look on her face and she starts talking about her womb, you’re out the door.”
“But she told me if I was difficult, she’d call Ms. Ervin.”
“No way is she calling anybody, Teddy. What’s she gonna say — that you wouldn’t play dolls with her? Look at it this way: she hasn’t got her hand in your pants, she’s not drunk, and she’s not stoned. But now you’re an official foster kid. You get the I’VE SEEN LITTLE NOODLE T-shirt.”
“I about lost it. That bra of hers looks seaworthy.”
Astin cackles, then clutches at his side. “Don’t make me laugh; my ribs hurt.”
“What happened?”
“I was helping a buddy of mine work on his rice burner, and when I took it out for a spin, I had a little wreck. I wasn’t going very fast. I’m all right.” He starts tugging at his belt. “I’m going to change my pants, then get something to eat. Come with me.”
“I just keep seeing those boobs of hers. I may never eat again.”
“I’m buying. I hate to eat alone.”
“Call Megan.”
“She’s making puppets for that AP English class you guys are in. C’mon, we’ll take the chopper. Get you some street cred.”
“Okay, I guess. I sure don’t want to stay here.”
Outside, Astin points to the tarp on his motorcycle. “Help me with this.”
I tell him, “I feel sorry for her. Do you feel sorry for her?”
“For Barbara? Are you kidding? If I feel sorry for anybody, it’s Bob.”
We lift at the same time, and the tarp billows a little.
“Give it a shake and then stand still.”
I watch him come toward me, one fold after another. He brushes at the tarpaulin, fusses with the corners. I go over what Astin told me: she starts in with the waffles and the womb; I’m out the door. If it works for him, it’ll work for me.
I follow him into the garage, where he opens the trunk of Mrs. Rafter’s Saturn and stows the folded cover. Then he wants me to look too.
“What’d your old man drive?” he asks.
“Subaru.”
“What’d his trunk look like?”
“Afghanistan.”
He opens a varnished box with brass hinges. There’s a fire extinguisher, yellow jumper cables, red flares, one of those aluminum blankets, bottled water, a see-through sandwich bag full of folded maps, and some kind of walkie-talkie.
“She’s afraid of earthquakes,” he says.
So there’s Barbara with her doll wondering if the overpass is going to fall on her before she gets to Curves. Oh, God.
Astin leads me back outside and pats the motorcycle like it’s a big pet.
“Harley Shovelhead, S&S engine, and a Boyd front end. I drove all over hell and gone to find stuff. And what I couldn’t find I made. This thing is so lean and mean I’ve had guys tell me it won’t run ’cause it hasn’t got enough parts.”
There’s not much room for paint, but the gas tank is the deepest blue I have ever seen. “It’s nice.”
“You bet your ass it’s nice. This baby and I go to Daytona Speed Week next year and win some prizes.” He mounts up, hands me a helmet, grabs the handlebars, and leans back. “Get on.”
I step back. “No way am I putting my arms around you.”
“Just grab hold of my jacket. Nobody’ll see you, anyway. We’ll be going too fast.”
He turns the key, and we’re gone. Dry leaves fly up behind us like a wake. I don’t much want to, but I have to hang on to something because we’re up to at least fifty miles per hour just like that.
“You okay?” he shouts.
“Yeah.” Actually I’m a little scared, but I’m not going to tell him that. And it’s nothing like when those three jocks turned me upside down in a trash can. This is kind of fun.
He leans us into a turn. “Know how to drive?” he yells.
“A car, yeah.”
“Not one of these?”
When I shake my head, my helmet bumps against his. The wind grabs part of our conversation.
“Get you started in a nice big parking lot where you can’t run into anything.”
“I’d just fall over, break something.”
“So I fix
“But she told me if I was difficult, she’d call Ms. Ervin.”
“No way is she calling anybody, Teddy. What’s she gonna say — that you wouldn’t play dolls with her? Look at it this way: she hasn’t got her hand in your pants, she’s not drunk, and she’s not stoned. But now you’re an official foster kid. You get the I’VE SEEN LITTLE NOODLE T-shirt.”
“I about lost it. That bra of hers looks seaworthy.”
Astin cackles, then clutches at his side. “Don’t make me laugh; my ribs hurt.”
“What happened?”
“I was helping a buddy of mine work on his rice burner, and when I took it out for a spin, I had a little wreck. I wasn’t going very fast. I’m all right.” He starts tugging at his belt. “I’m going to change my pants, then get something to eat. Come with me.”
“I just keep seeing those boobs of hers. I may never eat again.”
“I’m buying. I hate to eat alone.”
“Call Megan.”
“She’s making puppets for that AP English class you guys are in. C’mon, we’ll take the chopper. Get you some street cred.”
“Okay, I guess. I sure don’t want to stay here.”
Outside, Astin points to the tarp on his motorcycle. “Help me with this.”
I tell him, “I feel sorry for her. Do you feel sorry for her?”
“For Barbara? Are you kidding? If I feel sorry for anybody, it’s Bob.”
We lift at the same time, and the tarp billows a little.
“Give it a shake and then stand still.”
I watch him come toward me, one fold after another. He brushes at the tarpaulin, fusses with the corners. I go over what Astin told me: she starts in with the waffles and the womb; I’m out the door. If it works for him, it’ll work for me.
I follow him into the garage, where he opens the trunk of Mrs. Rafter’s Saturn and stows the folded cover. Then he wants me to look too.
“What’d your old man drive?” he asks.
“Subaru.”
“What’d his trunk look like?”
“Afghanistan.”
He opens a varnished box with brass hinges. There’s a fire extinguisher, yellow jumper cables, red flares, one of those aluminum blankets, bottled water, a see-through sandwich bag full of folded maps, and some kind of walkie-talkie.
“She’s afraid of earthquakes,” he says.
So there’s Barbara with her doll wondering if the overpass is going to fall on her before she gets to Curves. Oh, God.
Astin leads me back outside and pats the motorcycle like it’s a big pet.
“Harley Shovelhead, S&S engine, and a Boyd front end. I drove all over hell and gone to find stuff. And what I couldn’t find I made. This thing is so lean and mean I’ve had guys tell me it won’t run ’cause it hasn’t got enough parts.”
There’s not much room for paint, but the gas tank is the deepest blue I have ever seen. “It’s nice.”
“You bet your ass it’s nice. This baby and I go to Daytona Speed Week next year and win some prizes.” He mounts up, hands me a helmet, grabs the handlebars, and leans back. “Get on.”
I step back. “No way am I putting my arms around you.”
“Just grab hold of my jacket. Nobody’ll see you, anyway. We’ll be going too fast.”
He turns the key, and we’re gone. Dry leaves fly up behind us like a wake. I don’t much want to, but I have to hang on to something because we’re up to at least fifty miles per hour just like that.
“You okay?” he shouts.
“Yeah.” Actually I’m a little scared, but I’m not going to tell him that. And it’s nothing like when those three jocks turned me upside down in a trash can. This is kind of fun.
He leans us into a turn. “Know how to drive?” he yells.
“A car, yeah.”
“Not one of these?”
When I shake my head, my helmet bumps against his. The wind grabs part of our conversation.
“Get you started in a nice big parking lot where you can’t run into anything.”
“I’d just fall over, break something.”
“So I fix
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