a stick shift. She loved it. She loved the knob with the diagram on it and the molded rubber thing that covered up whatever was really happening at the bottom of the stick, something that you couldn’t see, you just had to picture it in your mind. She loved balancing the movements of the two pedals, up and down, just so.
Lenny kept his hand on the steering wheel, just in case. This was probably a good thing, because Debbie was feeling the urge to turn it. And to go a little faster. She looked over at Lenny. She was lit up from inside. Her mouth was only in a half smile, but the whole rest of her face looked like it was laughing. Lenny had seen her look that way before. She had looked that way most of their childhood, digging up dirt or playing kickball or tearing around on the bikes. But he hadn’t seen her look that way lately.
“This is great,” she said. “I want to go somewhere.”
Lenny’s face was smiling, too. For a minute they were both ten years old. Time travel in real life.
Lenny’s fourteen-year-old self, who was keeping an eye on the clock on the dashboard, said, “We can do that next time. My dad needs to use the truck in a couple minutes.” He didn’t know how that “next time” bit could happen, but he wanted to say it. So he did.
A fact, a feather of knowledge, had been floating around the outside of Debbie’s mind searching for a place to enter, for an opening in the light but unbroken cloud cover that had surrounded it a little while ago. As the clouds began to break up and drift apart, it found a current of air and drifted in. She was glad she had kept it out for a while.
“You know,” she said, “I was just thinking. I know your dad said it was okay, and all we did was go back and forth in the driveway, but I think my mother—”
“I won’t say anything,” said Lenny.
“Do you think your dad might mention it to her?”
“I can tell him not to, if you want,” said Lenny. Not strictly a fib. He didn’t say he
would.
“Okay,” said Debbie. “Thanks. You know my mom.” She wasn’t her ten-year-old self now, but traces of that self lingered behind, little flecks of joy visible somehow on her eyebrow, and her chin.
“Well,” she said. “I better go. See you.”
“See you later,” said Lenny. He watched her go, then slid back over behind the steering wheel, where the seat was still warm. He flipped the key in the ignition again and moved the radio dial back and forth. He listened to a couple of songs without really paying attention. In the rearview mirror he saw his parents’ car pull up the driveway behind him. The tires grumbled over the gravel, the car doors clinked open and thunked shut, their voices, in the middle of some conversation, grew louder as they approached, then stopped.
“Were you just sitting in there by yourself the whole time we were gone?” asked his dad.
“Nope,” said Lenny. “Debbie came over for a while to listen to the show.”
“Oh. Good,” said his dad. “That’s nice. Don’t sit out here all night, all right? You’ll run down my battery.”
“I won’t,” said Lenny.
His parents went inside. He turned the radio off and sat there for a little while longer, watching the backyard dissolve into darkness. And then he went inside, too.
CHAPTER 13
Ravine
T he people singing the song were from California. Hector lay peacefully on his back on his carpeted bedroom floor, letting the music from his radio wash over him. His idea had been to do some sit-ups, but once he got down there, it seemed to make more sense to just lie still and gaze up at the ceiling. That’s where he was when the song came on the radio. It was a song he liked, and he had heard it many times before. It was the Mamas and the Papas. They were singing that words of love so soft and tender wouldn’t win a girl’s heart anymore. And that if you loved her you should (“must”) send her somewhere she had never been before.
It was a metaphor. Hector knew
Lenny kept his hand on the steering wheel, just in case. This was probably a good thing, because Debbie was feeling the urge to turn it. And to go a little faster. She looked over at Lenny. She was lit up from inside. Her mouth was only in a half smile, but the whole rest of her face looked like it was laughing. Lenny had seen her look that way before. She had looked that way most of their childhood, digging up dirt or playing kickball or tearing around on the bikes. But he hadn’t seen her look that way lately.
“This is great,” she said. “I want to go somewhere.”
Lenny’s face was smiling, too. For a minute they were both ten years old. Time travel in real life.
Lenny’s fourteen-year-old self, who was keeping an eye on the clock on the dashboard, said, “We can do that next time. My dad needs to use the truck in a couple minutes.” He didn’t know how that “next time” bit could happen, but he wanted to say it. So he did.
A fact, a feather of knowledge, had been floating around the outside of Debbie’s mind searching for a place to enter, for an opening in the light but unbroken cloud cover that had surrounded it a little while ago. As the clouds began to break up and drift apart, it found a current of air and drifted in. She was glad she had kept it out for a while.
“You know,” she said, “I was just thinking. I know your dad said it was okay, and all we did was go back and forth in the driveway, but I think my mother—”
“I won’t say anything,” said Lenny.
“Do you think your dad might mention it to her?”
“I can tell him not to, if you want,” said Lenny. Not strictly a fib. He didn’t say he
would.
“Okay,” said Debbie. “Thanks. You know my mom.” She wasn’t her ten-year-old self now, but traces of that self lingered behind, little flecks of joy visible somehow on her eyebrow, and her chin.
“Well,” she said. “I better go. See you.”
“See you later,” said Lenny. He watched her go, then slid back over behind the steering wheel, where the seat was still warm. He flipped the key in the ignition again and moved the radio dial back and forth. He listened to a couple of songs without really paying attention. In the rearview mirror he saw his parents’ car pull up the driveway behind him. The tires grumbled over the gravel, the car doors clinked open and thunked shut, their voices, in the middle of some conversation, grew louder as they approached, then stopped.
“Were you just sitting in there by yourself the whole time we were gone?” asked his dad.
“Nope,” said Lenny. “Debbie came over for a while to listen to the show.”
“Oh. Good,” said his dad. “That’s nice. Don’t sit out here all night, all right? You’ll run down my battery.”
“I won’t,” said Lenny.
His parents went inside. He turned the radio off and sat there for a little while longer, watching the backyard dissolve into darkness. And then he went inside, too.
CHAPTER 13
Ravine
T he people singing the song were from California. Hector lay peacefully on his back on his carpeted bedroom floor, letting the music from his radio wash over him. His idea had been to do some sit-ups, but once he got down there, it seemed to make more sense to just lie still and gaze up at the ceiling. That’s where he was when the song came on the radio. It was a song he liked, and he had heard it many times before. It was the Mamas and the Papas. They were singing that words of love so soft and tender wouldn’t win a girl’s heart anymore. And that if you loved her you should (“must”) send her somewhere she had never been before.
It was a metaphor. Hector knew
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