On Thin Ice

by Michael Northrop

  My parka slips to the ground like a wet seal. The cold wind hits my soaked shirt. How is this better? I look over at Landrover, and he has his jacket off too. He probably just tore it off like the Hulk.

  “Push-ups!” he shouts.

  He has lost his mind. His brain must have frozen solid.

  But he shouts, “Now!” in my face again. Next thing I know, we’re both back down on the ground and cranking out push-ups on frozen hands. I get like two and a half in before I have to resort to half push-ups on my knees. Next to me, Landrover is cranking out perfect push-ups at a machinelike pace.

  He’s counting softly: “… seven, eight, nine.” When he gets to ten he starts over at one. If I could do that many, I’d definitely keep track. But he’s not trying to set a record. He’s trying to survive, and watching him, I can see the genius of it. As he cranks away, I see the color return to his face. His arms too.

  He pops up. Still cranking out half push-ups from my knees, I see him shake his whole body out like a wet dog. Then he shakes out his hands and flexes them. His blood is pumping now. And I can feel it: Mine is too! I stand up and start doing jumping jacks. “Get it, dawg!” he says, reaching down for something in his coat pocket.

  I’m breathing hard now. It’s working. The feeling is starting to come back into my arms and legs. That’s good—but it feels so bad! A thousand painful pinpricks fire under my skin. My body is working again, and it hurts—but it sure beats the alternative.

  I do one more jumping jack and then bend over, sucking cold air into greedy lungs. I look over and see Landrover taking a cell phone out of a ziplock bag.

  “You knew you’d fall in,” I say, my voice a breathy croak.

  “Nah,” he says. “But I considered the possibility.”

  An amazing thing happens. Still dripping wet, exhausted, and with just enough feeling in my body to realize how freaking cold it is, I laugh. Like really laugh. “What are you doing?” I say, watching him press his cold fingers hard onto the touch screen.

  “Using Uber,” he says. “I’m allowed. For emergencies.”

  “Yeah,” I say, picking a tiny, perfect icicle off my hair with shivering fingers. “I think this qualifies.”

  It’s my first Uber ride, but for the first fifteen minutes or so, we don’t go anywhere. We just sit in the back of the black sedan by the entrance to the park, drying off and warming up. I’ll give the driver credit. He doesn’t hesitate to let two soaking kids into his nice car. He just takes one look at our shivering, purple-lipped faces and cranks the heat up all the way.

  We talk for some of those fifteen minutes. We swear the driver guy to secrecy first, but he honestly doesn’t seem to care about anything other than us warming up enough to get out of his car. I tell Landrover everything. Well, almost everything. I don’t tell him where I got the money for the bike, just that I couldn’t afford to lose it. I tell him all the rest: about the bad paint job and broken crankcase and even the late shift.

  Maybe I’m saying too much, I think. But honestly, it feels good to tell someone, especially someone who knows what a flywheel is.

  “Wh-what are you g-going to tell your dad?” I say once I finish up my side of the story. I’m warmer now, but I still can’t shake the shivering.

  “I’m gonna tell him what happened,” Landrover says with a shrug. “I don’t have the money for that new engine now anyway.”

  “Is he r-really gonna k-kill you?” I say.

  He shrugs. “I’ve already survived one near-death experience tonight. And how much more trouble can I really get into? I’m already maxed out. I might even confess to a few other things while I’m at it.”

  “G-genius,” I say.

  The car lets me off first, right outside the house. I walk across the yard in dirty, wet socks. My boots are at the bottom of the pond. I am carrying my wet parka like a drowned animal.

  I’m just gonna tell him what happened, I think as I open the door.

  But he’s asleep on the couch, so I tiptoe to my room instead. I peel off my clothes and get All The Blankets. Later, after I hear him go into his room, I head out and take a bath so long and hot that it makes me miss Mr. Bubble.

  I almost died tonight. Instead, I saved a life. I set out to do a bad thing, but I did a good one. And no one knows about any of that. No one except Landrover, who didn’t even say thank you, and a lifesaving Uber driver who is sworn to secrecy.

  I SLEEP IN ON SATURDAY. A juicy steak like me is just going to take a little longer to defrost, you know? But seriously, I look like death in the bathroom mirror. My lips are still a little blue and my chin is cut up from the ice.

  Dad isn’t around to see this sorry sight. I find his note when I finally make it to the kitchen: “Looking at places today. Food in fridge.” I check the fridge. I’m pretty sure he’s talking about the last two cupcakes. Back in the living room, I see more boxes by the door.

  I collapse onto the couch under two blankets and a bad-mood funk a mile deep.

  Things suck infinitely right now. Where do I even start?

  We’re moving out, and who knows where we’ll end up. Could be a smaller apartment, a broken-down place on the edge of town, one of those dicey motels out by the freeway … Even if I’m not going to be homeless, I’m still losing my home.

  I stole money from Dad. That money could be the difference between a decent apartment and a roach-infested motel room. And that money’s not coming back, because I poured it into a bike that’s currently lying on its side in the lawn mower shed.

  And I haven’t even told him yet. That’s not going to be pretty, but I have to. He needs to know how much he has to spend. Speaking of which …

  He’s gambling again. I’m not the only one who messed up here.

  The contest is over this weekend, which means so is the late shift. I’ll miss it.

  And finally, I still feel as cold and clammy as a frozen turkey.

  So that’s where my head’s at—up my butt, basically—when I hear a knock at the door mid-morning. What now? I think. But the knocking continues, so I finally throw back the blanket and get up. “Coming!” I shout.

  Stupid, I think. Now they know I’m here.

  “Yeah?” I say at the door.

  “Open up.”

  The voice is muffled by the door but vaguely familiar. I open up. It’s Landrover.

  He’s dressed in a different coat from last night, and he has a big ugly bruise on the side of his face. It could be from out on the ice, but I don’t think so.

  “Dad’s gonna kill me!” he said last night, and it looks like his dad gave it a try.

  “Uh, hey?” I say. I am standing there in red-and-white pajamas and a fuzzy green sweater, both a few sizes too large to accommodate the way I’m made. I must look like a Christmas ornament.

  “Where’s the bike?” says Landrover, swinging an overstuffed pack off his back and onto the floor. It clanks when it hits. I don’t know why he’s here. I’m honestly a little too surprised to form a coherent thought at the moment. But after what the two of us went through together last night, I’m willing to give him the benefit of the doubt one more time.

  “I’ll show you,” I say. “Just let me put on like eighty-seven layers first.”

  He waits on the couch while I bundle up. I know his place must be way nicer than this, but I’m not embarrassed. I feel lucky to still be here, even if it’s just through the weekend. “Okay,” I say, emerging so bundled up in layers that I look like that kid in A Christmas Story who can’t move his arms.

  “What’s in there, anyway?” I say, nodding at the backpack as we head down the stairs.

  “Some tools, J-B Weld, paint thinner,” he starts. “The usual.”

  I snort out a laugh. I’m not sure what good any of this will do, but at least I know why he’s here now—and it’s not like I’ve got anything else going on.

  The cold is waiting for me outside like an old enemy. Even as bundled up as I am, I start shivering again. “I�
�m not sure we should be out here right now,” I say. Landrover’s lips were so purple last night Esme would have been jealous.

  “Your mom’s gone and your dad’s not home, right?” he says. The words hit me hard. Sometimes I hate living in a small town.

  “Yeah,” I admit.

  “So what’s the problem?”

  “I meant the cold.”

  “I know you did,” he says with a little smirk. “Here, take this.”

  He tosses me something from his coat pocket. I catch it and feel the warmth right through my gloves. It’s an electric pocket warmer. “I use them for ice fishing,” he says.

  I unzip my coat and put it in the inside pocket, up against my ribs. It feels good. I fished him out of the ice last night, but I don’t think he needs me to remind him of that.

  I duck into the shed and throw the tarp off the bike. “Here it is,” I say, wheeling it backward into view.

  He looks at it for a few seconds, sizing it up.

  “Okay, let’s get started,” he says. “We don’t want to be out here all day.”

  He’s here to pay me back for ice-fishing him out. I appreciate it, but it’s cold out, even with the pocket warmer, and I’m not sure I see the point. “Why?”

  “So you can sell it, dipstick.”

  “I already told the guy the deal’s off. He’s probably bought a Honda by now!”

  Landrover looks down. “Oh, yeah,” he says. “I guess that’s it, then.”

  “I guess so.” I feel the last little bit of hope drain out of me like a limp balloon.

  He slaps the arm of my jacket, smiling. “You big dummy!” he says. “This thing’s a Road Rokkit. People kill for these.”

  “What people?” I say.

  “Dude, seriously? Do you even remember where I work? I listed it this morning on one of the private collector sites. Got three offers in like an hour.”

  I feel a little bit of hope return, like a single sunbeam breaking through the clouds. “But the engine is cracked.”

  Landrover is kneeling by the bike now. “Engine’s not cracked. The case is.”

  “What’s the difference?”

  “BIG difference,” he says. “The case is an easy fix.”

  And just like that, I feel the sun shine in. Hope. The bike is fixable—it’s easy, even! This isn’t over.

  “You’re really good at this, huh?” I say.

  “Grew up in an auto parts store,” he says. “It’s not as great as it sounds.”

  I’m standing above him, holding the bike by the handlebars. The bruise on the side of his face is black and purple and even a little brown. “I guess you’d know.”

  He swings his pack onto the ground again. “I’m going to take this cover off, and when I do, you start stripping the paint.” He reaches inside his pack and hands me a can of paint remover and a brush.

  “Wait till I get the cover off,” he adds. “I do not want that stuff in my hair.”

  He gets the crankcase off fast, then shifts over to the side and gets to work fixing it. I start carefully brushing on the paint remover. This stuff smells like death. He takes out some kind of small hand tool from his pack and starts grinding away. I think it’s a Dremel like Dad used to have.

  “How much did all this cost?” I say over the low hum. I made a solemn vow while I was lying awake last night: I’m back on bottle-and-can money. No more rent-box raids.

  “I didn’t necessarily pay for it,” says Landrover with a smile.

  “What if your dad finds out?”

  He looks up at me. He’s still smiling, but it’s a different kind of smile now. “Let’s just say he’s not exactly going to call the cops on me at the moment.”

  “Right,” I say. Not until that bruise fades, anyway.

  “My dad gambles,” I blurt out. I don’t know why. Or I guess maybe I do.

  “My mom’s gone too,” he replies.

  For a while we just work. The paint on the bike is starting to bubble up right before my eyes. The image I had in my head of Landrover’s perfect life is bubbling up and peeling away too.

  “It’s this town,” Landrover says after a while. “It takes a toll, you know?”

  I do, but I’ve already said as much as I’m ready to about that. Instead I say: “Aren’t you trying to build a better one? For the contest, I mean.”

  He laughs. “Kind of. I guess. I’m building, like, a Transformer. You know what that is? It’s a model of the factory and it transforms into a robot. It’s pretty sweet. The eyes light up red and I’m trying to get it to walk.”

  “What if there are people inside when it transforms?” I say, thinking about my dad.

  “They can go along for the ride,” he says. “More fun than making shoes.”

  “Definitely,” I say, but I still don’t understand how that makes the town better. “You’re never gonna win with that.”

  He laughs again. “I know that. It’s just cool. And anyway, your friend’s going to win.”

  “Nephi?”

  “Yeah.”

  “You really think so?”

  “Yeah, he’s totally gonna win,” he says.

  But that’s not what I meant. I was asking about the friend part.

  We’re both freezing, so we go inside while we’re waiting for the paint thinner to work its dark magic so we can repaint. Landrover wants to apply the J-B Weld to the crankcase inside anyway, so it will dry better. It’s like a heavy-duty epoxy.

  “This place is really clean,” he says, looking around my room. “Your dad make you clean?”

  I look down at my carefully made bed. The embarrassing thing is, he doesn’t. “Mmm,” I say, noncommittal.

  He spreads a small plastic sheet out on my floor, sits down next to it, and begins mixing the epoxy.

  “Is that stuff strong enough?”

  “Totally. The metal will break before this stuff does. And a crack this thin, you’ll hardly be able to see it.”

  “So, three offers already?” I say. I don’t want to bother him while he’s working, but I really want to know how much we’re talking.

  “Could be more by now,” he says, not even looking up. “But this bike, this condition, you’re not going to get more than six hundred.”

  “Fine with me,” I say. Six hundred is what I was hoping for! With Dad’s paycheck and what we have left, it’s enough. My next question is a little more complicated, but I really want to know this too. “Why’d you hate me so much?”

  He turns his face halfway toward me and then stops and looks back down at his work. He starts slowly applying the J-B Weld. “Yeah, I’ve been thinking about that,” he says. “Just since last night, you know?”

  “I figured.”

  “It’s hard to explain. It’s just … school can be so cool sometimes.”

  I stare at him, incredulous. “Maybe for you.”

  “Okay, fair. But it’s the only place I really like anymore, and I get that it’s maybe harder for you …”

  Maybe???

  “But then it’s like you ruin it for the rest of us too, moping around all alone like a freak.” He pauses. “Sorry,” he adds. “About the freak part.”

  I shrug. “So it wasn’t about me being friends with Maps?”

  “Maybe a little.”

  “And it wasn’t about—”

  “Look,” he says, before he even hears what I was going to say. “I don’t know why. I just have a lot of anger right now, all right? And I don’t have anywhere else to put it.”

  I just look at him. He’s talking about anger like it’s a bag of groceries. I’m going to have to think about that some more, but I know he just admitted something. I know it probably wasn’t easy. “Sometimes I just pull inside myself,” I say, “like a turtle.”

  “Everyone does that,” he says.

  “Yeah, but for me it can last years.”

  He nods. “Same with the anger.”

  He just works for a while after that, and I just shut up and let him. “One
of the guys interested in the bike is local,” he says after a few minutes. “We’re meeting him tomorrow morning.”

  We? I look at Landrover one more time. The words are on the tip of my tongue: You’re all right. But I don’t say them. I can’t quite get there, not yet. I know more about him now, more about his life. But I’m not an idiot. I still remember how he treats kids who didn’t just save his life. So instead I just say, “Thanks.”

  “HEY, DAD. I need to tell you something, and the only thing I’m going to ask is that, whatever you’re gonna do, you wait until after I finish talking to do it.”

  He looks up at me from the couch. I sit in the chair.

  “What’s on your mind?” he says

  “What isn’t?” I say.

  He cracks a smile, and that’s when I strike. “I took some money from the rent box!”

  Dad sits up fast. “You did what? How much? You better still have that money!”

  “I don’t.”

  He swings his legs over the side of the couch.

  “I’m not done talking yet! Please!” He starts to stand. “You took money too! For your bet!”

  He stops, sinks back a little. He’s poised right on the edge of the couch now.

  “It’s my money, Ked.”

  “It’s our money, Dad.”

  He looks at the ceiling. His fists are balled up, but I can see his lips moving as he counts to three. It’s a thing he does. Once he’s done, he says, “What did you do?”

  So I tell him. I tell him how I bought the bike, and how I fixed it up, and I definitely tell him that there’s a dude who wants to buy it tomorrow morning.

  He is staring at me now. He’s still angry—very angry. I can see his pulse beating in the wormlike vein above his right eye. But I can see that he’s thinking about something. “How much you think you’ll get?”

  “Could be six hundred,” I say. “That’s like four hundred profit. Almost.”

  So now he knows how much I took too. He gets that doing-math look.

  “That’d be enough,” he says, his voice just a little softer.