Total pages in book: 118
Estimated words: 113047 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 565(@200wpm)___ 452(@250wpm)___ 377(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 113047 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 565(@200wpm)___ 452(@250wpm)___ 377(@300wpm)
This seems to have gotten a few of them interested.
“Could we learn to do that?” Gap Model asks.
“Oh yeah,” I say. “It would take a lot of practice, but now there are some really good videos on YouTube of people fixing different parts of cars and stuff.”
“Why don’t we take ten and then meet back here, okay?” Rafe says. The kids wander back into the church. Rafe is so close I can smell him, can feel his warmth at my side.
“Listen,” he says, his voice low. “You’re doing great. Just be careful you don’t promise them anything you won’t follow through with, okay?”
“What do you mean?”
“Most of these kids don’t have people who will spend time teaching them things. So, when they do—look, you just don’t want to make it sound like you’ll be around to help them learn all this stuff if you won’t be. It’s hard for them if they start counting on you to come back and you don’t. They already have a lot of that in their lives. People disappearing. Breaking promises. You know?”
Rafe looks sad, gazing toward the door the kids left through.
“Yeah, I get it.”
He squeezes my biceps and nods.
Mikal is the first one back, and it looks like he’s applied some kind of glittery lip gloss.
“So,” he says, standing about a foot too close to me, “what’s wrong with you?”
“Um, excuse me?”
“Well, there must be something wrong with you; you’re here.” Mikal gestures around him.
I look at Rafe, unsure of what to say.
“Besides, Khal Drogo here is a sucker for a lost cause. Just look around.” Mikal’s trying to tease, I know, but his voice has changed, his flirty tone gone flat.
“Hey,” says Rafe, holding Mikal’s gaze. “There’s nothing wrong with you. Any of you. You aren’t… lost causes.” He practically spits the words out. Mikal nods but drops his eyes. I can tell Rafe wants to say more but he bites it back as the other kids join us.
The rest of the workshop goes better now that I’m not so nervous. I demonstrate a few things on Rafe’s car, things that I think would be most useful to the kids in case their family cars have problems—how to change a flat tire, how to add oil and top off other fluids. And I look like a complete ass when I try and imitate common noises that cars make when certain things are wrong with them, which quickly devolves into us all making weird shrieking and groaning noises like a pack of wild dogs.
I also answer some of the weirdest questions about cars I’ve ever heard, including, “Could you put together a car that had two front ends or two back ends?” from Gap Model, to which someone replies, “Course you want something with two back ends,” whatever that means; “Is it possible to have a second set of wheels so cars could move side to side?” from one of the twins; and “You know that flying car in Harry Potter? Could you make that?” from the kid in all black who hasn’t spoken since he walked in. I don’t know the flying car in Harry Potter, but the rest of the kids greet this idea with enthusiasm.
Then it’s over, and the time has gone so fast that I feel like I didn’t get to talk about even 10 percent of what I’d wanted to. The twins, Gap Model, and Dorothy wave good-bye to me and call out their thanks as they leave. Carlos thanks me and turns to Rafe.
“Good one, Conan. Way better than that modern dance bullshit.”
“You think I didn’t see you enjoying the hell out of modern dance, Carlito?”
Carlos mutters something and jogs away. The kid in all black waves good-bye just as he waved hello and wanders off in the other direction.
“Thank you,” says DeShawn, holding out his hand. “That was interesting.” Again, I’m struck by the softness of his voice, though his handshake is firm. Something about the way he’s trying not to seem threatening reminds me of Rafe. I mostly do the opposite.
“You’re welcome,” I say. He nods solemnly and starts to walk off, but Rafe catches up to him and they start talking about something I can’t hear.
Only Ricky is left, staring at Rafe’s car as if she’s still seeing its guts even though the hood is down now.
“You know,” I say quietly to Ricky, taking a page out of DeShawn’s book so as not to startle her, “with a photographic memory, you could learn cars really easily. So much of it is just remembering how the pieces interact; what goes where; which are the things that are different in one model versus another. You’d probably be real good at it.”
She sighs but doesn’t look at me.
“Probably,” she says. And she walks away, thin arms wrapped around her chest, hugging herself.