“In the cup holder.” I don’t bother to ask why this time. Not only am I beginning to sound like a parrot, but it doesn’t matter. His plan, whatever it may be, is our only plan.
“Just keep driving—fast—but don’t get pulled over, and don’t talk. What’s your cell code?”
I don’t know why I volunteer it with no hesitation, but I do. “1-2-3-4.”
He laughs. “Why even have a code?”
“Not importaaant,” I reply in a tense sing-song. “Doing sixty in a forty, so maybe ask me later?”
“Shh,” he warns sharply, and I clamp my mouth shut. “Mrs. Kelly? Oh, yes, I apologize. Julie. This is Kingston…no, no, she’s fine! But we got ourselves in a bit of a jam: a flat tire on the way home. I’m fixing it now…no, it’s no problem. I simply wanted to call so you wouldn’t worry, since we’ll be missing curfew.”
There’s a long pause in which I can hear my mother’s muffled voice. I can’t stop my smirk, now that I’m finally clued in on his scheme.
“I wanted her to stay in the vehicle since it’s too dangerous on the side of the road, and insisted she let me call to explain. She was worried she might be in trouble, but rest assured, I explained to her that was ludicrous. Considering you’re such supportive, understanding parents, I knew your only concern would be her safety.”
Even with my eyes mostly on the road, I catch his wink at me that clearly states he’s proud of himself for that little trick he just pulled out of his hat. I’ll admit it: He’s good.
As I pull in front of the junkyard, he hangs up with my mom. “You’re really gonna flatten my tire? And replace it with what, genius?”
I stop at the gate and notice the big CLOSED sign, accompanied by a large, unmistakable padlock that signals it’s the end of the road for us.
“No way!” I bang my hands against the steering wheel. “Of course it’s closed. It’s late. So what now, Bourne?”
But he’s already outside, leaning through the passenger-side window to look at me.
“Turn the truck off, but leave the lights on, and jump out. We need to hurry—certainly don’t want a dead battery, as well. And your assistance is required.”
I’m knee deep in the conspiracy now, so I might as well own it. I hop out and meet him at the front of the truck.
“All right. First, what tools do you have?” he asks, fiddling with the padlock on the gate.
“Oh, you mean besides the lock-picking set I don’t have in my glove compartment? Hmm…nothing!” I throw my arms out to my sides. “We’re screwed.”
“How easily you give up. Must be residual from your arse-kicking tonight.” He grins, poking me in the belly. “Do you know how to remove a tire?”
I nod adamantly. “Yes. And I do have the tool for that.”
“I knew that’d be your answer.” He beams, with…pride? “Do it—fast. But try not to get dirty. I said I had you wait in the vehicle. I’ll be right back with a spare. I’ll say your tire rolled down a hill into the lake.”
“Kingston…” I squirm, gnawing on the inside of my cheek. “I don’t like lying to my parents.”
“I know, and you won’t.” His hand brushes across my cheek, his eyes latched onto mine. “I will.”
He runs off, and I yell at his back, “But how are you gonna get a—”
Oh my God. My jaw drops open, and I can feel my eyes widening.
“Oh my God, what the hell are you doing?” I watch in horror as he scales the fence like a cat burglar. “Kingston! Junkyards usually have dogs—mean, growly, bitey dogs!”
“Maybe we hold off on our screaming so as not to alert them, then, eh?” he whispers loudly as he drops to the ground. “Echo, move your beautiful arse and get the tire off. Please.”
~~~~~
Somehow, we manage it. Kingston actually steals a tire off a junkyard truck, slaps that bad boy on, and rolls mine down into a ditch to retrieve tomorrow.
And the light grease stains on his hands only help prove our case to my parents when we get home, my dad waiting on the porch. I don’t have to speak a word; Kingston does all the talking, just as he promised he would.
“Well, I’m just glad you were with her when it happened. Thank you, Kingston.” My father claps him on the shoulder. “I’ll see about getting her a new tire tomorrow.”
“No, Dad, please. My truck, my responsibility. I’ll pay for it.” There’s no way I’ll remain silent and let my father waste his money on our farce—especially since the perfectly fine tire is sitting in a ditch, waiting for us to pick up.
“Actually, John,” Kingston says, looking directly into my father’s eyes, “I let the tire roll down the hill—in a hurry, but still careless. I’ll buy Echo a new tire. I insist.”
My dad makes his thinking-it-over humming noise in the back of his throat, scratches his chin, then finally decides.
“That sounds about right. Way to take responsibility, Kingston. I’m proud of you. Now, you two head to bed. I’m glad you’re both all right.”
“Yes, sir,” I mumble, ashamed. “Night, Mom.”