All Good Children - Catherine Austen [70]
“Yes, please.”
She sprays my hair with moisturizer. “You ready for Christmas?”
“No.”
She holds up her scissors and smiles in the mirror. “I found my son an old set of tools, almost antique, so even if he already has enough wrenches, it’s still a nice conversation piece.” Like she needs more of those. “Old cars have different parts than the new ones, so old tools probably work better anyway,” she adds.
“Who does he work for?” I ask.
She’s surprised to hear me ask a question, since I usually don’t even answer them. “He works for himself,” she says with a mixture of pride and shame because her son has initiative but he’s broke.
“Does he sell cars?”
She laughs. “Everyone sells cars out where I live.”
“I mean cars that work. Cars you can drive across the state.”
She shrugs. “He mostly takes them apart to make more living space. Once in a while he fixes an engine. Not a lot of people drive the old cars because the gas and permits are so expensive.” She selects a section of my hair with her fingers.
“Permits?”
She nods. “You need a permit to drive them because they pollute so much.”
I swear.
She cuts my hair in silence for a minute. “What’s up with you, kid?”
I catch her eye in the mirror and she straightens up, her scissors held high. “My cousin lives far away,” I say. “We have to drive to her house, and I thought maybe we could find an old car.”
“Why don’t you rent a car?”
I don’t say anything.
“How far are you planning on driving?”
“Far.”
She squints. “Will anyone be staying in your apartment while you’re gone?”
I shake my head, pulling the hair out from between her fingers.
She finds that section again, looks back at the mirror, and asks, “How long will your place be empty? A few days? A few weeks? Months?”
I shrug.
“How big is it?”
“Two bedrooms, a big living room, a small kitchen.” I try to think of a selling point. “It has a nice view.”
She laughs and repeats, “It has a nice view. Well, that’s good to know. How many months are paid in advance?”
“Whatever’s required, I guess.”
“Most places need a six-month deposit. That’s why I live in a car.”
“Then I guess the next six months are paid for.”
Her eyes go dreamy in the mirror. “You’re sure about this? You’re not kidding? I know you’re a joker. Don’t joke about this, okay?”
“I’m not joking.”
“In that case, I’m sure I can find you a car that works.” She smiles and snips my hair faster than I’ve ever seen. “We’ll find you a very nice car with a full tank of gasoline. I’ll throw in an air freshener. And one of those little dogs on the dashboard that wags its head when you brake.” She laughs a big hearty laugh. She pats my shoulder and repeats, “We’ll find you a very nice car.”
“I’ll need it before Christmas Eve.”
“That won’t be a problem.”
I take a detour to Pepper’s old house on my way home.
My heart is gone from her doorstep. But I’m still carrying her keys.
It’s unsettling inside, dark and hollow. I walk straight to her bedroom and close the door. I stare at the nail where my painting used to hang. I turn around and catch my dim reflection in a mirror: gray clothes and a black face. I could be anybody. I could be a zombie. With nice hair.
I don’t know what I’m doing here. I rummage through her closet but find nothing new. I look under her bed and behind the dresser. I sniff the clothes in her hamper, bury my face in a jacket that smells like the chemistry lab. There’s an earpiece in one pocket, a storage chip in the other. I plug it into my RIG.
I can’t access the documents without a password, but photos scroll freely before my eyes. I moan out loud to see myself with tomato sauce on my chin, smiling. The next photo shows Dallas holding my pizza out of my reach. There are almost fifty shots of us—in the skate park, on the school grounds, on the football field. There’s even a recording of our game against the Devils—not the one where I screamed but before that, when Dallas went wicked. I can’t look at that.
There’s a recording of Pepper’s dance rehearsal, so premium it hurts to watch. She’s