Chapter 6
6
RHYS
I tighten my grip around the cold handle of the wrench and give it one last hard torque.
“Done,” I say to myself with a nod, standing up and rubbing my sore, dirty hands.
Paul lets out a grunt as he twists his own wrench, then stands up from the car engine he’s been leaning over for the last couple hours and groans as he arches to stretch his back.
“You’re a damn lifesaver, Rhys,” he says.
“No sweat,” I answer, reaching for a rag to wipe some oil from my hands.
Paul’s the lifesaver, though. He owns a small garage just on the outskirts of Cedar Shade. For the last couple years, I’ve been working for him part-time, putting in as many hours as I can outside of hockey season.
I have a scholarship for hockey, but it just covers housing and tuition. It’s the job at Paul’s shop that gets me some spending money, enough that I can at least go out to eat now and then with the guys without having to stress and count my pennies.
This’ll probably be the last job I do for him for a while. I can’t keep up a part-time job during hockey season, and Coach Torres is already going to be kicking our asses with a full practice, training, and tape-review schedule starting this week. But Paul suddenly got swamped with way more repairs at once than he’s used to, so he called me asking if I could come by and lend a hand so he doesn’t get buried by the work.
Whenever I can help Paul, I will.
I wish I had more time during the season to pick up a couple shifts here and there. Even though I’ve saved up a decent amount of money from working longer hours since last season ended, things still get pretty tight by the beginning of Spring semester.
Paul saunters over to the motorcycle I just fixed up and tests it out.
He makes a gruff sound of approval as the motor purrs nicely and all the controls respond well.
“Damn good job as always, kid,” he says. He adds a pat on the back to his compliment, and the dark mark of grease and oil his hand leaves on the fabric is a good reminder of why I only wear my oldest, rattiest shirts to the garage.
After Paul assures me he has it covered from here, I get washed up a little—as much as possible in the old, dingy, tiny bathroom he has at his garage—and head back home.
One of the great things about Cedar Shade is that you can walk anywhere, and tonight is a beautiful evening for it. The sun’s just dipped below the tops of the trees surrounding the town, and the sky has that fuzzy, pale-yellow glow of a late summer evening.
As I stroll back home with my hands slung in my pockets, enjoying the refreshing breeze, I mentally calculate how much I made today. When I have the total in my head, I pull out my phone and send a little less than that amount as a Venmo payment to my mom.
I spoke with her on the phone the other day, and she mentioned having a toothache. When I asked her if she’d made a dentist appointment, she changed the subject, which means she can’t afford to right now.
I send a tooth emoji as the message with my payment, so she knows what to do with it.
As soon as I slide my phone back into my pocket, it vibrates. When I check it, it’s a text from Maddie.
Maddie
I overheard some amusing speculation today
I grin at my phone.
Do tell
Maddie
I was waiting in line for coffee and some girls in front of me talking about you
Nothing unusual so far
Maddie
They were wondering how you got your scar
A laugh rumbles in my chest.
Maddie
One girl thought it was a fight on the ice. Another thought you got it in a bar fight defending a girl from a handsy drunk. You took on him and three of his friends and only got a cut above your eye to show for it
Dang, they make me sound cool as hell
I hope you didn’t tell them the truth
Maddie
Of course not. Your shameful secret is safe with me
I’m eternally grateful
I bring my hand up to run my finger across the pale scar that sits above my right eye.
I definitely didn’t get this scar in a bar fight. I got it from wearing high heels.
Maddie was in seventh grade and thinking about wearing high heels to an upcoming school dance. She’d never really worn a pair beyond trying out her mom’s as a kid, so she was testing them out, walking up and down the hall on unsteady legs while I was over hanging out with Lane after school.
Did we tease her about it? Of course we did.
“Like either of you could walk in these,” she grumbled, putting one foot shakily in front of the other.
“Of course I could,” I quipped. “I could probably run a mile in them.”
“I’d run it faster,” Lane piled on without missing a beat.
“Would not,” I retorted.
Suddenly, instead of goofing on Maddie, we were arguing over which of us would win a race wearing high-heeled shoes.
The debate reached such a fevered pitch that it had to be resolved.
Lane and I walked down to a big second-hand store in our hometown that had a clothing section, and we found two pairs of unusually large high-heeled shoes that we could just barely squeeze our feet into.
Squeeze our feet into them is what we did, back at Lane’s house with Maddie watching. Our racing track was to be the length of Lane’s driveway.
We lined up, readied ourselves for a burst of speed, and at Maddie’s signal, took off.
About four strides into my run, I completely lost my balance, tumbled forward, and whacked the side of my head against the bumper of one of their parents’ cars as I went down.
I shake my head as a nostalgic smile warms my face. Yeah, not quite a bar fight.
When I get back home, the house is empty, which isn’t common. I’m not complaining, though. I love living with my teammates, but when you’re used to sharing a house with four other guys, a moment of solitude is something to treasure.
In my room, I strip out of my dirty clothes and pull on a pair of athletic shorts and a loose-fitting t-shirt. I’m about to fall onto my bed and zone out for a little while to recover from the strenuous shift at Paul’s garage, when something catches my eye.
There’s something leaning against my record player that I could swear wasn’t there when I left earlier today.
I approach it to see that it’s a vinyl of Chutes Too Narrow by The Shins. My brows draw together, because I know I never owned this album in vinyl even though it’s one of my favorite to listen to.
Then I see the note.
If you can sneak into my room, I can sneak into yours.
The words are written in Maddie’s unmistakable flowery handwriting, and underneath it, she’s sketched a cartoon face winking at me.
My lips pull up.
I put the record on, and the notes of the music weave through me, buoying my mood as I sink into my mattress. The fact that this is a gift from Maddie only makes the music sound even sweeter to my ears.
I close my eyes, Maddie’s note resting on my chest. As I zone out and listen to the music I never would have gotten into if Maddie hadn’t introduced me to it, my main thought is how I’m looking forward to the next time I see her on campus.
Probably way too much.