“Don’t worry,” I say, carving a big semicircle around her. “No engine.”
The heat is cranking inside and I start sweating immediately. The hallway is as chaotic as always, but a funny thing happens when you push machinery through a crowd. They get out of the way. I make it to Mr. Feig’s room in decent time.
I can finally straighten up a little. My hair is sweat-plastered to my forehead, and my back is throbbing. “Can I keep this here for the day?” I say, sounding at least as miserable as I feel.
Mr. Feig gets up from his desk and comes over. “So this is the bike, huh?”
“Yup,” I say.
He frowns. “You’re gonna make it a little more … presentable, right?”
“Totally,” I say. “I’ve got paint and stuff. Just need to make sure it runs first.”
“You can keep it in the closet till after school,” he says.
“Thanks,” I say, already wheeling it over.
I barely have time to grab my stuff and get to homeroom. I don’t even get a chance to splash some cold water on my face. It definitely feels good to sit down, though.
I see Nephi in the hallway and ask him what he’s up to.
“Making waves,” he says, and I laugh.
“Now who’s a dork?” I say, even though it’s pretty clear we both are.
All morning I’m thinking about the paper. It comes out on Wednesdays. I picture all the papers stacked by the counter at the pharmacy and tossed onto people’s lawns, the website probably already updated. I haven’t seen my ad yet, though. They usually have the paper in the library, or I could check online there, but that’s in the upper building. I figure I’ll have to wait until we head up for lunch, at least. I really really hope they printed the part about not calling after five.
But then I see the paper lying on Mrs. Gallego’s desk in social studies. Her long white coat is gone, but now she has a long white sweater on over light blue pants. When it’s cold out, she basically dresses like a character from Frozen. She has told us more than once that she is a big believer in “dressing for the season.” Once spring comes, I’m expecting her to look like an explosion in a flower shop. I ask her if I can see the paper.
“You’re full of unusual requests today,” says Queen Elsa.
“I guess,” I say. “Please?”
She grabs the paper and holds it out to me. Let it go, I think and she does. I take it and flip to the back but there’s a problem. “There are no classifieds!” I say, my voice breaking.
“Oh, I always throw those out,” she says.
I look over at the plastic recycling basket next to her desk and see a few pages of black-and-white newsprint sticking out. I reach down to pick them out.
“Beep! Beep!” I hear, along with some laughter. I don’t even care right now. My fingers peel the pages open. The “For Sale” section is right at the front, and my ad is right near the top. I feel a sudden wave of affection for the old lady on the phone.
My eyes fly over the ad. (Not literally, that would be gross.) Good, it says exactly what I told them.
I drop the pages back in the basket and turn around. “Beep! Beep!” says Haley, right in my face. “Garbage boy!”
“That’s enough,” says Mrs. Gallego.
For a second, Haley and I are just standing there face-to-face. Her nose is basically fine now, just a faint purple line across the bridge. But the happy little bounce in her step as she heads back to her desk lets me know. Her nose was never the problem.
I WHEEL THE BIKE all the way up the hill after school, leaning forward with my head down and elementary schoolers rocketing by on both sides. And after all that, I get the stink-eye from the teacher at the door, and the one in the hall too, but I’ve got my lines down now. “Maker space,” I mumble. “Contest this weekend!”
And please note: I did not say I was in the contest. I just said there was one. And the truth is: I wish I was. It wasn’t on my radar at all before, but if I wasn’t rebuilding this bike now, I’d love to be building a model. I’d like to be one of those kids trying to get an idea out of their head and onto the table.
I know what I’d build too: a model of a place where people could get help for things they needed without getting judged or feeling bad about it. Like if they needed to get online without having to spend half an hour pretending to read a magazine, or if they needed a shower, or a lead on a job that wasn’t half-time. Or if they needed to take a class to get the skills for that job or they needed to know their rights as renters! That would make Norton better for a lot of people.
Or maybe I’d build something cool and mechanical with an engine. I don’t know, but I like the idea of building a better Norton. Pretty much every happy moment of my life has happened here. The lake, epic Halloween hauls, eating pizza with Dad … But this place could definitely be better. Living on the edge of the edge of town, the half-time factory, the empty stores, the stupid Stubbs brothers … Every unhappy moment of my life has happened here too. And let’s be honest, that’s most of them lately.
But when I get the bike into the maker space, there’s Esme and Nephi, already working away. As happy as I am to see them, watching them build and experiment reminds me that we’re here for different reasons. They’re here to dream up something new and cool. I’m here on the wildest chance I can save the messed-up life I already have. Fingers crossed.
But as I’m thinking that, Esme and Nephi are already putting down their tools and pushing back their chairs. The two of them head toward me, and I push the frame out in front of me so they can get a better look.
“How old is it?” says Nephi, eyeing the worn-out paint.
“Like nine years,” says Esme.
From what I’ve learned about this bike online, she’s exactly right. “Good guess,” I say.
Nephi gives the bike one last appraising look. “Pretty cool,” he says, and I smile.
Esme doesn’t say anything else, just stands there staring at a nine-year-old bike frame. She’s been a lot friendlier in here, and I think she’s pretty cool. But she definitely gets weird about this bike. My new theory: Maybe she’s really into minibikes—like she knows the models and years and everything—and she’s jealous of mine. I mean, it is a Road Rokkit.
Whatever her deal is, I don’t have a ton of time to think about it. I have to paint the bike, and before I do that, I have to clean it. It’s not too bad. I already splooshed a bucket of soapy water over it when I took it out of the shed this morning. Then I absolutely ruined an old T-shirt (I’m out of old towels) rubbing it down. It was literally freezing out. By the time I was finished, my hands were numb and the white T-shirt was brown. It was frozen into a U-shape when I dumped it in the garbage can.
But any dirt is too much to paint over, so now I’ve got the bottle of spray cleaner from the cabinet and my trusty washcloth. Pretty soon, that’s brown again too, but at least the bike is clean.
“Good enough,” I mutter to myself. Next I need to remove some of the old flaky paint. “Uh, Mr. Feig?” I say.
He looks up and honestly seems a little annoyed by the interruption. I don’t know what kind of state test he’s preparing for—or preparing to prepare us for, I guess—but it must be intense. I get to the point. “Do we have any paint thinner in here?”
“Are you kidding me right now, Ked?” he says.
Yeah, I guess that would be a little toxic for middle school.
“Can I use some of this sandpaper? It’s right next to the toolkit.”
“I know where it is, Ked. I put it there. It’s a pretty course grain, more for wood.”
“Please?” I say. “It’s my only hope.”
I don’t recognize the mangled Star Wars line until it’s already out. Nephi snarfs out a laugh.
“Sure,” says Mr. Feig. He sounds resigned, too tired to argue. “Just don’t make a mess.”
“I won’t,” I say, taking an old section of newspaper out of my backpack. It’s last week’s “Help Wanted” section.
I’m destroying the evidence. I unfold the pages on the floor and wheel the bike over it. I’m fine just painting over the parts where the frame still has paint. And I’m fine painting over the parts where it doesn’t. It’s the in-between parts, where the paint is flaking and chipping away, that I need to smooth out.
I do my best, but it doesn’t go like I planned it in my head. I’m trying to smooth out the edges of the paint, but mostly I’m just peeling off more flakes. Maybe if I spray the paint on thick enough, it will all even out?
I blow off the sandpaper dust from the spot I’ve been working on and reach into my bag for the spray paint. I pick up the can and shake it a few times. Something metal rattles around inside.
“Absolutely not!” I hear. It’s Mr. Feig. He’s standing above me—like way above me, since he’s basically a giraffe and I’m sitting on the floor. Suddenly he’s very much willing to argue.
“I have to!” I say with my usual gift for persuasion.
“Take it out to the parking lot,” he says. “And not near any of the cars, either.”
“Not near his anyway,” says Nephi.
Esme chuckles softly.
I get up and get my jacket and spend close to an hour working outside again. I hunker down in an empty parking spot. And maybe I’m kind of near a car on one side but (a) no one likes our vice principal and (b) I need some shelter from the wind or the paint’s going to go everywhere.
I can’t just blast away. I have to spray carefully to make sure I don’t get the wrong color in the wrong place. I use a plastic shopping bag to cover up behind where I’m spraying. By the time I’m finished, the bag is speckled with red and black paint, and the fingers of my blue gloves are too. Now I look like a mechanic. Cool.
Anyway, I do the best I can. I spray until my head is reeling from the fumes, and then I spray a little bit more. Then I stand up and step back. It’s … okay. Maybe a little uneven and still dripping as it dries. I look down and see some incriminating red splotches on the pavement.
I lean against the car to stay out of the wind and hold the bike up by the handlebars to give the paint time to dry. By the time I get back inside, it’s already time to go. I was really hoping to get more done today. I’m also freezing.
“Can I warm up a little first?” I say, and at least it gives the rest of the late shift a few more minutes to work.
MR. FEIG LETS ME leave the frame in the back corner of the room, which is pretty cool of him since fifteen minutes ago it was still dripping red paint. It will dry better inside, and I definitely don’t feel like wheeling it all the way home anyway.
Esme bolts out of there like a racehorse, as usual. But Nephi waits up again. I figure we’ll have even more time to talk today, but then I remember something important. Our phone number is in that ad for the whole town to see. I could have a message already—and sometimes Dad gets home early.
“Sorry, man,” I say. “Kind of in a hurry.”
“No problem,” he says. “See you tomorrow.”
Those are three of the best words I’ve heard in a long time, so even though I bust out in an awkward jog-walk, I do it with a smile. Fifteen minutes later, I’m standing in the living room with the phone to my ear. I hear these words, clear as a summer day:
“You have one new message.”
I hold my breath and press 1, and by the time I breathe again, I’ve got a potential buyer. It’s some old dude who’s not only interested but “very interested.” With my free hand, I do a fist pump like I just threw a touchdown pass in the Super Bowl.
I write the number down and call him back right away, before I chicken out. His name is Gene and he has wanted a Road Rokkit “since they first started making ’em,” which was like last century. I’m not sure a guy that old should be rocketing around on a motorbike the size of a prize-winning pumpkin, but that’s not my problem.
I’ll admit I’m pretty nervous talking to him, and he’s like, “How old are you, anyway?” But he still wants the bike.
“So six hundred,” I venture, but he swats that down.
“We’ll talk price when I see the bike,” he says.
That’s smart for him, but all I can picture is that stupid dripping paint.
“How about Royston’s parking lot on Saturday?” I say.
“Friday,” he says. “I’m out of town this weekend.”
Man, I think, that’s not much time. But he’s the one with the money. “All right,” I say. “How’s five?”
So it’s all set by the time Dad gets home. He’s in a horrible mood again. It’s still so cold out. The ice is a day thicker and St. Paddy’s is a day closer. Not that he admits that’s what’s bothering him. There’s just a dark cloud hanging over him all night. He spends most of it staring silently at the TV, and the most noise he makes is when he lifts his arm to click the remote.
I’m already stressed out enough about agreeing to Friday. That means I’ll definitely have to test-drive it tomorrow—and the engine isn’t even attached yet! I don’t need any more stress so I head to my room. I feel like a prisoner in there once I close the door. It’s times like these I really miss the internet. Instead, I fall asleep reading.
When I wake up, it’s Thursday, March 16, the day before dad’s bet, the day before I meet Gene. The good thing about falling asleep early is that at least I’ve got some energy. I am definitely going to need it.
You ever have days when you just can’t concentrate on schoolwork? (You ever have days when you can? Ha-ha!) I’ve got to get the engine reattached and then see if the whole thing works. That’s a lot to do in one day. And even if the engine starts, it could always blow off one of my feet or something on the test drive.
Anyway, schoolwork isn’t the only thing I’m not concentrating on. On my way to study hall to look for videos on reconnecting engines, I nearly run right into Landrover. Or maybe he runs into me. That seems more likely, now that I say it.
“Hey, Freak. Saw your junk heap in the corner.”
I look away. I see a teacher at the end of the hall, so I’m hoping this will just be a verbal takedown.
“I told you to stay out of maker space.”
Now I look at him. I guess he knows about the late shift now. He reads my thoughts. “Yeah, I asked around,” he says. “I know about your sad little weirdo crew.”
That makes me mad. Mad for Nephi, who’s not weird anyway, just smart. Mad for Esme, who got chased out of regular maker space just like me. “What do you care?” I say. “You aren’t even there!”
“SO?” he says. Sick burn, bro, I think, but he’s not done talking. “You really think you’re gonna get that thing going? Aren’t you gonna need—oh, I don’t know, a working engine, maybe?”
I should just shut up and let him get it out of his system, but I’m angry now. And maybe I’m a little sick of always rolling over and playing dead for this jumbo-sized jerk. “I’ve got a working engine!” I say, looking him right in the eyes and hoping it’s true.
“Yeah, right,” he says, but I can see he’s not sure.
I try to calm down for this next part so I can sound casual, confident. “Taking it for a test-drive today. Just to work out a few bugs.”
“Good luck with that,” he says, shaking his head. “Your funeral.”
He raises both fists and I flinch, but he just spreads his fingers apart and makes a soft explosion sound with his mouth: “Boom.” And then he’s gone.
I HIT THE GROUND working when I get to maker space. I’m a man on a mission! (Plus, I just watched the video, and I don’t want the info to leak out of my brain.) Reattaching the engine is nuts—well, nuts and bolts. And some screws. What I’m saying is, there’s a whole lot of tightening going on. Road Rokkits were designed to be easy to take apart and put back together. “Modular” is the word everyone uses online. But it’s still a machine as big as a labradoodle, so there’s plenty of work to do. I’ve got the bike on the floor, leaning against a leg of the table.
I reconnect the engi
ne without too much trouble and take extra care reconnecting the throttle cable to it. Then I get started reconnecting the chain. It takes a lot more muscle than it looked like on the video, and I grunt my way through it.
“I think there’s something under the table,” says Nephi.
“Sounds like some kind of animal,” says Esme. “Maybe a bear?”
“Based on the smell, I am going to say skunk.”
Even Mr. Feig laughs at that one.
I clean the grease off my hands with the towel and stand back up. Neff and Esme both duck and cover like I’m going to spray them. “You’re lucky I’m not a skunk,” I say.
“Not technically,” says Esme.
They high-five. I like the joking, even if it’s about me. It takes my mind off the pressure. There’s just one last thing to do. I take the spark plug out of my pocket, screw it into its place of honor at the top of the engine, and reconnect the wire.
“You can’t start that inside the building,” says Mr. Feig in his serious teacher voice. “Take it out to the parking lot—and please be careful.”
That was my plan anyway. He just doesn’t need to know about the test-drive I’m planning after that. I put my jacket and backpack on and begin wheeling the bike toward the door. It’s heavier and rolls differently with the engine in and the drive train reconnected. It feels more legit, more mechanical.
“Break a leg,” says Esme.
“Don’t blow up,” says Nephi.
“Remember, you signed the release form,” adds Mr. Feig.
“It feels great to have so much support, guys,” I respond.
I roll the bike out into the back parking lot. Most of the cars are gone now, but I find an empty space between two of the ones that are left. It gives me a little shelter from the wind and anyone watching. I lean the bike gently against one of the cars and take my backpack off. The first thing I take out is a green plastic Mountain Dew bottle. It’s full of gasoline that I took from the can in the lawn mower shed and mixed with some of the two-stroke engine oil I got at the store. The oil is supposed to burn off when the gas does. It’s a minibike thing.
On Thin Ice Page 11
