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Authors: Tracy Sweeney
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behind the gym to grab a cigarette. I couldn’t wait because my knuckles were starting to feel sore now that the adrenaline had faded. It was a small price to pay. Punching Wakefield felt good. I could scratch that off of my list of things I wanted to do before I graduated. I guess I should thank Jillian for that.
When I rounded the corner, she was sitting on one of the milk crates with her head against the wall. The sparkly, pink, sad excuse for a flask was at her lips.
“If you’re crashing my party, Cross,” I began boldly. “You better come prepared to share.” She narrowed her eyes at me, as if she were sizing me up before raising her arm and offering me the flask. I looked at it for a moment. If I hadn’t just punched Wakefield, I wouldn’t have been able to justify drinking from a pink flask, but I needed something to numb the throbbing. I took a quick pull.
“Vodka? Really?”
“Maybe you should get your own if you don’t like it,” she responded sarcastically.
“See, that’s where we differ,” I replied. “I’m not crazy enough to bring my flask to school or to give it a name.”
“I’m sure we differ in lots of ways, Luke,” she shot back, clearly not offended.
“Yeah, I’m not Wakefield’s type.”
“That was just the icing on the cake of my day. I volunteered to help a friend with boy problems,” she explained rolling her eyes. “I shouldn’t say ‘volunteer’ since it was my brilliant idea.”
“So what’s the problem then?” She was going to have to spell this one out for me.
“Well, you have a few drinks. You get a brilliant idea,” she began slowly, taking another sip. “You sober up and realize that your idea may not be as fool proof as you may have initially believed.”
“I don’t get that about girls—the need to play matchmaker,” I responded grabbing the flask from her again.
“I’m not playing matchmaker,” she countered. “They would have figured it out in their own time. I’m sure of that. I’m just helping them along. It’s my approach that I’m just not so sure of.” She looked down at her watch and groaned. “Time to put the plan in motion. Wish me luck.”
“Sounds like you’ll need it,” I replied as she gathered herself up from the milk crate. “Later,” I added with a smirk as I watched her leave. I was beginning to enjoy watching her walk away a little too much. I couldn’t really blame Mike for taking a sudden interest in her.
“Your turn to bring the refreshments,” she called back grinning. Apparently intending to turn my afternoon breaks into a pot luck.
I finished my cigarette and tossed it with the dozens of other butts on the ground. I walked through the parking lot to grab my bike and drove it around the back of the building where Scanlon’s shop was. After parking it in one of the open bays, I made my way over to Mr. S.
“Luke. Great, you’re here,” he greeted me. “Listen up, people. We’re going to learn a little bit about motorcycle repair today while I help Mr. Chambers here rebuild the clutch on his bike. Last year, Luke started to rebuild a 1973 Honda CL 175, a beautiful bike. He’s been experiencing some problems with the clutch so we’re going to remove the whole assembly and install a new one.” He grabbed the box of parts on the table in front of him, carried them over to the bay with my bike, and immediately went to work taking it apart as the class looked on.
“Now Luke, we need to make sure the shifter shaft arm is aligned correctly,” he began while handing me a pivot bolt. “The arm should point directly to the center of the clutch and the ball bearing lifter mechanism will ride on the shifter arm. So—”
“Excuse me, Mr. Scanlon?” We all looked up at the voice that interrupted him. It was Jillian. “I’m sorry to interrupt, but there’s something wrong with my car and I can’t figure it out. I was told you might be able to help.”
Jillian hadn’t mentioned anything about
When I rounded the corner, she was sitting on one of the milk crates with her head against the wall. The sparkly, pink, sad excuse for a flask was at her lips.
“If you’re crashing my party, Cross,” I began boldly. “You better come prepared to share.” She narrowed her eyes at me, as if she were sizing me up before raising her arm and offering me the flask. I looked at it for a moment. If I hadn’t just punched Wakefield, I wouldn’t have been able to justify drinking from a pink flask, but I needed something to numb the throbbing. I took a quick pull.
“Vodka? Really?”
“Maybe you should get your own if you don’t like it,” she responded sarcastically.
“See, that’s where we differ,” I replied. “I’m not crazy enough to bring my flask to school or to give it a name.”
“I’m sure we differ in lots of ways, Luke,” she shot back, clearly not offended.
“Yeah, I’m not Wakefield’s type.”
“That was just the icing on the cake of my day. I volunteered to help a friend with boy problems,” she explained rolling her eyes. “I shouldn’t say ‘volunteer’ since it was my brilliant idea.”
“So what’s the problem then?” She was going to have to spell this one out for me.
“Well, you have a few drinks. You get a brilliant idea,” she began slowly, taking another sip. “You sober up and realize that your idea may not be as fool proof as you may have initially believed.”
“I don’t get that about girls—the need to play matchmaker,” I responded grabbing the flask from her again.
“I’m not playing matchmaker,” she countered. “They would have figured it out in their own time. I’m sure of that. I’m just helping them along. It’s my approach that I’m just not so sure of.” She looked down at her watch and groaned. “Time to put the plan in motion. Wish me luck.”
“Sounds like you’ll need it,” I replied as she gathered herself up from the milk crate. “Later,” I added with a smirk as I watched her leave. I was beginning to enjoy watching her walk away a little too much. I couldn’t really blame Mike for taking a sudden interest in her.
“Your turn to bring the refreshments,” she called back grinning. Apparently intending to turn my afternoon breaks into a pot luck.
I finished my cigarette and tossed it with the dozens of other butts on the ground. I walked through the parking lot to grab my bike and drove it around the back of the building where Scanlon’s shop was. After parking it in one of the open bays, I made my way over to Mr. S.
“Luke. Great, you’re here,” he greeted me. “Listen up, people. We’re going to learn a little bit about motorcycle repair today while I help Mr. Chambers here rebuild the clutch on his bike. Last year, Luke started to rebuild a 1973 Honda CL 175, a beautiful bike. He’s been experiencing some problems with the clutch so we’re going to remove the whole assembly and install a new one.” He grabbed the box of parts on the table in front of him, carried them over to the bay with my bike, and immediately went to work taking it apart as the class looked on.
“Now Luke, we need to make sure the shifter shaft arm is aligned correctly,” he began while handing me a pivot bolt. “The arm should point directly to the center of the clutch and the ball bearing lifter mechanism will ride on the shifter arm. So—”
“Excuse me, Mr. Scanlon?” We all looked up at the voice that interrupted him. It was Jillian. “I’m sorry to interrupt, but there’s something wrong with my car and I can’t figure it out. I was told you might be able to help.”
Jillian hadn’t mentioned anything about
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