Blind Kiss(36)

“Just tell me, Gavin.”

He stood and walked over to the open hood of her car. Looking in, he said, “There was no oil in the pan. I unscrewed everything, took out the filter, looked at it. I knew it wasn’t the oil change because the oil was pooling underneath where the engine meets the transmission, which is nowhere near the filter. So it could be a broken seal—”

“What, like a rubber band?” my mother said.

“Like a gasket,” Gavin replied. “Or . . .” He scratched his chin, wiping grease on it. “Maybe the smog guys dumped some oil down there to make it look like you had an oil leak. Did they offer to repair it?”

“Yeah, and they told me I needed new struts, breaks, and tires.”

Gavin started laughing. “I’m going to wash this out thoroughly, and then check your struts and breaks. I can tell you right now, you don’t need new tires, but I’ll look at everything else.”

An hour later, a very greasy Gavin dropped the hood and said triumphantly, “Anne, nothing is wrong with your car. This baby has many more pageant trips in its future.”

She smiled ecstatically. Jumping up and down, she said, “I’d hug you but you’re a mess, kid!”

He shook his head. “It’s okay. I have to go to work anyway.”

My mother thanked him endlessly before going into the house to start dinner.

After she left, Gavin and I stood there staring at each other from opposite ends of the garage.

“You didn’t have to do that,” I said.

“I know.”

I walked toward him wearing a pale-pink, long-sleeved leotard and gray sweats. “I don’t care about the grease.” I jumped up and hugged him, throwing my arms around his neck. Near his ear, I said. “But next time we hang out . . . we hang out.”

He put me down and smiled. “Deal, Monkey,” he said, poking my nose and leaving a black grease smudge on it.





15. Six Months Ago


GAVIN

Penny kept needling me to go out with Briel, but I wouldn’t bite. My dad was getting sicker and sicker, and Penny wanted me to go on dates? She was out of her mind, but that was nothing new.

“I think it’s in your best interest,” she said.

“Best interest? Are we in a parent-teacher conference? I’m not Milo, P. It’s me.”

“I know, but you’ve been hanging around the house so much and you know . . . it’s just a little weird.”

“And what? Is Dickhead getting jealous?”

“Don’t do that.”

We were standing outside Milo’s school selling tickets to some stupid PTA thing. Everyone was giving me dirty looks. Some lady who Penny referred to as “The Ice Queen” walked up.

“Who’s this, Penelope?” she asked as she looked me up and down.

“Milo’s uncle,” Penny said indifferently.

“The incarcerated uncle?”

Penny laughed. “Not anymore.”

There was never an incarcerated uncle. I didn’t know what the hell this Ice Queen was talking about—or why Penny was rolling with it.

What a piece of work this woman was. Weirdly enough, I still would have fucked her. She was cute, in an impish way. She had a three-year-old on her hip who was clearly outgrowing her, and she was dressed absurdly for school drop-off in spiky high heels and a tight, red spandex dress.

“I like your aviators, Teresa,” Penny said in a sincere tone, even though I knew she was being sarcastic.

“Sooo, do you want one ticket for six dollars or two for ten?” I asked. “We also have raffle tickets for a dollar. The grand prize is one week at bitch rehab.”

Penny gasped. Teresa turned her skinny nose up at me, turned on her heel, and walked away.

“Really, Gavin? This is Milo’s school. I know you wanted to get out of the house today but you can’t go around sending snotty women to bitch rehab.”

“I was thinking we could go to a strip club or something. Not sell fundraiser tickets to smug moms.”

“It’s eight thirty in the morning—and I’m a mom!” Even though she hated labels, she always put a lot of emphasis on the word mom.

“Who was that woman anyway?”

“Her kid’s in Milo’s class. She’s nice sometimes but when she’s with her little cronies, she acts like she doesn’t know who I am. She’s just insecure.”

I was making eyes at another woman in line and only partially listening to Penny. “What was the deal with the incarcerated uncle thing?”

“Blame that one.” She pointed to a Spanish-looking dark-haired bombshell in the back of the line—the mom I’d been checking out. “She asked about you when you came to the performing arts showcase last year. I told her you went to jail.”

The hot mom was still checking me out as she got closer to the front of the line. “Are you trying to sabotage everything for me, P? I could have fun with someone like her.”

“She’s married. Kind of a hussy, though. She probably has hep C.”

“You’re so judgmental. No wonder why you have no friends here.”

“I have friends. Ling’s my friend.”

“Ling lives in another state.”