I lean against the hood of Kale’s Mustang and watch Uncle Jasper talk with the dealer inside the lobby. He looks like a wild man through the glass; he keeps tipping his hat back and scratching his head, his hands gesturing to no end. They’re two fish in a glass bowl, muted things that I can only watch. If I didn’t know any better, I’d say he was playing with the guy, and I smile at the thought, because that’s the Uncle Jasper I know.
A few minutes later, Uncle Jasper walks out with a set of keys in his hand. The guy stares at him through the window, looking unsure about what just happened. Like waking up from a dream.
I stand up and cross my arms. “Why do I get the feeling we’re stealing this?”
“You don’t want me to answer that,” he says. Then asks, “Is he still staring at me?”
I glance over his shoulder. “Yes.”
He smiles to himself. “Peter dropped this off about two hours ago, and he hasn’t had the chance to look under the hood.” He grins. I haven’t seen him smile so much all summer.
“And since it looks like a piece of scrap metal on the outside,” I say, catching on, “They think it must be a piece of junk.”
“Exactly. Little does he know how many hours that kid put into this car. It might look like shit on the outside, but it runs better than anything I’ve seen come into my garage in a long time.” A strange sense of pride rises up when I hear that. But it makes me realize more that this is a Kale I don’t know. “Anyway,” Uncle Jasper continues, “he couldn’t decline instant cash for more than he paid for it.”
I think about it and squint up. “Isn’t that a little dishonest? We’re practically ripping these people off.”
“They actually made money today,” he says, probably trying not to feel bad. “Peter wanted to get rid of it, and he didn’t care how much he got for it.”
“So they’re making money, and Kale gets his car back.” I shrug. “Sounds fair enough to me.”
Uncle Jasper tosses me the keys. “Meet you back at the house.” He opens his mouth to say something else but stops himself.
“What?”
“I was going to say be careful not to scratch it,” he says, “but I think that’s irrelevant.” He leaves me standing in the parking lot with Kale’s keys in my hand, and I watch his truck disappear before getting behind the wheel.
I take the long way home.
Being in Kale’s car stirs my stomach. The steering wheel is smooth where his hands grip it. The seats are worn with small rips along the edges, where white fluff peeks through the material. And it smells like him. Kale’s smell is like standing in an open field with a rain storm coming. It’s one thing that hasn’t changed about him.
I wish I could say Kale hasn’t been on my mind for the last few days, but that would be lying. I can’t stop thinking about his missing smile or his tired eyes, which used to be so bright—something that has really been bothering me.
And I can’t stop thinking about the dog tags I saw around his neck.
They didn’t look like the cheap dog tags you can get in the store, or the kind you get engraved for someone. They aren’t even the real dog tags that the Army uses. They were … old, and worn.
Just like Kale and everything about him, there’s something I’m missing.
I pull over on the side of the road and get out, looking over a soybean field. The darkening clouds overhead let the sun shine through in bright rays, lighting up a world that was dark a moment before.
It makes me think things can be good again, even after moving here away from everything I knew. Sometimes it doesn’t feel that way, like there’s a chance for me to heal after being left behind by my own mother. Even if it was my decision to leave her in the end.
It’s something I can’t forget about and move on from in a day.
But maybe this can be my fresh start.
8.
Kale
We’ve been in this same chunk of woods for two days. A small time compared to how long we’ve been in this same area. It’s got to be months by now.
Eating hard bread and sleeping in frozen holes in the ground.
They tell us we’re advancing today, and I ran out of cigarettes last night. I don’t like the taste of them, but I don’t think I can go another day without one.
With my feet cold and my stomach empty, I find the nearest fire where a few guys try to warm up. Most of them are in high spirits usually, telling jokes and stories to keep their minds off things here. They hold their hands over the flames, their white fingers turning pink. It’s easy for them to smile, because a part of them yearns to.
Stiles nods to me, keeping his hands over the fire. “Hey, Jackson. I heard about Adams this morning,” he says. “It’s a damn shame.”
“We lost Campbell this morning, too,” Bingo mutters, taking a long drag and blowing the smoke through his nose. “Heard the replacements are already on their way.”
I feel my hands shaking again, hidden away deep in the pockets of my jacket. I don’t like thinking about Adams and how—if I’d done something differently—he would still be alive. But that’s the funny thing about time-traveling; the past has already played out, even though I’m living it now.
It cannot be changed. A fact that haunts me every day.
Everyone mumbles about the damn replacements, all wondering if any of them will last the week. The guys around me talk more about girls and the war. And if anyone would’ve asked me, I couldn’t have told them anything they said.
My body is here, but my mind isn’t.
It’s at home, wondering if Dad will take me seriously if I try to tell him the truth again. Wondering if I can somehow make things right between us. Libby and Bryce, he doesn’t have a problem with. They go to school. Get good grades. Have summer jobs because they can.
I’m the one who makes things harder.
Just me.
The messed-up kid he probably wishes he never had.
Stiles nudges me in the arm, offering a cigarette. “You look like you could use one.”
I take it wordlessly, trying to smile.
A few guys laugh and joke about me finally breaking down a month back while Stiles lights it. They know I tried to hold off smoking at first. And they also know it’s nearly an impossible feat.
Our cigarettes stand out white in this gray and brown world.
My hands are so cold, I can barely hold it to my lips, but it’s already calming me. We’ll be attacking soon, probably less than thirty minutes from now. I need it more than I can admit.
Voices murmur around me:
“Lieutenant.”
“Lieutenant.”
“Boys,” a voice greets behind me.
I turn and nod to Lieutenant Gates. “Lieutenant.”
“And how are we this afternoon?”
Stiles answers, “Ready to kill some krauts, sir.”