Roadside Assistance (10 page)

“Hey,” Zander said, coming up beside me. “Wait.”

I faced him, his proximity causing my mouth to dry. He tossed the shop towel onto the workbench, and I spotted the glimmer of the gold chain around his neck. I felt myself reach for my own necklace.

“I saw you rush out of church today,” he said. “Is everything all right?”

“Oh, that?” I asked, waving off the question. “It was nothing.
I had something in my eye. I think it was an eyelash. You know how painful those can be.”

“An eyelash, huh? They are painful.” He nodded but didn’t look convinced. “Well, I just wanted to check. It’s none of my business.”

“I’m fine, thanks.” I absently twirled a ringlet around my finger, a nervous habit I’d developed as a child.

“Emily!” my dad’s voice shouted. “Hurry up or I’m going to eat your cordon bleu!”

Zander nodded in the direction of the Richards’ house. “You better go, Chevy Girl. He sounds serious about his supper.”

I blinked, stunned by the nickname. “See you around,” I finally said, starting toward the house.

“Yup, you will,” he called.

Stepping through the gate, I glanced back and found him watching me, a grin adorning his handsome face. My heart skipped a beat as I smiled at him in return.

Later that evening, I curled up on my bed with my journal and a bottle of water. Opening the journal to a blank page, I began to write:

Sunday, August 28

Dear Mom,

Today Dad and I went to church for the first time since your funeral. It was gut-wrenching to walk into that sanctuary. I couldn’t help but remember the day we said our last good-byes to you. What made it even more difficult was that we sang your favorite hymn.

I keep thinking of your strong faith. I still don’t understand how you maintained your relationship with God up until your last days. How did you do it, Mom? How did you continue to talk to God and invite him into your heart even though you knew you weren’t going to make it? I have to admit, what you told me isn’t helping. I know you meant it and believed it, but it feels … hollow to me. I wish I could ask for your help in person. I wish you could lead me back to my path. I’m afraid to admit out loud that I’ve forgotten how to talk to him.

I met the pastor today, and the youth director. They were really nice to me, and they both offered to listen if I ever needed to talk to someone. Jenna, the youth director, gave me her card, but I don’t know if I’ll call. Dad, however, made an appointment to talk to the pastor, which really shocked me since he refuses to talk about you, even when I ask. In the car, all I got was a few sentences before he shut down. What can he tell a pastor — a stranger — that he can’t tell me, his own daughter?

I don’t want to go back to counseling, and I especially wouldn’t want to talk to the youth director or the pastor. What would they think of me? They would never understand how confused I am. A real Christian wouldn’t lose her faith like this, right?

Enough heavy stuff. Mom, I have to tell you something funny too. I finally met Zander today when I went next door to get Logan for supper. Zander was working on his Dodge. He seems nice and he asked me if I was okay after seeing me cry in church. And that was after I started spouting off car stuff— which makes me hopeful he’s not at all like Tyler. Not that I’m thinking anything romantic, or even want something like that … Zander’s blue eyes are amazing though. I keep finding myself staring at them. Oh, and he called me “Chevy Girl.” The weird thing is that I actually like the nickname. It makes me feel special. How corny is that?

I glanced at the clock and saw that it was nearly eleven. I closed the journal, placed it on the nightstand, and then turned off the light.

Snuggling under the covers, I closed my eyes. Taking a deep breath, I tried to pray, but nothing came to my heart or my head. I rolled onto my side and hugged my blanket. Soon, I fell asleep.

chapter six

M
onday afternoon Chelsea and I walked out to the parking lot together after school. I was so glad I’d called her Saturday and we’d gone to a movie together, because I felt that our friendship had grown from acquaintances to almost best friends since Friday. We’d chatted before our English test and then were partners in gym, where we did more talking than actual racquet work. Chelsea and I spent lunch laughing and discussing the movie, and we talked about going to see another one soon.

During lunch I’d spotted Zander sitting with Chad, and when Zander caught my eye he’d waved at me. Despite my surprise, I waved back and hoped we’d run into each other again soon.

“Do you need a ride home?” Chelsea asked as we crossed the parking lot.

“Whitney has a cheerleader thing, so I was planning to take the bus,” I said.

“Don’t be silly. I can drive you,” Chelsea said, adjusting her bag on her shoulder. “I’m free today, but I have a theater meeting tomorrow.”

“Theater?” I asked, stopping and facing her. “You act?”

She laughed. “No, I do costumes and makeup. I dabble in hair too.”

“Really? I’d noticed your outfits are always so coordinated. You have an amazing sense of style.”

Her smile was wide, proud. “Thank you. It’s my dream to actually design clothes someday. I want to go to school in New York City.”

“You’d be good at that.”

She nodded toward me. “I’d love to get my hands on your hair. I could give you a total makeover. You’ve got amazing features — you could make those eyes really stand out.”

“Oh. Maybe someday.” I started walking again, hoping to change the subject. Fashion was so not my thing. Maybe I was defensive, but she was starting to sound like Darlene.
My hair is just fine, thank you very much.
“So, back to that ride. Are you sure you can drive me today?”

“It’s no biggie.”

“You sure?” I asked.

She tapped my shoulder. “That’s what friends are for.”

I climbed into her car, and we chatted about school the entire time she drove.

Chelsea steered into the Richards’ driveway at the same time the green Jeep hit the parallel driveway next door. Zander slowed down and grinned, and my stomach flip-flopped.

He stopped and motioned for me to roll the window down. “Hey, Chevy Girl!”

“Hey, Mr. Mopar,” I quipped.

He laughed, putting the Jeep in gear and rolling the rest of the way up the driveway to his garage.

“What was that about?” Chelsea asked, her eyes wide with shock.

“It’s a long story,” I said, waving off the comment and fighting back a goofy grin.

“I got time,” she said.

She parked behind the house, and I spotted my dad back by
the detached garage, leaning under the hood of the Suburban. Dad wasn’t one to tinker for fun, so there had to be something wrong with the truck.

“Well?” Chelsea tapped her steering wheel with impatience. “Why does he call you Chevy Girl?”

“Because I told him that if he wants to fix his old Dodge, he should trade it in for a Chevy.” I hefted my book bag from the floor and began to leave. “Thanks for the ride.”

“Wait a minute.” She grabbed my arm, depositing me back into the passenger seat. “You gave Zander car advice and he gave you a nickname?”

I shrugged. “Yeah. So?”

“That is
so
cool.” Chelsea studied me. “So you know about cars?”

I pushed the door open. “My dad owned a collision repair shop, so I grew up working on them.”

“Awesome. I’ll keep that in mind.” She tapped the dashboard. “This old thing needs some work every once in a while.”

“I can check it out. Just let me know.” I pointed toward my dad. “In fact, I better go see if he needs help. Thanks again.”

“You’re welcome.” She winked. “Good luck with Mr. Mopar.”

I laughed. “See you tomorrow.”

While Chelsea drove down the driveway, I trotted over to the Suburban. “Hey, Dad,” I said, sidling up to him. “What’s going on?”

“Hey.” Dad wiped his hands on a shop towel. “How was school?”

“Good.” I craned my neck, examining the engine. “What’s wrong with the truck?”

“Hard start.” He turned to me. “The plugs look good. What do you think?”

I stood up on my tiptoes to get a better look at the engine. “If the plugs look good, it’s the timing.”

Smiling with pride, he nodded. “Could be.”

“So you need a distributor wrench and timing light.” I started toward the garage. “Is the door unlocked?”

“Don’t bother. The garage is so packed with our stuff you’ll never get the toolbox drawers open.” He pointed toward the fence. “See if that kid next door will let us borrow his. From his setup, I’d imagine he has a timing light and distributor wrench or two. What’s his name — Zane or Zac or Zeke or something?”

“It’s Zander.” I hesitated, too nervous to go over there. But I knew I could talk to him, and I wanted to after that friendly greeting he’d sent my way in the driveway. What was wrong with me?

“Well?” He gestured toward the fence. “What are you waiting for?”

I dropped my bag next to the Suburban and headed through the gate. I found Zander sitting on a stool in his garage, reviewing a shop manual. I stared at him for a moment, taking in his long legs, tanned skin, dark hair, and face. He was studying the book with such intensity that I wondered if it held critical government secrets.

“Hey,” I finally said, crossing my arms in front of my chest and twirling a curl around my finger.

He glanced up and smiled. “Hey yourself.” He placed the book on a workbench littered with tools. “What can I do for you?”

“I’m sorry to bother you, but do you have a distributor wrench and a timing light my dad can use real quick?” I jerked a thumb in the direction of the fence. “He can’t get to his tools right now.”

“Sure thing. It’s no bother at all.” He hopped down from his stool and began searching through drawers. “What’s he working on?”

“The Suburban.”

He faced me, the tools in his hands. His eyes were full of laughter, a grin turning up the corners of his mouth. “Really?” I swallowed a groan. “Yes.”

“You mean the
Chevy
Suburban, right?” He stepped over to me and I noticed that he towered over me by at least five inches, standing close to six feet like my dad.

“That’s the one.” My cheeks felt as if they would spontaneously combust. “It’s having a hard time starting and the plugs look good.”

“Impressive. Someone taught you well.” He gripped the tools and smiled, and I noticed for the first time that he had a dimple in his right cheek. “Let’s go see what’s wrong with that troublesome Chevy.”

We walked together through the gate and over to the truck, where my dad stood gazing under the hood and rubbing the stubble on his chin, a stance I’d seen often when he was debating fixing or kicking a vehicle. I hoped he’d choose fixing it since he’d once broken his big toe while repeatedly kicking an offending Pontiac Grand Prix.

My dad turned to us and grinned. “Help has arrived!” He stuck his hand out. “I’m Brad Curtis. I see you’ve met Emily.”

Zander placed the timing light on the ground and shook his hand. “Nice to meet you, Mr. Curtis. I’m Zander Stewart.”

“Oh, call me Brad. There’s no need for formality.” My dad pointed to the tools. “Thanks for helping out. I don’t know if Emily told you, but I can’t get into my toolbox. We unloaded it last week, but the garage is so packed I can’t get the drawer open. And I can always use an extra hand for stuff like this.” He rubbed his hands together. “Okay, let’s get this show on the road.” My dad pointed to the timing light. “Em, you grab that. You can do this stuff in your sleep.”

Zander looked at me, his eyebrows arching. He was clearly impressed — again.

I hesitated, embarrassed by the spectacle Dad was making over my mechanical abilities.

“What are you waiting for?” Dad asked, jingling the keys. “I need to get this truck running or I’ll never find a job.”

Zander leaned over and snatched the timing light. As he stood, his gold chain flipped from beneath his T-shirt, and a cross glinted in the sun.

So he was a Christian outside of church too.

Definitely out of my league.

Zander handed me the light, and I uttered a thank you.

“You know the drill,” my dad said. “I’ll start it and keep my foot on the gas. You guys make the adjustment.” He hopped into the driver’s seat and, after I attached the timing light’s terminals to the car battery and a spark plug wire, he started the truck. “I’m going to hold it at two thousand rpms,” he yelled.

“I’ll turn the distributor,” Zander called, gripping the wrench. “What do you want it set at?”

“Put it on eight degrees before top dead center,” Dad hollered back.

I held the light on the timing mark to see where the notch was. “What’s the timing mark at now?” Zander asked me as he loosened the distributor bolt two turns. “It’s at two degrees,” I said.

As he slowly turned the distributor counterclockwise, the motor chugged, wheezing for air and nearly dying.

“Wrong way, Mr. Mopar,” I said with a smirk.

He grinned, shook his head, and then turned it clockwise.

I watched the mark move in the flashing light and counted it down. “Two, four, six, eight,” I called. “Stop!”

Zander tightened the bolt back down. “Done,” he said.

My dad killed the motor and climbed from the truck. “Thanks, guys,” he said. He gestured toward me. “She’s good, huh?”

“Dad …” I shot him an evil look.

“As I said earlier, impressive.” Zander smiled at me, and I thought I might melt onto the pavement. I was relieved when he turned to my dad. “What kind of job are you looking for, Mr. Curtis?”

“Automotive, and I told you to call me Brad.” My dad leaned on the fender. “I owned a shop before we came here. I can do collision repair or mechanical work.”

“Do you have a résumé?” Zander asked.

My dad nodded. “I’ve applied at most of the dealerships in the area.”

“Have you tried Cameronville Auto and Body out on Highway 29?” Zander asked, gesturing toward the road as if he were pointing to the shop.