15. Paige
15
Paige
H ey, Siri, how do you change a flat tire?”
“Playing How to Change a Tire by—”
“That’s not what I meant!” I press the “X” on my phone screen before she can finish.
She doesn’t seem ruffled like I am. “I’m sorry, I didn’t catch that.”
I groan loudly, throwing my head back to look at the sky. At least it’s blue and not sporting any rain clouds like it probably would if I were still in Washington. But the weather still never cooperates when you need it to since the sun is nearly at its highest point in the day and threatening to burn my skin.
It’s a good thing I lathered myself in sunscreen this morning when leaving the bee-infested campground. I left with only one sting on my palm while swatting at the little vermin. It’s currently wrapped in gauze I found in the first aid kit Mom packed for me. She didn’t approve of the three Band-Aids and medical scissors I packed myself. The scissors were actually not going to be used for anything medical at all. They’re just the only scissors I own.
Worse than a bum hand was that I got so close to calling Rhodes to help me with this ten minutes ago when it happened. I almost had to swat the phone out of my hand so I wouldn’t. But that would be no help to anyone.
I was frazzled by all of the road noise and seeing the absolute shit state my back right tire was in after it decided to burst like a balloon with fresh helium inside. Plus, I know for a fact he’s changed a flat tire before because his dad has always been really into survivalist-type stuff and put him through a series of tests. Changing a tire was one of the things among knotting and plant identification.
It might be the reason Rhodes likes to eat plants so much.
That makes so much sense now.
But after the initial freak out and pacing along the busy road, I told myself I could figure this out. I would figure it out.
By. My. Self.
It’s just another test in learning how to be okay on my own.
I’m going to change the fuck out of this tire.
Except it’s barely recognizable now. The tire is in tatters, and I rode the wheel rim to the side of the road where traffic now rushes past at a terrifying speed, making it too loud to hear much—in Siri’s defense.
But I can’t just do nothing.
Pulling up a new internet tab, I type out how to change a tire like a badass
Then finally, finally , a list of video links pops up on my screen, instilling my hope in technology once again. The small robot that lives inside my phone came through.
I click the first link and the man in the video immediately starts talking and telling me to take a deep breath because it will all be okay. He will help me. The man has a beard and flannel, making him look ten times more knowledgeable. But he starts using names like jack and crank without much explanation. I’ll need a video breakdown of his video just to understand.
Skip .
The next one is a woman, and I instantly like her. She holds up what I now know is a tool called a jack and not some random man who will appear out of thin air to help change my tire.
Unfortunate , if you ask me .
I’ve never changed a tire before but now seems like the perfect opportunity to figure out how. I refuse to call anyone and end up back where I started. The bird incident wasn’t so bad.
Scratch that.
It was.
But I’ve managed without my parents or Rhodes so far.
I can do this, too.
I pause the video and rummage through the back of my van, shoving aside a pool noodle, an oar, and a tire pump for the bike I didn’t bring before finding Jack. Or the jack, but I’m attached to this being his name now. He’s a heavy chunk of metal painted yellow and has one arm, but it’s apparently a very strong arm that will lift the weight of Vincent VanGo who looks like he’s hit the unleaded gas a few too many times in his life.
I press play and follow each step Cynthia tells me to do.
So far, she is way better than Siri.
And Lumberjack Jesus.
While I situate Jack the right way, I realize I can only hear every other word Cynthia says. So, I switch to headphones hanging out in the front cupholder, prop my phone on Jack, and start pumping.
Sweat beads on my forehead, and I silently—okay, not so silently—curse my biceps, triceps, and all the other ceps in my body for being so small. Rhodes could probably break Jack with those burly forearms of his.
Don’t do that ! I internally chide. Don’t you dare think about his forearms at a time like this !
Cynthia continues her very passionate speech about lug nuts, which includes a fairly extensive history lesson on artillery wheels where the tire was actually bolted directly to the wheel, making a flat tire change quite challenging.
The more you know .
Her thorough explanation and positive demeanor are helpful despite having to pause and play key parts multiple times over until I finally get the destroyed tire off and the spare on. It was a feat to wrestle it out of the small compartment in my trunk, under my bed, and beneath all of my things. I had to remove bins of underwear, socks, and random items I lovingly refer to as my junk drawer .
It was worth it, though, because I’m staring at the rear of my van with new appreciation. A kind of reverence and awe I haven’t felt before.
The spare tire might as well be shiny and made of gold; it’s so perfect.
I check the lug nuts once more to make sure they are properly tightened before loading my van back up. There’s a spring in my step even with the very present sweat on my brow and dirt smudges all across my fair skin. But I’m proud of every smear, including the ones on my white tank.
It’s a reminder that I did this .
“I did this,” I say out loud, hands on my hips, just to confirm it really happened. “I did this!”
The way I can’t help but fist-punch the air and let out a little scream like a wild animal who just got their first kill.
I’m elated.
I survived a flat tire.
My first one.
Test complete .