I’m driving it out of the shed when he calls out behind me. “All right! Come see what you can do.”
The tractor is a mess. It takes me an extra minute to get at the engine because the hinge is rusty. I don’t know who’s been taking their money, but this thing hasn’t been maintained at all. While I’m in here, I check the oil pan. The oil is black and thick as soup. I tell him so.
“What makes you an expert on tractors?” he says. His daughter is crouching between us, like she’s a key player in the repair effort. Her eyes dart back and forth. She repeats almost every word I say.
“I didn’t say I was an expert on tractors. This is basic stuff.” I wipe my arm across my forehead before sweat can get into my eyes. “An engine is an engine.”
“You know cars?”
I shrug and keep my eyes on the engine as I slide the oil pan back into place. I’m used to Melonhead running on at the mouth, but he usually doesn’t talk to me. “More about the insides than the outsides.”
“Can you fix it so it’ll run tonight?”
“Maybe. The fuel filter needs replacing, but I can probably clean it enough.” I pull it free and blow on it.
Marisol leans forward and tries to do the same thing. I hold it out for her to give it a shot.
Melonhead watches this, and I pull it back, remembering how he grabbed her away from me.
“It’s nice of you to let her help,” he says.
I feel myself blushing and glance back at the engine. Rev is really better with kids. I don’t get much practice. “It’s not like she can hurt it.”
“I not hurt it!” she says indignantly.
I smile. “Besides, she sounds like she’s taking notes to make up a manual later.”
He hugs her. “She’s my little parrot.”
She squirms free. “I helping!”
“You are,” he says.
I wipe at the outside of the filter, then blow on it again. “I can’t guarantee it’ll hold all night, but this should get you through a section or two.”
“Did your father teach you this?”
“Yeah.”
“Is he a mechanic?”
“Not anymore.”
He must hear the note in my voice, because I can hear his hesitation. He wants to ask. I’m surprised he doesn’t know my whole history from the judge, but maybe he only gets the details of my crimes and not my father’s.
He must think better of it. “Thanks, Murph.”
I push the filter back into place, then look at him. I try to keep the irritation out of my voice, but a little slides in. “My name is Declan.”
Melonhead doesn’t miss a beat. He holds out a hand. “Nice to meet you. My name is Frank.”
I blink. “Frank?”
He shrugs. “You’d feel better if I told you to call me Francisco?”
Now I look away, almost ashamed. It’s not like I called him Pedro or something.
Though maybe that would have been better than Melonhead.
He claps me on the shoulder. “Your dad didn’t teach you to shake hands?”
I pull the work glove off my hand and reach out to shake his.
“You’re not a bad kid to have around, Declan,” he says.
I snort. “You just haven’t known me long enough.”
My stepfather is sitting in the living room when I walk through the door. I usually check before walking in, but all I want is a soda and a shower and a chance to hole up in my room and not be accountable to anyone. A football game is on, the volume roaring. Alan and Mom bought the big-screen for each other as a wedding present. Mom can’t stand loud noise, so I’m not surprised when she’s not sitting next to him. Her car is in the driveway, though, so I know she’s home.
I want to tell Alan to turn the damn volume down so she can enjoy the television, too.
I don’t. I don’t even look at him.
He watches me, though, like he’s waiting for me to rage out. You could grab hold of the tension in the room.
“Where have you been?” he says.
What a dick. He knows where I’ve been. I stride past the couch toward the kitchen.
“I’m talking to you.” He’s half shouting over the television. “Don’t you ignore me.”
I ignore him.
I expect him to follow me into the kitchen, but he doesn’t.
Alan sells insurance. I’ve seen him in full-on sales mode, and the bull practically oozes from his pores. The rest of the time, he’s pretending to be a tough-guy sports nut. It’s some kind of miracle that he’s not sitting in front of the television with a foam finger and a felt pennant.
I have no idea what Mom sees in him.
No, that’s not true. I know exactly what she sees in him: a sweet-talker who figured out how to get in her pants.
You know what I see in him? Another prick who’s going to let her down so hard that a fall from a cliff would hurt less.
Not that anyone’s sitting around asking for my opinion.
The refrigerator yields cold lasagna. I scoop some onto a plate but don’t bother to heat it up. I grab a Coke and a fork and prepare to run the Alan gauntlet one more time.
He’s glaring at the kitchen doorway when I emerge. The television blares behind him.
“I asked you where you were,” he says.
I keep right on walking.
He stands up. Blocks my path.
Alan isn’t a big guy, but he’s not small, either. I have no idea what would happen if he took a swing at me. The only thing that keeps me from hitting him is that I know how much it would upset my mom.
I wonder if the same is true in his case.
I meet his eyes. We’re dead even for height. Most people back down from me, but Alan doesn’t. He knows what I did and he knows what I have to do, but it’s still humiliating to have to admit it out loud. “I had community service.”
“That ends at eight o’clock. It’s after nine.”
“My boss was late. We had a problem with one of the mowers.” The plate in my hand is starting to feel heavy.
“You’re supposed to report there and come home immediately after.”
“I did.”
“Don’t lie to me.”
It takes everything I have to keep the food in my hands instead of flinging it down. “I’m not lying to you.”