recovers fast. “Good,” she says. “You don’t deserve it.”
Deserve it? What does she mean by that? It doesn’t even run. The little pellets of freezing rain are bouncing like fleas off the hood of her black parka. It’s too old and too big for her, a hand-me-down. I can tell that she’s poor too. You get a radar for that after a while. She’s hiding under there, just like I do under my too-big clothes.
“Whatever,” I mumble, just to say something. “I bought it.”
She gives me a look like that’s the most pathetic thing she’s ever heard, then starts walking away. We’re heading in the same direction now, but she’s much faster. She levers away on her long legs like a midnight-black giraffe. Why did she want to talk about the engine? Or did she just want to insult me?
I shrug off my icy gear when I get home and go sit on the couch for a while. I don’t turn on the Xbox or watch the TV or anything. I just sit there trying to cool down and focus a little. I feel overheated and all over the place.
On Thin Ice Page 7
