Cassie’s already unlocked her door. “Text you later! Love you!” The door shuts, the brake lights glow red, and she backs out in a sweeping arc. I jump out of the way.
“Love you,” I say to the exhaust puffing out of her tailpipe. Any lingering therapeutic effects from the ocean have dissipated as I stand here on the concrete, sopping wet and without a license. Terrific Senior Cut Day.
I turn to Dad’s car, and my eyes hone in on the front driver’s-side tire. The one that’s now completely flat.
Wonderful.
Because this day couldn’t get any better.
CHAPTER THREE
“THAT DOESN’T LOOK good.”
“Nope.” My hand pokes at the tire uselessly, like it’ll stop playing dead and wake up.
Marcos squats beside me. Unlike me, he’s in a dry sweatshirt that smells like fresh cotton. “Got a donut?”
Today is the most I’ve ever talked to Marcos. When I became serious about competitive gymnastics in third grade, I only saw my peers–besides Cassie–at school. I didn’t care about the day-to-day Ponquogue drama. School was where I rested between practices and did what I had to do to wow a prospective college coach with both gymnastics and grades. Outside of practice, I hung out with Cassie or my teammates. Now, school’s pretty much the only place I go.
Marcos nods at my phone. “Do you have an app that’s going to fix it?”
I crack a smile. “I’m looking for a tutorial.”
His eyes widen like he’s impressed. Or he’s just realized how freakin’ cold that last gust of wind was. “I can help if you want.”
I don’t have any other options besides calling Mom, which means she’ll call Dad, which means I’ll be scolded while still soaking wet and getting colder by the second. I extend a hand. “Work your magic.”
Marcos takes the donut from the trunk and effortlessly carries it to the front of the car. His shoulders are broad, the kind that would make a male gymnast envious, and he places it lightly on the ground. “I can teach you.”
I probably won’t be allowed out of the house again until I’m forty. I nod anyway.
“First we’ve gotta get this guy off of the ground.” He places the jack under the car. I’ve seen this before– Richard loved tinkering with Dad’s car when he came home for college breaks–but a refresher won’t hurt.
“That handstand on the rocks was really cool.” His voice sounds distant beneath the car. “What happened to your knee?”
I kneel beside him. “A Frisbee.”
His shoulders shake as he laughs. “I mean in the spring. I saw you on crutches.”
What hadn’t happened to my knee would be a better question. “Tore my ACL, MCL, and meniscus.”
“Shit.” He scoots back and looks at me sympathetically.
I look away. “I’m fine now.” The days I didn’t work at the beach parking booth were spent doing physical therapy. My knee’s as good as it’s going to be, besides the crackle and pop of scar tissue when I bend or straighten it quickly.
He takes a wrench to the first hubcap and passes it to me so I can unscrew the others. “You’re strong,” he says. “You really didn’t need my help getting out of the water.”
It feels a hell of a lot better down here than it did standing. Warmer. Safer, like we’re crouched by a kindling fire.
The guys laugh up on the dunes. Someone calls, “Castillo, where you at?” and Marcos shows no reaction. Instead, he helps me slip on the donut and runs his hands over the flat tire.
His palms are callused, like mine. “You cut this up pretty good. See what I mean?” He tilts it toward me, revealing a long slit. “You’re probably going to need a new one.”
Lovely. More things my father will scold me for.
Once the donut is secured, all lug nuts and hub caps are tightened, and the deflated tire is plopped into the trunk, we stand facing each other. What do you say to a guy who hit you with a Frisbee, jumped in the ocean after you, and saved you from calling your dad to say, “Hey, I stole your car and tore up your tire. Come get me”?
I settle on: “Thank you so much. This would have been a disaster without you.”
He slips his hands into his jeans pockets and grins. “I owed you for the Frisbee fiasco.”
My eyes dart directly to his front tooth, crooked like a little kid’s. “Well, um, I’ll see you around?”
The grin expands. Two dimples deepen in his cheeks. “We’re in the same lunch.”
“Oh, cool.”
“And gym class.”
“I totally knew that,” I lie. I spend the period passing the football with Cassie (when she’s there, that is; otherwise, I pair up with a random person). I’m surprised Marcos noticed we were in one period together, let alone two.
He laughs like he knows I’m full of it. “See you tomorrow, Savannah.”
I start up the car, the radio blasting, and pretend that I don’t notice him watching as I inch out of my spot.
AFTER I PULL into my dad’s usual spot, I contemplate my choices:
Go inside and move through a normal day, with a stern, public talking-to inevitably waiting from Dad.
Spend the rest of Senior Cut Day hiding in my bedroom.
I started off today with Failure to use proper judgment. Might as well see it through to the finish. So I tuck the keys behind the donut, cut through the woods, and walk the three miles home.
I turn the doorknob slowly in hopes that the wind will mask my entrance. Wait. Listen. Repeat.
“Look what I found,” my mother calls.
Just like that. Busted.
She emerges from the family room and eyes me sternly. She’s tiny, not a whisper over five feet, and in her US Army sweatshirt and sweatpants, she looks like a kid. It’s probably why the children at Dayshine Preschool love climbing on her; they think she’s one of them. “Dad was one step away from calling the police, but I suspected you were with Cassie.”
“How much trouble am I in?”
Her face relaxes ever so slightly. “If you help me clean up in here, I might be able to talk him down to twenty-five years.”