“So,” he says, standing about a foot too close to me, “what’s wrong with you?”
“Um, excuse me?”
“Well, there must be something wrong with you; you’re here.” Mikal gestures around him.
I look at Rafe, unsure of what to say.
“Besides, Khal Drogo here is a sucker for a lost cause. Just look around.” Mikal’s trying to tease, I know, but his voice has changed, his flirty tone gone flat.
“Hey,” says Rafe, holding Mikal’s gaze. “There’s nothing wrong with you. Any of you. You aren’t… lost causes.” He practically spits the words out. Mikal nods but drops his eyes. I can tell Rafe wants to say more but he bites it back as the other kids join us.
The rest of the workshop goes better now that I’m not so nervous. I demonstrate a few things on Rafe’s car, things that I think would be most useful to the kids in case their family cars have problems—how to change a flat tire, how to add oil and top off other fluids. And I look like a complete ass when I try and imitate common noises that cars make when certain things are wrong with them, which quickly devolves into us all making weird shrieking and groaning noises like a pack of wild dogs.
I also answer some of the weirdest questions about cars I’ve ever heard, including, “Could you put together a car that had two front ends or two back ends?” from Gap Model, to which someone replies, “Course you want something with two back ends,” whatever that means; “Is it possible to have a second set of wheels so cars could move side to side?” from one of the twins; and “You know that flying car in Harry Potter? Could you make that?” from the kid in all black who hasn’t spoken since he walked in. I don’t know the flying car in Harry Potter, but the rest of the kids greet this idea with enthusiasm.
Then it’s over, and the time has gone so fast that I feel like I didn’t get to talk about even 10 percent of what I’d wanted to. The twins, Gap Model, and Dorothy wave good-bye to me and call out their thanks as they leave. Carlos thanks me and turns to Rafe.
“Good one, Conan. Way better than that modern dance bullshit.”
“You think I didn’t see you enjoying the hell out of modern dance, Carlito?”
Carlos mutters something and jogs away. The kid in all black waves good-bye just as he waved hello and wanders off in the other direction.
“Thank you,” says DeShawn, holding out his hand. “That was interesting.” Again, I’m struck by the softness of his voice, though his handshake is firm. Something about the way he’s trying not to seem threatening reminds me of Rafe. I mostly do the opposite.
“You’re welcome,” I say. He nods solemnly and starts to walk off, but Rafe catches up to him and they start talking about something I can’t hear.
Only Ricky is left, staring at Rafe’s car as if she’s still seeing its guts even though the hood is down now.
“You know,” I say quietly to Ricky, taking a page out of DeShawn’s book so as not to startle her, “with a photographic memory, you could learn cars really easily. So much of it is just remembering how the pieces interact; what goes where; which are the things that are different in one model versus another. You’d probably be real good at it.”
She sighs but doesn’t look at me.
“Probably,” she says. And she walks away, thin arms wrapped around her chest, hugging herself.
I’m packing up my tools when Rafe comes back over.
“That went well, huh?”
“You think? I—there was so much I could’ve told them. I don’t know if I picked the right stuff. Or if it’ll be useful to them.”
“They seemed to really enjoy it,” he says, and he sounds completely sure. “It interested them, caught their attention. That was my goal for it, and by that measure it was a definite success.”
“Oh, okay. Well, that’s good, then.”
“It is. So, thank you. Let me buy you lunch? There’s a great burger place a couple blocks from here.”
As I load my tools into the trunk, Rafe stands close enough that I can smell him—warm and spicy and clean—and I fight the urge to lean in and sniff him by slamming the trunk shut hard and digging my car keys into my palm.
The burger place is a little hole-in-the-wall with stools under a bar built into the wall. Rafe’s posture is casual and he seems totally concentrated on enjoying his burger, so I try to do the same. I force myself to relax, muscle by muscle, like I do when I can’t sleep.
I have the strangest feeling that I’ve been transported to some other world, like in a science fiction movie. Like I woke up this morning, got in my car, and at some point, drove through a—what do they call them in those movies: wormholes? Yeah, I drove through a wormhole and now I’m here in some alternate North Philly with this person who doesn’t exist in my real life, doing things I’d never do in my real life, like the workshop, feeling like I never feel in my real life. Almost… what’s the opposite of miserable? It’s like a warm charge in my chest. Energy, maybe, but not the kind of fidgety energy I usually have that compels me to run or lift until I can sit still without ripping myself apart. This is—fuck, I don’t know.