Running Wide Open (17 page)

“You still have this?”

I propped myself up on one elbow to see what he was holding. It was the Superbird sketch he’d done for me that Thanksgiving we’d spent in Eugene.

Race studied the picture and shook his head. “I must’ve drawn this—what—eight or nine years ago?”

“More like ten.”

“Times sure change.” He returned the paper to the stack. With another slight shake of his head he looked at me and smiled. “I can’t believe you haven’t thrown that away.”

I couldn’t believe I hadn’t put it on the wall, where it belonged. When Race left the room I got up and pinned the Superbird drawing to the cheap wood paneling above the desk.

* * *

I don’t know whether Race was in complete denial or didn’t trust the local weather forecasters, but he always seemed shocked and insulted when the races got rained out. Saturday, the first day of summer vacation, was no exception. It didn’t help that my dad called again.

“Why won’t you talk to him?” Race asked. “I can understand you being ticked off at your mom, but your dad’s a decent guy.”

“That’s your opinion. He had his chance while I was living with him.”

“You didn’t exactly make a good case for yourself, staying out till all hours and flunking half your classes.”

I looked away. “That’s no excuse for kicking me out.” Why did Race have to take his side of it, anyway? He hardly knew my father.

“Kid, you got busted for vandalism. Your dad felt like he had to take drastic measures to keep you from messing up your life.”

Right
. “He coulda tried listening to me.”

“He’s making an effort now. You oughta take that into account.”

I gave Race a pointed look. “Let’s see, you last talked to Grandma and Grandpa what—five years ago?”

“That’s different. You know what my dad’s like. And Mom hasn’t even tried to keep in touch.”

“Yeah, I’m sure you left her a forwarding address.”

Race scowled. “She has connections. If she wanted to know where I live it wouldn’t be that difficult for her to find out. Your mom managed to.”

* * *

By Sunday morning, Race had recovered from his rainout blues. “I’ve gotta go meet Kasey to run an errand,” he told me through a mouthful of frozen Twinkie. “You okay here by yourself?”

I paused in the middle of the karate punches I was practicing. “Can I come with you?”

“No.”

“Then why’d you ask?”

Ignoring my question, Race pawed through the usual chaos on the coffee table for his keys.

“Is this a date?” I persisted.

“Get real, kid.”

“Well, why not? When are you gonna tell Kasey how you feel, anyway?”

“Did it ever occur to you that maybe I have?” Race located his key chain and pulled it free.

“You did?” I couldn’t believe he’d given me a serious answer. Usually he told me to mind my own business.

“Yeah. She’s not interested. And I’m not gonna push it. I’d rather have her friendship than nothing at all.” Race pulled a sweatshirt over his head. The rain was still falling, and the temperature hadn’t broken sixty-five degrees in two days. He reached for the doorknob.

“Dude, you can’t give up hope.”

“I appreciate your support kid, but it’s a lost cause.”

* * *

Once Race was gone, I spent an hour practicing the stuff I’d learned in karate that week. My second lesson had gone a lot better than the first. Even though the sensei had rambled on about respect, balance, and self-control, I’d kind of dug what he was saying. I liked the idea of having the discipline to stick with something until I was excellent at it. The things he and the more experienced students could do were pretty intense.

When I got bored with the punches and kicks, I sat down at my desk to work on a story. Time disappeared, and suddenly Race was leaning through my bedroom door.

“Hey,” he said, startling me. “Let’s go down to the shop.”

I glanced at my watch, shocked to see that it was almost five o’clock. “Now? It’s dinner time.”

“We’ll grab a pizza at Track Town. I’ve got something to show you.”

Never one to let anything stand between me and a pizza, I stuffed my notebook into a drawer and followed him to the van.

While we ate, I pestered Race to tell me what he had down at the shop, but he refused.

“Does it have something to do with the Dart?” I asked.

“No.”

“Is it alive?”

“Of course not. I have enough trouble feeding you.”

“Is it bigger than a breadbox?”

“Definitely.”

At the shop, a light mist fell, slicking my leather jacket as I stood waiting for Race to unlock the door.

“Close your eyes,” he said.

“You’ve gotta be kidding.”

“Nope. Close ’em or I won’t show you.”

Groaning, I complied. Race led me inside.

“Okay. You can take a look.”

It took a second to get my bearings. Then I saw it. Tucked away in the back corner sat a pale yellow ’65 Galaxie. For a minute all I could do was stare.

“Dude . . .” I said softly, shaking my head as a stampede of emotions ran roughshod over me. I slipped closer and touched the fender, needing proof the car wasn’t some kind of mirage.

“It doesn’t run,” Race said. “But Kasey can get us a good deal on an engine kit. I’ll show you how to do a rebuild then help you go through the brakes and check the suspension. By the time you get your license in December, we oughta be able to have it on the road.”

I stroked the Galaxie like it was some kind of living thing, the metal cool and smooth beneath my fingers. No one had given me anything like this in my life. Race could hardly pay his bills—I couldn’t believe he was willing to spend the little money he had on me.

Blinking hard, I turned to him. His face was lit with a satisfied grin.

“Why?” I asked, my voice cracking.

Race shrugged. “I just wanted to.”

“I can’t believe this . . .” My throat tightened around the words.

Race spared me the embarrassment of losing it in front of him by stepping forward to lift the hood. “How ’bout dragging that toolbox over here? If we get on it, we might be able to pull this engine tonight.”

* * *

“Morgan thinks he has this race all wrapped up, folks, but in a brilliant surprise move Cody Everett screams past him to take the lead!”

It was nearly midnight, and Race and I had stopped at the supermarket to pick up some groceries on the way home. Still stoked about the Galaxie, I challenged my uncle with an empty shopping cart.

“It’s a true battle,” I said. “Engines scream down the straightaway, tires squeal through the corners—”

“Everett cries out in terror as Morgan stuffs him in the wall.” Race swerved his cart at mine.

“But as always, Everett is undeterred by this terrible setback! He regains control and chases Morgan down the front stretch.”

Race tossed a bottle of dish soap into his cart, squashing the bread. “And the crowd roars in laughter, watching Everett try to race with two flat tires, a bent frame, and half his suspension scattered across the track.”

“Minor mechanical difficulties are no problem for a driver as talented as Everett,” I countered. “It’s a bitter fight, ladies and gentlemen. Both drivers are tough and experienced. But in the end superior skill wins out and Everett takes the checkered flag!”

Letting go of the shopping cart’s handle, I pumped both fists in the air. The cart was traveling pretty quick, and like any good stock car, it pulled to the left—straight into a display of Charmin. Packages of toilet paper cascaded over the tiled floor.

“Nice victory lap, Everett,” Race said. “Remind me never to let you drive the Dart.”

Dumbfounded, I gaped at the mess.

“Y’know,” Race commented, looking around to see if anybody had witnessed the incident. “I think what we
really
need now is some produce.” He snagged the sleeve of my leather jacket and quickly directed me to the other end of the store.

Out in the van, we laughed like idiots. I was still feeling giddy and revved up when we turned off the highway into the trailer park.

“Did you check the mail yesterday?” Race asked.

“No. I thought you did.”

Race pulled alongside the bank of mailboxes. He handed me the key so I could open ours. I dug out the wad of mail and began sorting through it.

“Bill,” I tossed an envelope at Race. “Another bill. Latest issue of
Circle Track
—”

“Hey, watch it,” Race groused as the magazine bounced off his shoulder.

I flashed him my cockiest grin and continued slinging mail. “Bill. Occupant. Something from the DMV . . .” I froze, my eyes locked on the remaining envelope. Familiar billowy handwriting screamed up at me.

“What is it?” Race asked.

“A letter from Mom.”

I hadn’t heard from her since the day she’d left Portland. Even when I got in trouble, it was Dad who’d talked to her. All the arrangements had been made for me to move to Eugene without a single word passing between us. What could she possibly have to say to me now?

Feeling Race’s eyes on me, I didn’t risk looking up. I thrust the keys in his direction. “We gonna sit here all night?”

As soon as I got to my room I tore open the letter. It was short and to the point. Mom was done with her bartending classes and had found a great job. She’d heard from Dad that I was no longer quite the juvie-bound punk she’d given up on back in April. It was time to get a fresh start. She wanted me to move to Phoenix.

Chapter 15

I couldn’t sleep that night. The letter, like a beacon rotating in my head, kept drawing my attention. The worst part was, of all the stuff that could’ve gone wrong with my living arrangements, this hadn’t even been on the list. I tried to convince myself that I could refuse to go—that Mom had given up her right to tell me what to do when she left. But deep down, I was afraid she had the power to make me move.

Race had enough sense not to ask about the letter the next morning, and I didn’t tell him what it said. Maybe if I didn’t respond, Mom would give up the idea. She was flighty. She didn’t like inconvenience. Unfortunately, she was also stubborn. When she decided she wanted something, she usually got her way.

I tried to figure out why she wanted me back. Maybe she was angling for child support. Maybe she needed to impress a new boyfriend by playing the Good Mommy role. The one thing I wouldn’t let myself believe was that she might actually miss me. I’d been through a lifetime of her intermittent bursts of attention, and they always ended in disappointment. It was easier to be ignored.

“You okay, kid?” Race asked when I’d been up for a good twenty minutes and still hadn’t said anything.

“Sure.”

“I’ve got a welding job at the shop this morning. Fuel cell can for a Street Stock. I should be home by two at the latest. You can come if you want.”

I shook my head.

“Don’t let her get to you,” Race said, punching my arm lightly as he headed out the door. “It isn’t worth it.”

Now that school was out, I had plenty of time and nothing to spend it on. I tried finishing the story I’d been writing but got stuck on the ending and couldn’t figure out a way to fix it. On any other day I could take a walk along the river to kick-start my brain, but it was still raining, and I couldn’t stop obsessing about the letter. I pulled it out of the envelope and stared at the words. She’d said to give her a call. Maybe I should do that. Just confront things head on and tell her I wasn’t coming.

I picked up the phone and dialed, but it didn’t go at all the way I’d planned. From the get-go she commandeered the conversation, droning on about her new life and job. I could hardly get a word in.

“Mom,” I interrupted. “Mom! I need to talk to you about coming to Phoenix.”

“I’ll send you a ticket,” she said, barely stopping to breathe. “But not from Eugene. I refuse to pay the extra fare just for the sake of convenience. Get Race to drive you to Portland. It’ll give you a chance to say goodbye to your dad before you leave.”

“Are you high?”

“What did you say to me?”

“I’m not gonna make Race drive a hundred miles just because you’re too damned cheap to pay a few extra bucks!” God, how inconsiderate could she be? “Anyway, I’m not moving to Phoenix. I like it here.” I was sort of surprised to hear myself say that. Coming back after running away had seemed like the only decent choice I had. But now it was more than that. I couldn’t stand to think of what my life would be like without Race in it.

A long, slow silence oozed out of the phone. “Maybe I didn’t make myself clear,” Mom said. “You’re my son, and you’ll do as I say.”

“Make me!” I slammed the handset down so hard that pieces of the phone’s base busted off and flew across the room.

Shit! How was I gonna explain that to Race?

Maybe I could fix it. He must have some glue somewhere. I dug through all the drawers in the kitchen, then through the little compartments at the edge of the drafting table. Finally I found a bottle of Elmer’s under the sink.

It took me a good ten minutes to locate the broken pieces. Knowing Race could walk through the door at any second, I tried to stick them all together at once. But the glue wasn’t drying fast enough to hold them, and they kept falling apart. I was about to throw the stupid phone across the room in frustration when Race pulled up out front. Damn!

“What happened?” Race asked as he discovered me trying to shake sticky bits of plastic from my fingers.

I might as well have had glue on my lips, too, for all I could answer.

Race went to the kitchen, opened a drawer, and pulled out a roll of duct tape.

“What did I tell you about using the right tool?” He tore off a piece of the sticky silver webbing and used it to bind the plastic together. “There. That thing’s good for up to two-hundred miles an hour.”

An unexpected twist of a smile darted across my face. I shook my head. Race probably thought duct tape could cure cancer.

“There’s only one person who could piss you off enough to mutilate my phone,” he said, sitting down on the arm of the laundry chair and giving me a serious look. “What did she say that got you so upset?”

I didn’t answer. No way was I gonna tell him.