“That’s when naps usually happen.” His voice is sharper than it needs to be, more acerbic.
My hackles go up again—but the image of my mother getting sick in the back bathroom is still fresh in my mind. I wonder if he has any idea. He should have been the one taking care of her. He should be the one worrying about her now. “You don’t have to act like such a prick, Alan.”
“Watch your language.” He points a finger at me.
I slam the milk back into the refrigerator, then whirl, ready to get into it.
He’s not even looking at me. He’s looking back at his tablet.
I want to flip the table and send everything flying. I want to get in his face and scream, Look at me! Right now! Look at ME!
My cell phone vibrates against my thigh, and I jerk it out of my pocket. I press it to my ear without looking at the screen—the only person who ever calls me is Rev.
“Hey,” I say.
“Hey, Murph.”
The voice is thickly accented, and it takes me a second to place it. Melonhead. I haven’t been able to break him of the nickname, but I’ve found I prefer “Murph” to the overenunciated DECK-lin that turned out to be the alternative. He’s never called me. I have a panicked moment thinking I’m supposed to be at community service right now, but then I remember it’s Sunday. My heart sputters and finds a normal rhythm.
I still have no idea why he’s calling. “What’s up?”
“I was wondering if you were doing anything this afternoon. I was thinking maybe I could use your help. Well, my neighbor could.”
I am so confused, and I can’t think past the work we do on Tuesdays and Thursdays. “You need me to mow today or something?”
He laughs like I’ve said something truly funny. “No. My friend needs help with his car. You said you’re good with engines, right?”
I frown. “Sometimes. I mean . . . if it’s something modern, he should probably take it to the shop. Newer cars have computers—”
“It’s not new. He’s restoring it. It’s a—” He pauses and must put his hand over the phone to talk to someone else, but I hear him say, “What is this?” A dog barks in the background.
After another pause, he comes back on the line. “A 1972 Chevelle. He thinks it’s the carburetor.”
I grunt noncommittally and take a spoonful of cereal.
People always think it’s the carburetor.
“Do you know about carburetors?” Frank says.
“A little.”
“So you want to see if you can come help or what?”
It’s been months since I’ve worked on anything more complicated than Juliet’s old Honda, but my hands itch for the chance to get at something challenging. I glance across the kitchen at Alan. If I walk out of here without clearing it first, I guarantee you he’ll be on the phone with someone in law enforcement, and I’ll be in handcuffs fifteen minutes later.
He’s still sitting there, staring at the tablet, ignoring me but listening to every word I say. Tension hasn’t left the kitchen, and it’s turned to a haze between me and him.
I wish I could ask Mom.
She’s taking a nap.
Fear twinges inside me. I don’t want to think about it too hard, and I don’t want to bother her if she needs the rest. I put my hand over the phone. “Hey, Alan. My community service supervisor wants to know if I can help with something today.”
His eyes flick up. For an eternal moment, he regards me with an unreadable expression, and I’m certain he’s going to say no, just to jerk my chain.
Then he swipes at the screen. “Go ahead. Make sure you’re home before dinner.”
I almost drop my spoon.
Frank Melendez doesn’t live far, but I’m surprised how much his neighborhood looks like mine, another older, middle-class suburb with short driveways, occasional sidewalks, and fenced yards. For some reason I expected him to live in the projects. Juliet’s email digs at me, reminding me I’m just as guilty of judging people on one snapshot of their lives.
It’s easy to find the right place because I can see the glistening orange Chevelle from down the block. This guy had to have paid a fortune for the paint job, because that shade of orange looks custom-matched. Two men are standing in the driveway, staring down at the engine block. A massive German shepherd sprawls on the pavement between them, ears pricked and alert. When I park, the dog trots over, tail waving.
I put out my hand and wait, hoping I’m not about to lose it.
“She’s all right,” calls the man standing with Melonhead. “Skye’s the welcome wagon.”
The dog confirms this by pressing her face under my hand. I rub her behind the ears and walk up the driveway.
“Hey, Murph,” Melonhead says. “This is my neighbor, John King.”
The man is middle-aged with graying hair. He’s wearing a lime-green polo shirt, and he looks like the kind of guy who’d go golfing with Alan. I want to dislike him for that alone, but he gives me a warm smile and holds out a hand—not the kind of reaction people usually give me. “Murph, is it? Frank says you’re an expert on engines.”
“Declan Murphy.” I shake his hand. He’s got a firm grip, but it’s not overpowering. “And I don’t know about ‘expert.’ Frank only saw me fix a lawnmower.”
His smile falters the tiniest bit, but then he glances at my car. “Did you have a hand in rebuilding that Charger?”
“I did most of it myself.”
He gives a low whistle. The full smile is back. “You’re a lucky kid. I know guys who would kill for one of those.”
So do I. I shrug. “My dad lucked out and found the body and half the engine in a junkyard. He started it when I was young. I finished it.” I wince, thinking of the air-blasted body. “Well, not the paint. Not yet.”
“Saving up for custom?”