“No one is buying you off,” he says, his voice matching mine for intensity. “You said that’s what a mechanic would charge, so I’m choosing to pay you.” He hesitates. “And maybe we were a little too harsh when we took all of your money to pay for representation last May. You spent years saving that.”
Yes. I had. It takes a lot of odd jobs and oil changes to make three thousand dollars—and this doesn’t come close to replacing that.
Which is okay. Which is better somehow.
“Besides,” says Alan, “you got a call from a guy named John King. He says he has a few friends who want you to take a look at their cars. I figured I should get your services while they’re cheap.”
Frank’s neighbor. I feel light-headed. “John King called?”
“His number is by the phone. He said they’re willing to pay you for a consultation.”
Like I’m a doctor or something. I swallow. “Okay.”
Mom slides out of her chair, walks over to me, and puts her hands on my face.
It’s so unexpected that I freeze.
“I’m sorry,” she says softly. “I’m sorry I haven’t been there for you. I want to try to be better.”
“You don’t need to be better,” I say softly.
“I do.” Her face crumples a little, but then she catches it and takes a long breath. “These crazy hormones.” She swipes at one eye. “I’m getting another chance. I want to do it right.”
My words from yesterday morning echo in my head, and guilt tackles me. Replacing Kerry?
I can barely speak through the shame. “I’m sorry for what I said,” I say. “I’m so sorry.”
“Stop,” she says. “It’s okay. We’re all getting another chance.”
With that, she puts her arms around my neck and squeezes tight. I hug her back. I can’t remember the last time my mother held me, and I hold on for a good, long time.
Then she jumps back. “Did you feel that?”
“Feel what?”
“He kicked! First time!”
I smile, thinking of the lady in the hospital. “I have that effect.” Then I realize what she said. “He?”
“Yes. A boy.”
“A brother,” says Alan.
A brother. I’ve spent so much time thinking they were trying to rebuild our family that a baby brother didn’t occur to me. My brain almost can’t process this. I step back. “I need to get ready for school.”
She nods. “Okay.”
I stop in the doorway and pull a twenty out of the envelope, then walk back and slide it in front of Alan.
“What’s this for?” he asks.
“Parts,” I say. “You bought your own.”
“Why are we at school this early again?” says Rev.
We’re sitting on the darkened front steps of the school, waiting for the security guard to unlock the main doors. It’s freezing, and I’m about ready to fight Rev for his hoodie. He’s even got his hands pulled up into the sleeves. Fog has settled across the parking lot.
“I have to meet with my English teacher.” I give him a sideways look. “You don’t have to be here.”
“You’re my ride.”
“Then shut up.”
Shoes shift on pavement, and Mrs. Hillard appears out of the fog. “You’re even here early,” she says in surprise.
“Lucky for me,” says Rev.
I punch him in the shoulder and shove to my feet. “You didn’t say what you wanted to talk about. I thought maybe it was important.”
She shifts her bag to her other shoulder. “You ready to go inside?”
“Sure.”
Rev steps forward, and she looks alarmed for a moment. The dark and the hoodie make him look like a criminal. Then he says “Do you want help with your bags?” in his disarming voice, and she smiles.
She holds out her shoulder bag. “Such a nice offer.”
The school is nearly silent at this hour, the hallways shadowed by intermittently lit security lights. Mrs. Hillard’s classroom is a well of darkness until she flips the switch. Rev and I drop into chairs in the front row.
She glances at Rev, then back at me. “Do you mind if your friend stays?”
Rev smiles and leans back in the chair. “‘One who has unreliable friends may come to ruin, but there is a friend who sticks closer than a brother.’”
Most people look at Rev like they can’t figure him out and they’re not sure if he’s worth the effort. Mrs. Hillard just raises her eyebrows. “I might need more coffee if we’re going to start reciting Proverbs.”
I kick his chair. “Ignore him. But he can stay.”
She unzips her bag and pulls out some notebook paper. I recognize my handwriting. She’s put comments in red in all the margins.
She slides it in front of me. “Where did this come from?”
I bristle at the question. “I wrote it right in front of you. I didn’t cheat.”
“I’m not accusing you of cheating. I’m asking why you were able to put together five hundred words about a poem, when I can rarely get more than a compound sentence out of you.”
I flush and look down. “It made me think.”
“You’re a good writer. You make solid points, and you express yourself very well.”
I can’t remember the last time a teacher offered praise. Who am I kidding—I can barely remember the last time a teacher made eye contact. My chest warms with a glow, and I fidget with my pencil. “Thanks.”
“Do you plan to write like that from now on?”
This feels like a trap. “Maybe.”
“Because I was going to ask if you wanted to try transferring into AP English.”
Rev whips his head around. I’m choking on my breath myself.
“AP?” I say when I can finally put a thought together. “I don’t have any AP classes.”
“Are you looking at colleges? Might look good on a transcript.”
I look away. Most of my teachers expect me to be getting a higher education courtesy of the Maryland State Penitentiary. I’ve never considered taking an AP class, much less transferring into one a month into the semester.
“I don’t know if I could catch up,” I say.
“Do you want to try?”
You make your own path.
Yeah, but this is a path straight up a mountain. Pushing a wheelbarrow full of bricks. “I don’t know.”
“You don’t think you’re good enough? I promise you are.”
I look away. “No . . . they’re all the smart kids. They’re going to think I’m some stupid thug.”
“Prove them wrong.”
I hesitate.