above sunscreen gets you. The old man clicks his tongue as he lowers himself to a grease-stained stool. He leans against a workbench and breathes in. His breath catches, bringing on a coughing fit that lasts about thirty seconds.
I go to the corner and grab a bottle of water out of a dirty fridge in the back. “Dickie,” I say, trying not to sound chastising. “You know you’ve got to give the nicotine up.”
He gives me that look that says, Little girl, I’m about three times your age and need your life advice like I need a cactus spine up my ass.
He doesn’t say it though. He just takes the water from me, downs half of it, and then plops the bottle down on the workbench. “You should get yourself one of these, Dakota. You look like you walked yourself here from Texas.”
“Ha. Ha.” But I’m not about to pass up that offer. I’m thirsty as hell. I grab myself a water and then wave him out to my bike that I leaned against the side of his garage when I first got here. Outside, in the full rays of the sun, Dickie looks even worse. The shadows tend to hide a bit of weathering, but not out here under a spotlight. I’m seriously worried for him. His skin is too ashy gray.
He cocks his head, then uses his grease rag to wipe the sweat from his neck, but only manages to smear grease on the one area that didn’t have any yet. He whistles. “What did you do?”
I grind my teeth together. Not at Dickie. At the assholes who thought it would be funny to hide my bike on the roof of the school and let out the air in the tires. Privileged people don’t understand what a big thing having your own transportation can be, even if it is only two wheels. “Just tell me you have good news on the truck.” I worry over my lip as I wait for his answer. A couple of days ago, the truck wouldn’t start, so I had Dickie tow it here. I know he’ll give me a fair price, but what I really don’t want to hear is that my father’s ancient truck can’t be salvaged. There’s zero chance of me affording a new ride right now.
Dickie presses his lips together again, and I know it can’t be good news. I slip one of my book bag straps off and bring my bag around to the front. When I was avoiding the Stone, Wyatt, and Lucas show in the cafeteria, I finally had a chance to look at the paperwork I’d stuffed in that morning and believe it or not, I found a receipt from Dickie’s that’s a few years old. I don’t know what I’m trying to do with it. I’m just grasping at straws.
I scan the paperwork again. “It looks like you fixed the muffler a few years back.”
Dickie peeks at me. His eyes have a dull shine to them, and not a good one. Almost like I can see the cataracts taking his vision away right before my eyes. The look he gives me tells me everything I need to know. You ever just have someone older look at you like you’re a little kid? That’s when I know I’m being naïve, and worse, he feels bad for me because of it.
“Fuck,” I sigh.
“Sorry, kid.”
“What is it then?” I ask tentatively. Dickie’s the best mechanic I know, but you know, maybe someone else could do something. Not that I could afford to pay them either.
“It’s the engine, Dakota.” He shuffles toward another bay in the garage, and I follow after him. He smacks the side of my father’s old truck a few times, and I swear some of the rust falls to the garage floor like confetti. “Seeing as how it’s a classic, it’s gonna cost you more than it’s worth.”
To Dickie, every car older than this millennia is a classic. My father’s truck is a 1979 Ford. Yes, it’s old as shit, but it’s not the kind of car you’re going to see at a classic car show or anything. I have no doubt he’s right though.
I lean against one of the wood beams spaced throughout the garage and sigh. What the fuck am I going to do now? Sure, riding the bike is okay, but I thought it was only temporary.
“Talk to me, Dakota. What’s going on with the bitch?”