He thinks that’s funny. “That’s it?” he says.
But what else is there? What am I going to do, punch him? He’s twice my size and four times my strength. And I’m not going to tell on him. I mean, I thought about it, but I was the one using school property as a test track. And technically he never actually touched me. So, yeah: jerk. That’s what I got.
The day passes like a blur and pretty soon I’m pushing the bike back up the hill to maker space. I pass a few teachers in the hallway once I get back to the upper building, but they don’t say anything. They’re used to me wheeling this thing to the library now. The door is half-open, and as I push inside I hear a soft humming. Esme and Mr. Feig are standing around Nephi. He’s got his tank filled with water, and the hum is the motor. It’s running.
I lean the bike against the door and head over. The others step aside and make space for me. The little motor is at one end, sending small waves down the length of the tank. That’s supposed to be the river flowing through town. At the other end, the waves are turning a little propeller connected to a box. A wire runs from there to a gauge on the top that shows how much electricity the little turbine is generating.
It’s amazing. Nephi knows it. He’s looking down at the tank, fiddling with something on the back of the engine and trying so hard not to smile. He’s totally going to win. “It’s awesome,” I say.
“Okay, sure,” says Esme. “But check this out.”
Nephi flips a switch and the engine goes silent. We move down the table toward Esme’s model.
“It’s beautiful,” says Mr. Feig, and he’s right.
The town is a huddle of miniature black buildings. The angles and edges are clean and precise. All those cuts with the X-Acto knife and I don’t see a single slip. It looks like a model for a movie set—a horror movie, but still. “Check this out,” she says.
She turns the model slightly so we have a good view of the street cutting through the center of her gothic downtown. Right in the middle of that is a little display. The soft gray stands out against all the black. It’s the solar-powered bank clock, right on time.
It’s perfect, and now I’m thinking that maybe she’s going to win.
“It’s okay,” I say, acting unimpressed. “But it could use a tiny weathervane.”
She and Nephi both laugh, but Mr. Feig doesn’t get it. “Seriously awesome work, you two,” he says before drifting back to his pile of papers.
“All right,” says Esme, turning toward me. “Show-and-tell is over.”
Nephi turns to me too. “Let’s get to work.”
I take a deep breath. I’ve been waiting for this. “Here goes everything,” I say as we head over to the bike. It’s the three of us now, the late shift. Up to this point, we’ve been doing our own thing. But now we’re working together, and it makes me feel good. It’s that same feeling that was snatched away from me before, that feeling of being included.
It’s also just—I don’t know—hope, I guess. Fixing this bike in the next few hours may be impossible, but it feels like if anyone can help me do it, it’s these two. I remind myself of everything I’ve done so far. I rebuilt the entire engine. I reconnected everything and got it running again. This isn’t great, but I’ve overcome a lot more. Being in here and doing so much—with my own hands and borrowed tools and a small army of how-to videos—it’s given me a lot of confidence. I’m a maker now.
That said, we are definitely up against it.
“Guys, I don’t even know where to start,” I admit.
“I think I might,” says Esme.
I look at her. We haven’t had a chance to talk about what she told me yet. Maybe this is the time?
She looks back at me, reading my thoughts—or my expression any way, my half-open mouth. She shakes her head. Not now. “I think it’s the carb,” she says, all business. “It wasn’t turning over at all, and there was that black smoke the one time it tried.”
“Can we just take that off and work on it?” says Nephi.
“Yeah,” I say. It seems a lot more manageable than another full teardown.
So that’s where we start. Neff holds the bike steady as I get to work, and Esme is holding out the tools I need before I even ask for them. I already drained the fuel line at home because I knew things were going to have to come apart again.
We take the carb over to the table. “Should you do it?” I say to Esme.
“No, I’ve only seen my dad do this. And anyway, you just did it.”
Okay, I think. Time for more open-heart surgery.
I open it up, slowly and carefully and get to work.
“I think I see the problem,” I say after a few minutes, my heart sinking down to my shoes.
“Oh yeah?” says Nephi, peering over my shoulder.
“Yeah,” I say. It was that stupid improvised gasket. I was worried about tearing it when I took it out again, but looking down at it now, it’s already torn. I pinch it between my fingers and pull it free. “It must have slipped out of place during the chase, or the crash. It didn’t fit that great to begin with.”
“Just replace it,” says Nephi.
“I can’t,” I say. “I don’t have any more. This was all the store had.”
“What about online?”
“No time,” I say.
“Oh yeah.”
Esme knows a lot more about this than Nephi does, but this whole time she’s been strangely quiet. “Well,” she says, finally speaking up. “I suppose you could use these.”
She tosses something down on the table beside me. It lands with a soft flop and I look over. It’s a small, flat baggie with a paper label inside facing out. I pick it up and feel some small, light objects shifting around inside. I read the label, but I can barely believe it.
“Road Rokkit Rebuild Kit” it says at the top. In smaller print below there is a list of all the parts inside. “Oh my God,” I breathe. The actual parts I need are in here, the actual gaskets, not cut-to-fit imitations.
“You’ve had this the whole time?” I say. “And you just … watched me struggle?”
She shrugs, and I can see she’s trying not to smile. “Yeah, I saw you cutting those do-it-yourself gaskets with my knife. I didn’t know what you needed this for. I thought you just took my bike.”
“Your bike?” says Nephi, but we both give him a look like: We’ll tell you later.
“I kept this kit because I was thinking of fixing the bike sometime,” she says. “And anyway, remember yesterday when I told you we were even?”
“Yeah?”
“Well now we’re even,” she says, finally letting that smile break free.
I just stare at her. “You are, like, really complicated,” I say finally.
“You have no idea,” she says. “Now get to work.”
So I replace the gasket and put the carburetor back together. I tear the metering diaphragm on the way out, and I don’t even care. I have the perfect replacement right at my fingertips.
“I think it’s good,” I say once the carb’s back in one piece.
Nephi wheels the bike over so. “Let’s hope that was the only problem,” he says.
I was just thinking the same thing.
Once the carburetor is reattached and everything is back where it should be, there’s only one thing left to do. At least I hope there’s only one thing. “I guess this is it,” I say as we jacket up and begin wheeling the bike out to the parking lot.
“I think I have to see this,” says Mr. Feig, pushing back his chair.
So now we’re all out in the parking lot. I put some fresh fuel in the tank and put the cap back on the Mountain Dew bottle.
“Anyone else want to try?” I say.
“This is all you,” says Esme.
I check to make sure everything is in the right position: the switches, the choke.
I check again.
“Stop stalling,” says Nephi.
“Okay okay,” I say.
I take a deep breath,
put my hand on the throttle, and give the cord a tug for the ages.
Sputter, sputter, vroom!
I crank the throttle: VROOM! VROOM!
One hand still on the throttle, I hold the other one up. High fives all around. Even Mr. Feig gets in on it, though I guess it’s more of a low five for him.
“Thanks, guys,” I say. I try to think of something bigger than that, but I’m too overwhelmed. “Thanks—oh, and good luck at the contest Sunday!”
SO I’M FEELING PRETTY good and walking the bike home to give it one last soap-and-water cleanup. I briefly consider riding it, but I didn’t bring my helmet, and I’m not sure I can take any more excitement at the moment anyway. I’ve got plenty of time before the meeting, so I start looking at the bike, sizing it up the way I think Gene will.
I’ve got to be honest. The paint job isn’t great. A little streaky, a little uneven … It’s not that bad, though. The parts where the paint was peeling were mostly the black parts, and black is a pretty forgiving color, especially when you spray it on extra thick. I’m thinking, worst case, maybe I’ll have to knock fifty bucks off the price. But then I see a few stray specks of red paint on the engine case.
“Oh, man,” I say.
I stop pushing and kneel down to see if I can scrape the specks off with my fingernail. I’m stopped along the side of the road, but really I’ve reached the end of it. The end of the road, and the end of the Road Rokkit. It’s a problem that no amount of fresh paint is going to solve. I see it now. There’s a crack running down the outside of the crankcase. It looks like a lightning bolt, and that’s what it feels like I’ve been hit by. It’s as long and thin as a strand of hair. It’s not thick, but I’ve learned a few things about engines now. I think of all the vibrations, all the horsepower. This crack will get a little bigger every single time someone rides this bike.
I drop my head into my hands, burying my forehead in both palms.
I can’t sell the bike like this.
And where would I get a new crankcase for a vintage Road Rokkit? In the next hour?
I hear a low groan slip through my lips. I can’t believe this is how it ends. I know it’s just a crack in a piece of metal, but it feels like a wound in a living thing. After all the things I’ve done, all the problems I’ve overcome, this just feels like one thing too many. This last little break is the thing that breaks me. I wheel the bike the rest of the way home, cold and stunned and numb.
This crack wasn’t there when I took the engine apart, so this happened after that.
That means the carb wasn’t the only thing that broke in that crash.
I hate Landrover so much right now. I remember him driving away on his perfect mini-four-wheeler. It seems so unfair, and it makes me so mad. Hatred, anger, a few tons’ worth of feeling sorry for myself … It’s an ugly mix, but at least it keeps me from crying again. I’m so red-hot right now that it’s like it boils the tears away. And that’s good, because I don’t want to be crying when I tell Gene that the stupid deal is off.
Once I get home, I give myself a few minutes to try to get a grip, and then I make the call. “That’s too bad” is all he says. What does he care? He’s got money. He’ll buy something else. But me? All I’ve got is a cracked bike under a tarp out back and a burning hole in the rent box where it came from.
I go to my room and lie down in the weak gray light coming in through the window. I look over at the clock and watch the numbers crawl forward. It reaches 3:59, and I watch Dad’s bet expire. Four o’clock, 4:01. I look out the window and see a few stray snowflakes drift by. St. Patrick’s Day or Christmas: Around here, who can tell?
I’M STILL LYING on my bed when Dad comes home. It’s a loser family reunion. He slams the door so hard behind him that it rattles my window. I head out into the living room, but he’s not there. Instead, I see three cardboard boxes scattered on the floor by the door like giant dice. They’re all a little beat up. My heart stops. I remember this.
When we moved out of our house, he did the same thing. He refused to pay for new boxes. “Why should I when stores all over town are just throwing them out every day?”
I find him in the kitchen eating St. Patrick’s Day cupcakes straight from the box. He finishes one, popping one last bit of yellow cake and green frosting into his mouth. He reaches for another. There are crumbs in his beard, crumbs on the table. “Want one?” he says, slurring the words as he chews.
I shake my head. “What’s with the boxes?” I demand, even though I already know. I just want to hear him say it. I want to hear him admit that he messed up as much as I did
He whips his hand back and throws the cupcake against the wall. It bounces off and leaves a stain that looks like a bright green bullet wound. I flinch a little, but I don’t back down. I live here too—and at least I’ve been trying. “Are we moving again?” I keep my voice steady. I’m to blame too. I know I lost money and that I’ll have to tell him now. But I want him to go first. He started this whole mess.
He finally looks at me. “We’re short on the rent,” he says flatly. “We’re going to have to find a new place.”
I know I should act surprised, but I don’t have the energy. I look at the stain on the wall—shamrock green—the luck of the Irish. I’m sick of pretending.
“You made a bet,” I say.
He looks at me closely. Maybe he’s trying to figure out what I know or how I know it. Maybe he doesn’t even care.
“Bingo!” he says, pointing a finger at my chest.
He doesn’t understand. He thinks I guessed.
“You didn’t pay the rent last month either,” I say.
Dad smiles. “Sure I did,” he says. “Straight to the Stubbs brothers.”
He reaches for another cupcake, shaking his head. “Doesn’t matter anyway. Mr. K’s wanted me out of here almost since we moved in. He was always going to get his way, just a matter of time.” I’m amazed: He still can’t admit this is his fault.
“Dad, I did something—” I begin, but he cuts me off.
“Lots of people bet on it!”
“On the tower,” I say, still edging toward admitting what I did.
“Yeah,” he says, “on the tower, on St. Paddy’s Day.”
He’s finally admitted it, but it’s still not enough for me. My next words slip out of an ugly place inside me. “But they didn’t bet the rent.”
We stare at each other for a few moments and then he looks back down at the box of cupcakes. “Probably not,” he admits, his voice softening. I thought I wanted this, but now I realize that there’s nothing worse than watching my dad give up. He looks over at the stain on the wall. “I’ll clean that up.”
Dad gets up to put the box of cupcakes away.
“It wasn’t supposed to be this cold,” he says, looking like he’s talking to the cupcakes. “I wasn’t just counting on four-leaf clovers and St. Paddy’s. There was the long-range weather forecast too. It wasn’t even that bad a winter!”
“I know,” I say. “I saw The Farmer’s Year Booke. This whole stretch was supposed to be warm.”
Dad finally looks at me again. He’s wearing that same lopsided smile. “See,” he says, so quietly that I barely hear it.
I decide to give him something. To stick together. Even though everything is falling apart. “I bought a ticket for tonight too,” I say.
“Really?” he says, doubtful.
“Yeah,” I say. “Nine p.m.”
He makes a stink face. “Bad bet,” he says, but look who’s talking.
“It would be so great if that tower fell for us.”
“It’s been so cold,” he says. “Lightning would have to strike it.”
I nod, and that’s when I get the idea.
He’s right. Lightning would have to strike that tower for it to fall tonight.
Or something would.
I WAIT TILL EIGHT O’CLOCK. This plan will work, I tell myself. This won’t be another number that floats by. I look at Dad, lying on the
couch with his face blue from the TV screen. “I’m going for a walk,” I say.
I get my parka and grab my old backpack. I’m trying to act normal and look the same as always. I’m already walking out of the room when Dad finally speaks. “We would’ve been so set,” he says. I can tell he’s been thinking about it all night.
I don’t even know how to feel about that. Should I be mad that he’s still clinging to that bet, or sad that it didn’t work out? Mostly what I feel is desperate.
It’s dark outside. I breathe out and watch my breath float away, and then I zip my parka all the way up. A few days ago, I was all aboard for Building a Better Norton. But right now, I hate this town. I hate how poor it is and how desperate it makes people. I hate that it has people like the Stubbs brothers who’ll take your rent. I hate that it has people like my dad who’ll just hand it over.
I look back at our place as I reach the edge of the yard. I can see the light on in the little kitchen, the TV filling the living room with shifting colors. I hated this place when we moved in, just because it wasn’t the house where I’d grown up. But I realize now how much I’d miss it. I think about that as I walk. It keeps me going.
I keep my hood down on the walk, shielding my face from any headlights. After a few blocks, I can feel my mind downshift. The cool air, the stars, the quiet … It calms me down and helps me think. Inside, I could barely wait till eight to leave, but now I realize I’m going to be too early. I can’t just hang out there. Someone could see me.
I have my backpack on, so I figure I can kill time in the usual way. It could even be an alibi. So I take all the familiar turns, and pretty soon, I’m bent over and foraging through the trash behind Royston’s.
I end up with around a dozen, half cans and half bottles, including two big two-liter ones. Sometimes I leave those—too bulky and the nickel’s not worth it—but I’ve got the space in my pack tonight.
I take the same route to the pond that I took with Dad. The stores are mostly closed now. I don’t see anyone out walking.
I don’t usually wear my old watch—it’s digital with a little light button you can press. It’s basically a kid’s toy, but I dug it out for tonight. I check it now as I pass beneath the “Thin Ice Days” banner at the entrance to the park. I’ve got just enough time to scope things out.
On Thin Ice Page 13
