Black Bird of the Gallows(28)

Disturbing. A fine word choice. “Nope.”

“I need a favor.”

“I got the clear impression you wanted to keep your distance.” I don’t feel bad about the frost in my voice. “You’re sending very mixed signals.”

“I know. It’s messed up.” He looks down at my skull slippers and amusement slides across his expression. “You have no idea how much.”

“Oh, I have an idea.” I cross my arms again. “What’s this favor?”

“I was wondering if you’d mind giving me a ride to the ice rink.”

“The ice rink?” I ask. “Isn’t the hockey season half over?”

“Yeah.” His shoulders jerk into a shrug. “But Coach Radley saw my last season stats and agreed to let me try out tonight at practice. He lost a center to bad grades and, if I make it, he said he can swing a special circumstance waiver, letting me join the team mid-season. My car arrived, but it’s in the shop, and my mom is out, so I was wondering—hoping—you’d be willing to give me a ride.”

“None of the puck heads felt like picking you up?”

His voice and eyebrows lower. “Fine. I wanted to talk to you, okay? Without an audience. I didn’t know how else to do it.”

He wants to talk. I let out a breath. “We have a terrible hockey team.”

A grin flickers, quick and bright. “I suspect that’s why Coach is letting me try out mid-season.”

I glance back toward the basement stairs. “I don’t know. I have friends over.”

“Oh, I didn’t know.” His eyes widen. “Didn’t mean to interrupt.” A flush brightens his cheekbones.

“That’s okay,” Lacey pipes up, appearing behind me. “We were just leaving, weren’t we Deno?”

Of course, they wouldn’t just stay in the basement.

Deno looks baffled. “We’re leaving? But our equipment—” Lacey cuts him off with an elbow to the ribs. “Ow. Okay, yeah,” he says. “On our way out. See you tomorrow, Angie.”

“Wait,” I say. “You don’t have to.”

“Sure we do,” Lacey chirps, eyes darting to Reece. “It’s a school night.”

The whole scene is ridiculous, with Lacey and Deno exchanging looks and trying—but not succeeding—to make a smooth, non-obvious exit.

Lacey lets out a peal of laughter as soon as the door is shut behind her. Reece cocks his head, eyebrows raised in bemusement. “What was that about?”

“On Earth, we call it embarrassing.” I rub circles into my forehead.

“I am from Earth.”

“Are you sure?” I roll the ball of my foot over the tile. “So you want me to drive you.”

“Or we can fly. Whichever is easier.”

“Funny. Okay, fine, since you’ve run off my friends. Get your stuff.”

His “stuff” is a small mountain of gear already piled up on the front step. My jaw locks at the sight. Presumptuous of him to assume I’d drop everything and dive for my keys. As if my deepest desire on a Thursday evening is to drive his butt across town to the ice rink, but he’s pretty confident. Probably not used to the word “no.”

I find Dad in the kitchen, pretending to be busy, and let him know what I’m doing, then make Reece haul his load of hockey stuff through the house to the garage, where my dad’s BMW, my car, and my mom’s old Volkswagen Bus are housed.

Reece drops his hockey gear at the Civic’s bumper and makes a beeline for the VW. “Oh, wow, Angie. That’s cool.” He lets out a low whistle and spreads his hands before the mint-blue paint. It looks good. I don’t know why my dad had it restored. Probably because it was stinking up the garage with the skunky reek of weed. Maybe he just wanted to.

But Reece is right. The Bus is cool. At least, I can see how someone other than me might think so.

He leans close, runs a hand over the thick white stripe along the side. “What year?”

“1962.” I resist the urge to rush over and slap away his hand. “Can we go now?”

“Does it run?”

“As far as I know,” I reply. “Aren’t you going to be late?”

He shrugs. “Can I sit inside?”

“No.” It comes out sharper than I intended, but not nearly as sharp as I feel. He’s too close to the van, and we’re very much alone in this dark garage. Both things make my nerves jangle like loose change.

He looks over in surprise and holds out his hands. “Okay. No problem. I love old cars. Is it your dad’s?”

“Mine, technically.”

His black eyes find mine and widen. “This amazing beast is yours, and you take the bus to school?”

I take a breath and chew on my bottom lip. My mother died in this car. It’s been here since the Philadelphia Police Department released it to my dad five years ago. He had it completely restored, but I can’t imagine driving it. I also can’t imagine getting rid of it. So here it sits.

I tap a finger on the Honda’s doorframe. “Do you want a ride or not?”

“Yes.” He stands there for a moment, gazing in the Bus’s window with a puzzling fascination. When he turns around, his eyes are bright. He’s really into weird old cars.