Riding the Universe (5 page)

I
t's Friday afternoon, and I've decided to try to fix Lolita's leak again on my own. Or at least stare at her with tools all around me. Rock's not answering his calls—again—which means I will have to wait until he comes up for air from whatever evils he is up to.

I try to loosen a lug nut with a wrench, but it's on there pretty tight. Nope. This sucker is not coming off. It's times like these that remind me that boys are useful for something, even stupid boys who let me win during morning races instead of losing with integrity. The universe interprets my thoughts as a plea for help, and the familiar rumbling of an engine I'd recognize anywhere arrives in my driveway. A car door opens then shuts.

“Don't think I need your help tuning her up, because I most certainly do not,” I call out.

Rock walks up and towers over me. “Well, I didn't know you needed my help, so that couldn't be why I came.”

“Good, because I was kidding. I do need you. Grab a wrench.”

“Aw, shit. I knew I'd get trapped here. What is it about your house?” He sits on the ground next to me and surveys the damage.

“It's a black hole of love. You can't help getting sucked in. Your charms are powerless here.”

“You're right about that.” He takes the wrench from my hand and proceeds to use arm strength to loosen the bolts—arm strength that my XX chromosomes did not give me at conception. In thirty seconds, he has managed to take off five parts.

I watch him. He reminds me of Seth sometimes, the way he really gets into working on cars and bikes. My uncle may not have had too many marketable skills, but tinkering with Lolita was a true talent I will never have without someone here to help me. “There's leftover dolphin in the fridge for you, by the way.” I speak over his shoulder. “My mom told me to make sure you ate it.”

“Your mom rocks.”

I smile. Any mom would be a great mom next to the one he has. But he's right, both my mom and dad are good to him. They let him sleep on our porch, eat their food, even trespass when no one's home. Rock pretty much has an all-access pass here. Even if he hasn't used it much since school started back up last week.

“So, let me ask you something,” I say. “What was that ridiculous thing you did the other day when we last raced?”

“Please identify which ridiculous thing you mean.”

“Don't play stupid with me. You know what I'm talking about. You let me win.”

“No, I didn't.”

“Uh…yes, you did. And I don't need special treatment.”

“I would never treat you specially.”

I laugh. “Specially?”

He makes a laugh sound in his throat.

“You're not getting soft on me, are you?”

He raises the wrench. “I am never soft.”

I shove his shoulder with my foot. “Yeah, that's your problem, I would say. But so you know…when we race, we race for real. Got it?”

His phone beeps, indicating a text message. He grabs it quickly and reads. “Shit. Amber.” He proceeds to send a pissed-off, rapid-fire reply, then throws his already damaged phone back down on the driveway.

“What's wrong?” I ask.

“Nothing. I gotta go. Call you later.” He stands up to leave.

“Rock, you can't leave Lolita like this. I can't tighten her back up like you can.”

“I'll come back tonight.”

“Tonight will be too late.”

“I promise,” he says, jumping in his car, starting the ignition, and taking off before I can conjure up curse words strong enough to affect him. I hurl the wrench into the
grass. Seth would've given me a hard look for treating tools with disrespect, so I quickly go and pick the damned thing back up. Then I head back to my damned bike and put her more or less back in the same damned condition she was in before I started.

 

At night, I'm at the Murphys' dock, flat on my back, watching the nightly show. When I was little, Seth used to point out Sirius to me because it was always the brightest star in the sky. It's weird to think that Seth is gone, while Sirius is still around and probably will be for another million years. Sometimes I wonder if he's near it right now, riding Harleys ever after through the galaxy.

Maybe I should get home. It's 10:34
P.M
., and even the frogs have fallen asleep.

The weekend is here, and Gordon hasn't called yet. Probably won't, either. I accidentally-on-purpose ran into him twice this week, and both times, he smiled and said, “Motor Girl,” and I said, “Brain Boy.” It was really cute. I acted all casual, too, even though I screamed inside my head both times. I guess I'll have to accept that I have a bit of a Stockholm syndrome on my torturer—tutor, I mean. But it'll pass. Crushes always do.

My thoughts are interrupted by the Mustang's rumbling engine again. It stops twenty feet away and cuts, restoring the peace. Shoes crunch over gravel, and a heavy door closes. My personal bubble is about to be invaded, but it's a welcome invasion. “I was just about to leave.” I let my words get carried out to space by a cool breeze.

A low laugh answers me. “How do you know it's me and
not some crazy freak here to murder you?” His edgy tenor voice makes me smile in spite of myself.

“Your engine, duh.”

“Oh, ‘duh', is it? You know, you really need to stop coming here alone.”

“Can you give the chivalry crap a rest?”

“Sorry. Sometimes I forget you're a guy in a girl's body, that's all.” His voice grows closer and is soon accompanied by a swaying beam of light.

“That's sexist. Speaking of which, flashlights are for sissies,” I tell him.

He finally arrives at my head, the toe of his sneaker touching my hair, and shines the Maglite right into my face. “Only one way to find out if that's true,” he says, dropping his voice a notch, his legs wide apart in a studly stance.

I squint. “Spare me. Turn that stupid thing off, you're messing up my night vision.”

“Ooh, night vision,” he says, planting his butt next to me, the familiar scent of Rock infiltrating my space. Coconut SPF lotion and musky skin. Not a bad combo, I assure you. “For you, my queen.” He hands me a Styrofoam takeout container. “Sorry for running off on you earlier.”

My queen?
I raise an eyebrow at him.

“Why are you looking at me like that?”

“Because you've been acting weird.”

“And that alarms you because…”

“True. You're always weird,” I say, but I'm recognizing the familiar Rock pattern, the one where he starts latching on to me whenever things go sour with Amber, so I change the
subject. “What is this?” I pop open the container, revealing a glorious slice of caramel flan.

He hands me a plastic spoon. “A gift from Ricardo's.”

“Thanks.” I dig right in and start devouring my present.

“So what are we looking at tonight?”

“Nrff.”

“Same thing we look at every night?” he answers for me. “Why do you look so damn far up for things, Chloé? When everything you need is down here?” He lies on his back, turns toward me, then stares at me for a while.

I hold the spoon with my mouth and slap his
stupendicular
arm. Crikey! “Shtop that.” I glide the spoon through another velvety slice of heaven. “So what happened to you?”

He leans back on his elbows, and if it weren't for that whole friend thing, I would so lay my hand on his arm. “I went to see Amber.”

“Ugh.”

“I know, but I'm pretty sure it's over this time.”

“Again?”

“I think she's seeing someone else.”

“An exorcist, probably.”

“Chloé…” he warns. “Be nice. I think it might be King Doof.”

“What?” I squint, holding up my spoon. “Vince wouldn't do that to you.”

“Doesn't matter.” He pauses. His chest rises and falls slowly. “He can have her.”

I roll my eyes. “You say that, but then you waste your time on her over and over. You're together. You're not together. You're together…which is it? Because it was
not
Amber's car parked in your driveway last week.”

He shrugs. “Yes, we're on and off. Okay. But it doesn't bother me, Chloé. I can take her or leave her. I don't love her like that. I just hate seeing her with anyone else. I can't explain it. It's a territorial thing. And as for the other car…which one do you mean?”

“Whatever,” I say, rolling my eyes. “I can't keep up with your throngs of women, Rock, and I don't want to hear about them anymore. None of them.
Nadie. Nyet
. It's getting icky. Is this what you needed to talk to me about?”

“Not really.” Rock can usually cover up anything with the flash of his smile, but tonight, he seems to waver. He says nothing else, closes his eyes.

I think I know where this is leading. So I redirect the conversation. “Hey, I've been meaning to ask. Did you put a tarp on Lolita last week?”

He lifts his butt to take his phone from his back pocket. “Why would I do that?”

“Someone covered her so she wouldn't get rained on. Someone trying to be nice, I guess.”

“Who would be nice to you?” He lies down flat, smiling in the dark.

“Exactly.” I bump his head with mine and try to imagine we are brother and sister, linked by astral cords. I've always wanted a close sibling, someone who would have a connection with me from birth, even if we were on opposite sides of the planet. What if I have one somewhere out there? Closer to me in age, that is. All the more reason to investigate my adoption case. I hope Baby Carl and Baby Sagan grow up to realize how lucky they are.

“Chloé, I have a question.” He rolls toward me and props up his head. The way he says my name makes my stomach clench. This brother-sister fantasy was—
poof
—over before it ever began.

“Yeeees?”

“The thing is…” His face moves in on mine, and suddenly I can totally relate to all the girls who fawn over him. His soft breathing warms my cheek. The hairs on my arm stand straight up. Good thing it's too dark for him to see it.

“Rock,” I interrupt him before he throws himself to the wolves. As hot as he may be, I won't play his game. “Amber dumped you. Now you're seeking me out. It's a pattern. Recognize it.”

“Recognize what?”

“That you always do this. Fall hard for girls who don't care about you, then come crying when they drop you, acting like you want to be with me.”

He wipes caramel from my mouth with a finger and sucks it off. I do my best to ignore this gesture. “Maybe that's because my experience with other girls reminds me that, in the end,
you
are the best.”

I push him back away. “Don't complicate things.”

“I'm not complicating anything. It's the truth.” His eyes are killing me. They've always held power over me, but this is ridiculous. Then he goes and says this: “I'm going to die alone unless you save me, Chloé.”

I look at him like the idiot he sometimes is. “Would you stop? You don't need to be saved. You just need sense knocked into you.”

“Yes, and you're the only one who can do that.” He traces my face with his finger. I hold my breath and try not to notice, but it's like trying not to notice that a Greek god has landed in your bathtub.

“No, I'm not.”

“Fine. You're the only one I'll
let
do that.”

“That's different.” I turn my face away from him and up to the skies, hoping he'll do the same. “Isn't this a beautiful night?”

“Chlo, you're killing things.”

“What
things
, Rock?” I face him again, dead serious this time. “There aren't any
things
.
Things
do not happen between us.” I know he loves me, and believe me, I love him too. But if we ever became boyfriend and girlfriend, it would never be the same again, and I don't want to take that risk.

“Fine.
Things
do not happen between us,” he says in a mocking tone. We lie there, watching the sky for what seems a long time. “How about if you kiss me then?” he asks. “That's all I want. One kiss.” His eyelashes lower slowly. How could anyone say no to him? He leans in with those gorgeous lips, and all I have to do is touch them with mine to send him home happy. It's just hard to do when you don't know where else those lips have been today.

I've only kissed Rock twice before. Once when I was fifteen and I fell for his stupid “you are an amazing, amazing girl, you know that?” Then again last fall, when he brought a bottle of Parrot Bay out here and we actually tried counting all the stars, stopping around 284. That night I thought for a nanosecond that he was the best thing that had ever happened to me. But I had been coping with Seth's death
and clearly wasn't thinking straight. Especially when it hit me:
This is Rock I'm kissing.
And hadn't he just told me about the twenty-year-old Pilates instructor he'd been with a few hours earlier? I remember sobering up real quick.

Before I can overanalyze the moment any longer, his lips touch mine—soft, warm, perfect. I wish I could say it's terrible, that there's nothing between us whatsoever, but I can't. Rock kisses
sooo
nice. I had forgotten. He is entirely more sensitive than girls give him credit for. Some people have said that we're a perfect match because of his love of cars and my love of riding, but I just don't see it. I have way more things I want to discuss with a boyfriend besides carburetors and firing time.

I think of Gordon and our charged conversations. I want something like that, but without all the hostility. And highlighters. And righteous attitudes. Forget it. I obviously can't think with this beautiful man kissing me.