Interim(57)

“I walked directly here after school,” he said aloud. “I . . . I know I did. I didn’t stop anywhere.”

No one responded.

“I got to work on that Audi. This truck next.” He jabbed a thumb behind him.

“Jeremy?” Roy asked. His finger remained poised over the phone’s keypad.

“I drained the oil,” Jeremy went on, staring ahead of him. “I watched it drain.”

“Yes?” Roy encouraged.

“That’s all I remember. I must have passed out.” Jeremy propped his elbows on his knees and clutched his head, smearing oil and dyeing his blond hair a dirty brown.

Roy exhaled slowly. He rocked back on his heels and wiped his face. “Jesus. Christ.”

“I’m sorry,” Jeremy whispered.

“You have a dream about Freddy Krueger or something?” Roy asked. “Jesus Christ. You scared the shit out of me, son! I thought you were having a heart attack!”

“I’m sorry,” Jeremy repeated.

Roy turned to the customers. “Thanks for your concern, everyone, but I think we’re all right now.”

They nodded and shuffled toward the waiting area, giving Jeremy some much-needed privacy.

“I really freaked out,” he said. “I feel stupid.”

“Nonsense. Don’t feel that way at all. Everyone’s panicked at some point in their lives. I’m just sorry it happened here under a truck. I’m concerned.”

Jeremy looked up at Roy. “I’m fine.”

“I know you’re fine now, but what are you doing falling asleep on the job like that? You know how unsafe that is? You getting enough sleep at night? Am I working you too much? What’s going on at school?”

“Roy, please stop.” Jeremy clutched his head all over again. Too many questions to process.

“Okay. Let’s take it one by one,” Roy replied. “Why are you falling asleep on the job?”

“I don’t know.”

“Are you sleeping enough at night?”

“Probably not.”

Roy huffed. “When do you go to bed?”

“When I’m tired.”

“Damnit, Jer, you need a bedtime!”

“I’m nineteen!”

“I’m sixty-three and I have a bedtime!”

“Because you’re sixty-three.” Jeremy cocked his head to the side and eyed Roy. He grinned.

“Funny. And I’m being serious. Go to bed at a decent hour so that you can function like a normal human being.”

Normal. Now that was funny.

“Yes, sir.”

“You struggling in school?” Roy asked.

“No.”

“You getting your work done? Your papers and projects and all that?”

“Yes.”

“Are you writing garbage or are you actually working hard? You studying for tests and quizzes? I wanna see your grades.”

“Jesus, Roy,” Jeremy mumbled.

“I’m your boss and landlord. That means I get to see your grades.”

“Mostly B’s. A few C’s right now,” Jeremy said, and that was the truth.

“You’re not an average kid,” Roy replied. “What are you doing making C’s?”

“I am average, actually.”

“No, you’re not. An average kid couldn’t take apart an engine and put it back together with minimal to no help. You’re gifted.”

Jeremy burst out laughing. “I was held back in second grade!”

“Means nothing,” Roy said, brushing off the argument with a wave of his tubby hand.

“We can’t all be A students,” Jeremy explained. “Devalues the system, you know? Every student a Harvard student? I don’t think so. Stains the ivory.”

Roy nodded. “And that’s exactly why I know you’re not a C student.”

Silence.

“I’ll do better.”

“You better.”

“I will.”

And then Jeremy gasped, staring straight ahead.

“What?” Roy asked, following his gaze.

A girl stood in the doorway clutching a bag to her chest. She was dressed in soccer gear—pink jersey and shorts with outlandish lime green knee highs that stretched and strained over shin guards. She wore her cleats. Did she walk all the way over here in them?