“Huh. I don’t know.”
After a few minutes, about a dozen kids have arrived, chatting, teasing, and hanging all over each other. A few of them look in their early teens and one or two look seventeen or eighteen, but the majority are fourteen or fifteen. At about five after eleven, Rafe addresses the group.
“Hi, folks. Welcome. Today we have a special guest who’s going to do a workshop on auto maintenance and cars. Maybe he’ll talk a little bit about what it’s like to work as a mechanic.” He looks to me and I nod. Hell, at least that’s something I know how to talk about. “So, this is Colin. Why don’t you introduce yourselves and then we’ll head out to the lot.”
The kids all look at each other in an attempt to avoid going first. Finally, the kid who called Rafe “Conan” speaks up. He’s one of the oldest ones there. He’s wearing a white wifebeater and has the arm muscles of someone who only lifts weights to look tough.
“I’m Carlos,” he says. He tips me a little head nod, like he’s giving me permission to hang out with him or something. Jesus, I feel like I’m back in high school again. I nod back.
“Ricky,” a skinny white girl says, pointing to herself. She doesn’t look older than fourteen, but she has a nose ring and a crude tattoo on her thin wrist. Her bleached-white bangs almost cover eyes ringed with black makeup. I smile at her and she looks away.
“Hey, sweetie. I’m Mikal, but you can call me anything you like,” says a pretty-boy black kid wearing denim overalls and a shiny purple shirt. Is this kid flirting with me? I expect the rest of the group to turn on him—Carlos looks like the type to react poorly to a gay kid—but most of them just smile.
“Uh, Mikal works for me,” I say, trying not to be a total asshole.
Most of the others say their names too quickly for me to retain. Among them are a tall blond guy wearing a plain white T-shirt and jeans like a Gap model who mutters his name like he wants me to forget it; a pair of brightly dressed girls who introduce each other, but do it so quickly I don’t catch either name; a beautiful girl who looks Latina—or, shit, is it Hispanic? I really need to ask Rafe about that—and says her name like she’s daring me to use it. One guy just waves at me, smiling sweetly. He looks about fourteen or fifteen and has bright blond hair, blue eyes, and pale skin that look otherworldly against his all-black clothes. The smallest one says his name is Stuart, but he says it so softly I can hardly hear him, and one of the older girls, who introduced herself as “Dorothy, but way smarter than that dumb-ass white girl in that Oz movie,” repeats it for me.
Last is the oldest and biggest of them: a tall muscular guy I would’ve put in his early twenties, except that Rafe told me only kids up to age eighteen are allowed here. He’s black, with a shaved head and white glasses, and his expression is serious and a bit suspicious. Like he’s waiting to decide if he’s happy to have me here or not. He’s taller than me—maybe six foot two—but not as tall as Rafe, and his worn white chinos, white tank top, and white Converse are all spotless.
“DeShawn,” he says in a voice softer than I expected.
“Okay,” Rafe says, “let’s go talk about cars.” And he does seem excited, rubbing his palms together like he’s one of the kids.
“So,” I say once we’re standing in a ring around Rafe’s BMW, “this is a 1985 BMW 320i. I know that sounds like just a bunch of numbers and letters, but it’s actually kind of like a… a… a secret language that gives you clues about the car. And when you know how to decode the secret language, it saves lots of time because you can shorthand stuff. Okay, so it always goes in that order. The first thing you say is the year. So, Rafe’s car was born in 1985.”
“Dude,” Carlos says, “your car’s ancient. It’s older than me!”
“Not older than me,” Rafe says, raising his scarred eyebrow in warning.
“Me either,” I say. “So, okay, next: BMW. That’s the name of the manufacturer. Anyone know where BMWs are from?”
“Germany,” says Ricky. She’s moved her bangs aside enough so that she can see the car with one eye.
“Yeah, that’s right.” I smile at her, but she keeps staring at the car. “Know what it stands for?” No way will any of them know this. Hell, most people who own BMWs don’t know what it stands for. I look at Rafe, who shrugs, proving my point.
“Bayerische Motoren Werke.”
Ricky again. Holy shit.
“Uh, yeah, that’s right.” She’s staring blankly at the car. “Do you know a lot about cars?” She shakes her head. “Do you know anything else about BMWs?”