Ever since I found out about the bike it’s been like bumper bowling. You know, where the ball just keeps careening down the lane, no matter how bad you rolled it? That’s me, getting knocked around from all sides—Landrover, Esme, life—but still moving forward.
I finally get up off the couch, surprised that it’s already so much darker out. I hunt around the apartment for the newspaper. It takes me a while, but I finally find it in the recycling. I pull it out and find the information about placing an ad yourself. Fixing the bike is only the first step. After that, I need to find someone to buy it. And it all has to happen before the twentieth.
DAD DOESN’T GET HOME TILL SIX. That’s late for him, and I’m starting to worry. He’s gambling again. The dudes who take those bets—and collect them—are bad news. What if something has happened to him? It’s a huge relief when I finally hear the key in the door. And it gets better. He flings the door open, smiling and carrying two pizza boxes. The smell of cheesy goodness fills the room, and I suddenly realize how hungry I am. “Two-for-one special!” he says.
“Sweet!” I say.
Listen, I know there are a hundred things going on right now and ninety-eight of them are bad. And I know maybe I should be handling all of this differently. Confronting Dad, confessing what I did, building a Landrover-proof suit out of scrap iron.
But one of the most important rules in life is this: Never question free pizza.
It’s okay to be a little suspicious, though. Dad will definitely splurge on food sometimes: a surprise trip to the McDonald’s drive-through or maybe we’ll get ice cream in the summer. But he does that when things are going well. When he’s got extra. But things are not going well right now—they’re going off a cliff! And there are obviously better things to spend the money on. I know how short we are on rent money. In fact, I know even better than he does, since he doesn’t know I took that money yet.
But maybe he knows something I don’t too? Maybe the factory changed the rules about payday advances? Maybe he got the world’s most unlikely raise? Maybe he had more of a plan than that ticket, and I won’t need to make a big profit on this bike after all. I can feel the hope slipping in. “So,” I say, my mouth full of melted cheese, “what’s the occasion?”
I’m hoping he’ll tip his hand and tell me something good. But he doesn’t even look up, doesn’t make eye contact. That worries me. I’ve seen that bad-dog body language from him way too many times. “St. Paddy’s is coming up,” he says between bites. “I guess it’s just the luck of the Irish.”
So that’s it. Just his dumb bet, just the same superstitious nonsense it’s always been with him. If he’s already counting the imaginary money, I don’t know why it should surprise me that he’s already spending it. Dad’s family is Irish from way back, and he probably thinks that makes this bet different, that his ancestors are practically rising up from the grave to hand him that ten thousand bucks.
I guess that’s all the explanation I’m going to get, and really it’s all I need. The hope leaks away. Sometimes I wish I didn’t know him so well, which is a weird thing to wish about your dad.
It’s amazing that we can eat an entire pizza while we’re biting our tongues, but we do. We drink a whole two-liter bottle of Coke too. Afterward, Dad looks down at the empty bottle. “Wow, all that caffeine,” he says. “I am never getting to sleep.”
“Friday night, you can sleep in tomorrow,” I say, even though he can sleep in every day.
“Woo-hoo!” says Dad, punching the air with his fist. Then he lets out a long, loud burp. I can’t help it: I smile. It’s been a while, and it feels good to feel good.
“Nice one,” I say.
Normally this is when I’d retreat to my room, but not tonight. This is still our home. We’re still here. It feels important to just, I don’t know, live here—to squeeze something out of it. Anyway, whatever, after we clean up and put the second pizza in the fridge, I hand him the TV remote. “Your ship, Captain,” I say, which is this thing we do.
We watch SportsCenter first. The season hasn’t even started and the Red Sox big-money new free agent is already hurt. Dad tosses me the remote. “Take the wheel, Lieutenant.”
I find WALL-E, just starting. I used to love this movie so hard. I look over to see if it’s okay with Dad. He nods. “This is one of those kids’ movies that’s fun for adults too.”
“I’m not a kid,” I say. “I’m almost thirteen!”
He rolls his eyes and groans. “The terrible teens,” he says.
“Yeah, I am going to have so many girls over,” I say.
And then Dad comes up with one of his classic delayed comebacks. “Hey, if you’re not a little kid, why did you choose this movie?”
I think about it and say, “Because it’s fun for adults too.”
He thinks that’s pretty funny.
WALL-E is this little robot that’s stranded on Earth all alone. Earth is abandoned and filled with junk, and he collects the best stuff out of it. Like he uses an old hubcap for a hat and does a little dance with it. It kind of reminds me of my Road Rokkit, just the idea of taking junk and making something good from it. I even wonder if that’s where I got the idea. Not directly, but if I hadn’t loved this movie so much when I was seven, would I be pinning so much on a total salvage job now?
I spend a lot of Saturday reading the engine book, going over the printouts, and planning things out in my head. I make it down to the library and burn most of my computer time watching YouTube videos on minibike repair. I can picture the engine lying there in pieces in that cabinet like a greasy Humpty Dumpty. It makes me so anxious I’m almost itchy. I can’t make any mistakes putting it back together.
By Sunday, we’re out of leftover pizza and I ride along as Dad drives downtown to Royston’s. It’s a quick, quiet car ride. It feels like our Friday-night truce is over and we’re back to reality. The reality is: I’m keeping a huge secret from Dad, and he thinks he’s keeping a huge secret from me. The one good thing about all this guilt and worry is that I think it’s helping me understand Dad a little better—at least why he’s so quiet most of the time.
Dad pushes the cart at the store and he’s annoyed the whole time because it has one bad wheel up front. It doesn’t roll as much as lurch. I know how much stuff I’m allowed to put in the cart at this point. He gives me the evil eye on the Peanut Butter Cap’n Crunch—not because it’s bad for me but because it’s expensive.
“Most important meal of the day!” I say, and he gives in. Normally I’d consider that a straight-up victory, but now I’m wondering—did I convince him, or is he just spending more of that imaginary leprechaun money?
Afterward, we put our bags in the back seat. I start to climb in the front, but he says, “Let’s go look at the tower.”
His pot of gold, I think. We size up the weather as we walk. There’s no leprechaun-style rainbow, but it’s the first decent day in a while. It’s definitely above freezing now, with the late-morning sun beating straight down on us. The patches of dirt and grass are growing, and the snow that’s left has a wet shimmer to it.
I can see Dad eyeing it nervously. It has to warm up like this if that tower is going to fall, but it can’t warm up too much. He’s still got almost a week to go.
“Are your tickets, like, soon?” I say, all fake innocent. I’m baiting him again, trying to get him to tell me something. He doesn’t bite.
“Don’t jinx it,” he says.
Still poking: “It would be awesome if you won.”
He just nods. Silent.
I look around at the sun, the grass, the water dripping steadily from the roofs and branches. My ticket is for the same day as Dad’s bookie bet, just later. March 17, nine p.m. In a weird way, it seems like teamwork. But unlike him, I know better than to start counting the money. The whole reason my ticket is for nine p.m. is because it was the earliest one left on that day. No one wants nine p.m. That’s nighttime, when the sun is long gone and the pond is probably sta
rting to refreeze. I just got that ticket to be part of the contest. To be part of something. It’s a stupid bet, but if you’ve been listening, you know what I’m going to say next:
All. Bets. Are. Stupid.
We’re walking really slowly, and that’s annoying Dad even more. The Presbyterian church just let out, and the sidewalk is full of people dressed nicer than us. When Mom was still around, we used to go to church a few times a year: Christmas and Easter and things like that. I haven’t been since she left. Neither has Dad—not even to Our Lady of the Horse Track.
“Look at all these Holy Rollers,” he says under his breath. He cuts around a big family and I have to step off the sidewalk to follow him. I can feel the wet snow through the hole in my sneaker.
The “Thin Ice Days” banner is up at the entrance to the park. This is where the band concert will be, if the weather’s nice enough. It’s less than a week away now. We stop walking, and Dad stares across the ice at the tower. He’s looking at it the way a hungry dog looks at a steak. His poker face falls away, and all I see there now is desperation.
I don’t like seeing Dad like this, so I look over at the tower. The ice beneath it is slick and shiny in the sun. It looks like it could fall in right now.
I hope Dad wins—or I do—but I already know deep down that we won’t.
More people come in. The Catholic church must have let out too. The Catholics dress a little more formally. I see black pants and white shirts and little girls in pastel dresses. But I also see missing buttons and fabric worn so thin it’s shiny. I see a baby stroller with a busted wheel, lurching along just like our shopping cart. The baby inside isn’t even bothering to cry. It’s amazing how much you can get used to, and how fast.
The church bells are ringing as I take one last look around. I wonder if it’s just a Sunday stroll for these people, or if they’re checking on their tickets too. They all look like they could really use the money, I think, but that’s wrong. That’s thinking like Dad again. I correct myself: They all look like they have better things to spend those three dollars on.
LANDROVER IS COMING at me like a missile before second period on Monday, and I’m caught out in the open in a half-empty hallway. I look around for a teacher or trapdoor or any other form of escape. What I see is Maps coming up behind me. We haven’t really talked in a long time, but Landrover is closing in fast and, well, here goes nothing. I turn.
“BAMF!” I say. Maps collects old X-Men comics, and that’s the sound Nightcrawler makes when he teleports, disappearing one place and appearing somewhere else. It kind of means “Get me out of here!” to us—at least it used to.
Maps sort of smiles, but he keeps walking. Then he spots Landrover and his eyes narrow. “SNIKT!” he says. It’s the noise Wolverine’s claws make when they pop out of his hands. He stops next to me.
“S’up,” he says to Landrover as he gets closer. Landrover just nods and keeps walking. And that’s it, the whole encounter. But you know what? It’s enough.
Maps walks away in his Celtics jersey and crew cut and Jordans, and it takes me a second to figure out what it reminds me of. It’s that stupid book, how I hate the way everyone is just one thing. Because Maps looks like the biggest, squarest jock on the planet, but we just had a conversation 100 percent in vintage comic book slang.
I manage to avoid Landrover the rest of the morning, but things get a lot more complicated at the start of lunch.
“Where my makers?” calls Mr. Feig.
I hesitate, or my feet do, anyway. They just refuse to move. I thought about this all weekend and still haven’t come up with a solution. I need to get to maker space to keep working on my engine, but I’m terrified to cross Landrover again. I’m doomed either way.
I watch Nephi step out of the lunch line, then Landrover, Gino, Haley, Dunk, Joe, and a bunch of guys I don’t remember seeing there before. I picture the engine, lying in pieces on that towel. I remember the rent box, the feel of those bills, and I know nothing Landrover can do to me could be worse. I guess that’s what does it, because I finally step forward to join them.
Or I try to, anyway, because the kid behind me in line gives me an absolutely perfect flat tire. He steps on the back of my sneaker just as I’m lifting it from the ground and the whole shoe nearly comes off.
I look back to see who did it. It’s this guy named Mark who I barely even know. Why would he do that?
“Hey, Freak,” I hear. It’s Haley. “Are your shoes on sale?”
I feel my ears begin to get hot, my face begin to flush. There’s duct tape patching the hole in the bottom and for a second I’m afraid she can see it. “No!” I say.
“Really?” she says. “Because they’re half-off.”
Everyone around me in the line busts out laughing.
I just stand there with my mouth open. I’m trying to think of a comeback, but my mind is just one big buzzing blank again.
“Brutal!” someone cheers.
I look at Mark, like: Why? He just smiles at me as I bend down to fix my sneaker. My back rounds even more, and I know everyone is watching.
And then I get it. Mark’s friends with Landrover. He just did that to stall me.
I wrestle my shoe back on and hustle to catch up to the group, but I’m too late. The line is already disappearing around the corner, and no one is going to let me cut. All the regular kids are at the front, and there’s a string of new ones at the back. I size them up. They are size Large, even Extra Large. Jocks, kids with money—Landrover’s friends. He’s brought more than enough to fill the room.
I’m boxed out.
Mr. Feig gives me a look—sad or tired or maybe both—and then swings the door closed on the two of us who didn’t make the sign-in sheet. I look at Mark. I hear he’s good at baseball. “Bummer,” he says happily.
He walks away, but I just stand there for a while looking at the closed door. My engine is in there, and I’m not. Landrover said he was really going to hurt me, and I’ve got to hand it to him. This one really hurts.
LANDROVER HAS ME BOXED out of maker space, and I’m sure he’s going to keep it that way. He probably likes having his friends in there anyway. It’s a major problem, and I hover around after science class to talk to Mr. Feig about it. I don’t know what I’m going to say. I don’t want to be a snitch or a sneak or a teacher’s pet or anything like that, but I need to say something. I have to get back in there!
Feig takes one look at me, standing there by the door like a slice of lunch meat someone threw against the wall, and says, “Ked, my man. Come with me.”
“Okay,” I say and follow him out the door.
“I have to run down to the office,” he says, answering my question before I ask it. “But we can walk and talk. I think I know what this is about.”
“I need to get into maker space … tomorrow,” I say. “I have to work on my engine.”
“I’m kind of in a pickle,” he says. “There’s a limit on how many kids we can have in there. It’s not safe if it’s too crowded. You gotta get there before the sheet fills up. I can’t play favorites.”
“I tried,” I say.
“Oh yeah?”
Now he turns so his glasses square me up, but I don’t want to tell on Mark. He’d just claim it was an accident anyway. I try something else. “Those new guys today, they aren’t really makers, are they?”
I’m not sure what a “real maker” is. I just started going myself. Mr. Feig smiles as we walk down the crowded hallway, dodging bodies and backpacks. “Sure they’re makers,” he says. “Troublemakers.”
Now I smile. “Ha-ha. Yeah.”
We turn a corner. This hallway is less crowded, and he stops. I stop too. “Listen, I think I might have a solution to our”—he pauses, searching for the right phrase—“overflow issue.”
I look up at this human stovepipe with glasses and wonder how much he knows about what’s going on, how much he sees.
“Oh yeah?” I say. “What kind of solution?”
“You have any time after school?”
“I’ve got nothing but.”
He nods. “Well, I’ve got a mountain of work for these new tests we’ve got coming up. I usually stay after school, at least an hour or two. There’s always too much to do.”
“Okay …” I say, not really sure where he’s going with this.
“So I can correct tests in maker space, and you can work on your bike.”
“I like it,” I say. “I like it a lot.”
“We can start today if you like,” he says.
The warning bell goes off. “I’m going to be late,” I say, but I say it through this huge smile I just can’t get off my face.
So school ends, but I stay. It’s a strange feeling. I’m not big on “extracurricular activities.” I mean, you’ve seen how my school days have been going, right? Why would I sign up for more of that?
But here I am: technically allowed to go home but pushing open the door to the library instead. I’ll be honest: I’m a little nervous. I trust Mr. Feig, I’m just wondering what the catch is. I’ve learned that when adults do something nice for you, there’s almost always a catch—like when Mom bought me that Xbox and then left for Oregon.
I squeeze inside the maker space door. Mr. Feig is bent like a noodle over a stack of printouts. He looks up and blinks at me through his thick lenses, but I can tell his eyes are still focused two feet ahead and not really seeing me.
“Cabinet’s open,” he says, already looking down at the papers again.
I look over toward the cabinet and see someone else sitting on the far side of the table. She’s so quiet and still that I didn’t even notice her at first.
Oh no.
It’s Esme.
I’m so surprised to see her that I do that thing where you, like, twitch. It’s like a double take for my whole body, a single big shiver. And then I just stand there staring.
“Yes?” she says, looking up from her model. She’s all in black and she’s holding a scary-looking X-Acto knife in her right hand. Her purple hair is in her eyes a little but she blows it expertly to the side with a puff of air. I push my hair back too.
On Thin Ice Page 8
