I jammed the money into my pocket.
“And no pizza,” Kasey added. “Contrary to what you and Race might believe, it’s really not the sixth food group.”
* * *
I finished the oil pan I’d been working on, got my backpack from the office, and followed Jake out to his rust-and-primer ’58 Chevy pickup. It sucked, having to rely on other people for transportation, but I wouldn’t get my license until I turned sixteen in December.
Sinking back against the seat, I closed my eyes. Jake cranked the engine, firing up his country music—a taste he shared with Kasey. I’d developed an unwelcome familiarity with it in the last few months.
“How’s the Galaxie coming?” he asked as we pulled out onto East Amazon. Jake was Kasey’s painter—a quiet man in his forties with a crew cut and enough muscles to give Rambo an inferiority complex. He’d been with Kasey since she’d opened shop, fresh out of college, three years before.
“All we’ve got left is plug wires and stuff. We were supposed to fire her up tonight.” The thought of my pale yellow ’65 Galaxie brought an ache right along with the pride. All those hours spent rebuilding the engine, going through the brakes, replacing the hoses . . . I still couldn’t believe Race had bought it for me because he “just felt like it” when he couldn’t afford the new helmet that would’ve kept him from damn near killing himself.
“It’ll happen,” Jake said, apparently interpreting my comment to mean I was bummed about not finishing the car. Maybe I should’ve been, but the closer I got to driving the Galaxie, the more I realized I wasn’t ready for the project to be over. Hanging out with Race was one thing. Having him teach me was a whole ’nother deal—a one-on-one kind of sharing I’d never had with anyone else. I mean, sure, Kasey showed me how to do things at work, but her head was so full of projects I always worried I was distracting her from something more important.
“How’s the karate going?” Jake asked, tapping the steering wheel to the beat of Reba McEntire’s latest hit, Walk On.
“Good. I moved up a rank on Saturday.”
“Race mentioned that.” Jake shot a grin across the cab. “Twice, in fact. So what does that make you, a yellow belt?”
“White with one green stripe. We don’t have yellow at my dojo, just white, green, brown, and black. For the kyus in between, they add stripes of the next color to our belts.”
Jake nodded. “Makes sense.”
I didn’t want him to have to stop and let me get something to eat, so I didn’t mention it. I could whip up a tuna sandwich and give Kasey back her ten bucks. Race wouldn’t like me taking it, anyway.
After a five-minute drive, Jake dropped me off at Kasey’s place on the butte above the University. It was a big improvement over our crappy trailer, which we would’ve gone back to once Race got out of the hospital if Grandma hadn’t sided with Kasey on us moving in here.
I grabbed the mail out of the box. Bills for Kasey and a Circle Track magazine for Race. The cars on the cover, scrambling for the lead at some dirt track, put a little flutter in my gut. The season had ended in September, just a few weeks after my uncle started racing again. I missed the hot, dusty nights at the speedway, the growl of engines, and that sweet, pungent scent of racing fuel. When Dad kicked me out last May after I got busted for graffiti, the last thing I’d wanted was to hang out with a bunch of redneck gearheads, but now I could hardly wait for April, when the new season would start. Maybe Race would even let me take the Dart out for a few laps at one of the practice sessions. I’d been itching to get behind the wheel.
I continued flipping through the mail. Nothing for me. Not that it was any surprise. I hadn’t heard from Mom since August when she’d tried to guilt-trip me into moving to Phoenix, and I’d refused, telling her to drop the head games or leave me alone. At the time I’d figured I was better off without her. Now I half-wished I hadn’t shown her the door. It wasn’t that I expected her to be a real mom—and I sure as hell wasn’t going back to getting smacked around and called names—but was it asking too much for her to send a card once in a while? To step up and act like an adult, instead of being so spiteful?
A sudden rage ripped through me, making my hand clench around the magazine. I wanted to level the mailbox with a roundhouse kick, but I squelched the impulse. I wasn’t that kid anymore. I didn’t have to give in to my temper. Forcing my hand to relax, I took a deep, centering breath and headed up the driveway.
* * *
Inside, the house was silent. Race’s door was closed. I knew he’d be in there until morning, his curtains drawn to create a dark, quiet cave. I slipped down the hall, resisting the urge to knock and ask if he was okay.
In my room, I dropped my backpack and jacket on the bed and sank down beside them. I wanted to take a nap, but with where my head was, I knew sleep wouldn’t come.
The thing that bothered me the most, the thing I couldn’t understand, was why everyone else seemed to have a handle on the situation while I couldn’t get over it. The nightmares, the prickling anxiety—all that had made sense right after the wreck, but why now? And why me? Race was the one whose life had been trashed. The one whose career as an artist had been sidelined when the head injury screwed up his fine motor skills. Compared to that, what did I have to bitch about? I hadn’t lost anything.
But it sure felt like I had. And it wasn’t just the wreck. It was all the changes—moving in with Kasey, getting used to the subtle things that made Race different, knowing if I ever let my guard down, my world could get knocked out of orbit again. All I wanted was for life to go back to the way it had been last June when it was just me and Race, and I felt like I was in control.
Well, feeling sorry for myself wasn’t going to fix anything. What I needed now was a little karate to shake me out of this funk. I slipped into some sweats and went outside.
From low in the west, the sun cast bronze rays over the trees on the hillside behind the house. The birches were beginning to turn gold, and the maple at the north end of the patio flamed scarlet.
Listening to the sounds of nature around me, I concentrated on my breathing. I drew a fresh breath deep into my chest, then exhaled from the belly, forcing out the old, stale air. A few minutes of that left me lightheaded from the surge of oxygen. My fingers and toes tingled, and I felt a rush of anticipation knowing this would be one of those times I entered that magic zone where my workout gave me a high.
I started slowly with a series of kicks, warming up my body, getting it used to the motion. Front kick, roundhouse, side kick, back kick—the moves flowed together, and after a few repetitions I put more force behind them, adding some snap. The world fell away as I focused on the physical. There was no room for my feelings—my anxiety—as perfecting the execution of the moves became the only thing that mattered. For a few brief moments everything came together.
But after I went back inside, as I sat in front of the TV alone with my tuna sandwich, the worries came creeping back. The Galaxie was almost finished. Race wasn’t going to wake up tomorrow magically restored to his old self. And as much as I wanted him and Kasey to be together—as hard as I’d worked to make that happen—I wasn’t sure I could handle not having my uncle to myself.
* * *
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Acknowledgments
My heartfelt thanks go out to the members of my critique groups, Chrysalis and Wow, and to my numerous beta readers, including Joel Schmitz, Eddy Kilgore, Barb Froman, Beth Miles, Paula Manley, Karen Champ, Roxie Matthews, Jenny Landis-Steward, Marian Meyer, Kayla Meyer Matsuura, Bob Douglas, Sylvia Potter, Bill and Ruth George, Bobby Shaw, Lois Lane, Gene Bradshaw, June Fezler, Josh Skinner, Mitch Hutchinson, Bill Graham, Susan Landis-Steward, Renee LaChance, Rachele Alpine, Casey McCormick, Roxanne Colyer Clingman, and my mom, Dorothy Hooker. I’d also like to demonstrate my appreciation to my blogging and email buddy, Christine Fletcher, and my goal-setting partner, Laura Marshal. A special thanks goes to Alice Lynn, writing compatriot extraordinaire, with whom I exchange chapters, bemoan disappointments, and celebrate victories.
Additional shout-outs go to my high school best friend Damon Atherly, who patiently plodded through my early attempts at writing; my buddies James Reagh, Kris Harper, and the late Thomas Rubick, who were there when Race and Cody first let me know they had a story to tell; my sister, Angela Moist, who added a mother’s perspective; my dad, Matt Nowak, for his medical expertise: and my awesome husband Bob Earls, who puts up with my obsessive behavior and lets my cats nap on his head.
Last but not least, an extra special thanks to indie author Amy Rose Davis, who lured me over to the Dark Side.
About the Author
In addition to being a YA author, Lisa Nowak is a retired amateur stock car racer, an accomplished cat whisperer, and a professional smartass. She writes coming-of-age books about kids in hard luck situations who learn to appreciate their own value after finding mentors who love them for who they are. She enjoys dark chocolate and stout beer and constantly works toward employing wei wu wei in her life, all the while realizing that the struggle itself is an oxymoron.
Lisa has no spare time, but if she did she’d use it to tend to her expansive perennial garden, watch medical dramas, take long walks after dark, and teach her cats to play poker. For those of you who might be wondering, she is not, and has never been, a diaper-wearing astronaut. She lives in Milwaukie, Oregon, with her husband, four feline companions, and two giant sequoias.
Connect with Lisa online:
Website: https://www.lisanowak.net/
Blog: https://lisanowak.wordpress.com/
Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/LisaNowakAuthor
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