Slow Twitch - Реинхардт Лиз. Страница 81

  I have family in Japan. Mom always said we’d make a trip there to see my father’s family, but then she’d disappeared to New York to shack up with a graffiti artist, and I haven’t heard from her since last Easter. But I don’t know anyone well enough to get a gift from overseas. Especially one that went through a special customs process and had heavy, secretive papers drawn up for its delivery. Whoever sent it has to be pretty powerful to break through the rigid codes of the United States transportation and customs systems.

  The box fits in my arms. Maybe it’s a cat or a dog. A sigh deflates my body at the thought of a new puppy pissing on the rugs and chewing my favorite leopard-print kitten heels. It’s not that I don’t love warm cuddly things; I do! But I have Bestemor and myself to take care of, and that’s more than I can handle most days.

  I used to have Nevaeh to help take the edge off, but she’s been as flighty as I am lately, now that love with Zivalus has her all in atwitter. We’re just two stupid kites flying in opposite directions, about to crash into the first trees we come across.

  Since the thing in the box isn’t making any serious attempts to get out, I let it sit and blissfully ignore it. The croon of a lyrically genius girl country singer bubbles out of my spent speakers and sets my fingers thumping on the wheel. I’m catching the lyrics on my tongue and letting them vibrate back into the air when the sudden lurch of the truck breaks my heart in an instant.

  Much as I try to pretend that this isn’t happening, it is. My truck veers into oncoming traffic and I have to hyper-correct my steering to keep from crashing because one tire is flat.

  I have a flat!

  Bestemor is probably ironing the couch or opening every single can of soup in the pantry. Nevaeh is listening to Zivalus make funny jokes with his horn of a voice. There is a box with a questionable life form on the seat next to me. Life vibrates in overwhelming shifts and waves. I’m about to give up all hope, lay my head on the steering wheel and weep until I wring my eyes dry, but I see a gas-station, and it’s so close I can coast there safely.

  Problems boil in my mind; I have seventeen dollars to my name, my spare is a very crappy donut, Bestemor could be in serious trouble, but it’s not all bad; this is still a gas-station. It could have been a dentist’s office or a school! And I have my cell phone.

  I punch in Nevaeh’s number again and this time I melt into her sweet voice, but I can’t disclose all of my worries right now, much as I want to. I just beg her to drag Zivalus to Bestemor’s and ask if it’s fine if I’m ridiculously late. And, even though I’ve been pouting about Nevaeh, she makes sure I’m okay, tells me not to worry for one second about my grandma, and that Zivalus will be ready to jump up and run to get me at a minute’s notice if I need.

  I let Nevaeh’s love wash over me before I have to face the very bad music about to come. And just when the music seems most off key, Jonas Balto saunters to my truck in grease-stained Dickie work pants, a blue button-down with his name embroidered in a light blue oval and tightly-laced, grease-smeared work boots.

  Oh yeah, the particular music I’m facing is like a kid jumping on a set of bagpipes, and seeing Jonas means that bad just got a whole lot worse.

  I drag air into my nostrils and whoosh it back out of my lips. Jonas Balto is not the worst person to have approaching me with a wrench when my truck needs a fixing hand. He and I may not see eye to eye on everything, but the boy is handy with a tool.

  “Hey, Wren.” His voice is smooth as driftwood pummeled by a million waves. He’s icy calm and cool, no worries, no hurries.

  I shiver and jitter in contrast.

  “Hey, Jonas. My truck has a flat. But, listen to me, okay? I have, like, no money. At all. Because I’m on E right now, too, and what I have is barely enough to fill my tank.” I suck air into my lungs and they fill like two hopeful party balloons, then I wait.

  His eyes comb over me, shift to the flat, then sit still on my face. “My shift ends in ten minutes. If you can wait, I’ll fix your tire for free. And if you need some gas money, I’ll spot you. I know you’re good for it.” He chooses each word like he’s sifting through gems, and his clear blue eyes are twin glaciers of cool collectedness.

  “Thank you.” My arms bob up to pull him close, but I weigh them down with sense. You do notgo hugging a guy just because he offers to change your tire, I lecture myself. Especially if the guy is Jonas Balto.

  Who had it out with me during debate about reparations for American families wronged by the government at the end of last term. Maybe I’d gotten too furious, since I’m half Japanese and there was that whole messy internment period in American history during World War II. And maybe he was just being a good debater, volleying his cool logic about generational responsibility and fulfilled obligation, but it feltlike more. To me. It felt personal.

  Our history teacher had to call a break after the debates, and it took two trips to the water-fountain and a ton of under-my-breath cursing to still my blood. I wished he would have approached me and apologized, but he never did, and that was the nebulous for an ice-age of dislike that I felt like a winter wind every time we passed in the hallway or met eyes across the cafeteria.

  The box on my seat shifts. It’s quiet, but it shifts microscopically, and I can sense it. I wonder if the ‘it’ inside the box needs food, water, to pee. But I’m too scared to open the box. As upset as I would be if it were a puppy or kitten, my stomach lurches when I imagine the possible coils of a snake or the whip-like tail of a huge lizard. I’ll wait until I’m home with Neveah and Bestemor. And Zivalus, possibly armed, even if his weapon of choice would probably be a trumpet case.

  Jonas heads out with some tools gripped in his huge, oil-smeared hands. He stops by the driver-side window and peers in with polite regard. “You need a drink or something?”

  My mouth is Gobi-desert dry. “I’m good,” I lie.

  He nods, points to the tire, and gets to work. I can see him in my rearview mirror, his huge frame bent over the tire. He has long muscles, not like the football players have. These are the kind of muscles that I imagine rowers would have. Only I don’t know any rowers, so I could be wrong. He has light brown hair, gold in some spots, shiny and a little too long. His jaw is a square, his mouth a line, his nose a hook, his eyes two bright blue slits. He’s all geometry and square, guyish symmetry. Stunningly handsome, but standoffish. No girlfriend, or boyfriend for that matter.

  Sometimes, waiting in line for my Salisbury steak at our school cafeteria, I catch myself looking him over and I feel like he’s not supposed to be here, in northwest New Jersey in the twenty-first century. It seems like he was dropped out of the wild Celtic heather or just stepped off one of those Viking ships with the dragon prows, like the kilted, sword-wielding guys on the glossy romance novel covers in the grocery store book aisle.

  He works quickly, and I see him grin at my sad little spare and shrug his wide shoulders before he puts it on, then tightens the lug-nuts and double-checks everything with slow, meticulous attention. My heart gallops like a stallion herd as he walks to the window.

  “Thank you so much, Jonas. If there’s ever something I can do for you…”

  “I need a ride.” He cuts in smooth as a hot knife through butter. “My ride left at shift’s end. I don’t live far.”

  I slice my eyes to the mystery box, check the spare he just put on in my rearview and nod. “I’d be happy to.”

  He points to a rusty gas pump. “Pull up there. I’ll fill her up for you.”

  I inch up to the pump and try not to stare as he works with such grace it seems like he should be carving ivory or drawing a bow, not filling my gas-tank.