Out of Nowhere (7 page)

“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.

“Are you going to eat?”

“Huh?”

Rafe points to my burger, which only has one bite taken out of it.

“Oh,” I say. “Yeah.”

I haven’t figured out how to talk to Rafe yet. Fortunately, shoving food in my face gives me a great excuse not to. We don’t know each other, so there’s nothing to catch up on like there is with Xavier. No “How’s your mom?” or “Is your officemate still a jerkoff?” Usually, that would mean small talk, but Rafe has shown himself to be uninterested in that so it seems silly to bother.

“So, um,” I say, “I didn’t catch some of the kids’ names. Can you go through them again?”

Rafe’s eyes light up and I know I picked the right topic.

“Carlos,” he begins, and I nod. That one I got. “He’s a nice kid. I think he’ll calm down some. He’s been coming to the YA for about three years.”

“YA?”

“Youth Alliance.”

I nod and keep eating. The burger is really good, despite the fact that the floor is dirty and I can’t even tell what color the walls are supposed to be.

“Then there’s Dorothy. She talks tough, but she looks out for everyone. She’s a poet. Really amazing.”

“Who were the twins?”

“Oh, that’s Sammi and Tynesha. They’re not twins, they’re cousins, but they do everything together. They just started coming a few months ago, so I don’t know them that well. Edward is quiet—”

“Is that the Gap model? White T-shirt?”

“Shit, he does look like a Gap model.” Rafe smiles. “From the nineties.” He shakes his head. “Yeah, he’s quiet, but if you get him talking about music, he’s all right.”

“What kind of music?”

“Not sure, exactly. I don’t usually know most of what they listen to. But I’ve heard him talk a lot with Mikal about experimental music from, I don’t know, Sweden or Iceland or something. Not really stuff I know anything about, though it sounds interesting.”

He gets a look in his eye that I take to mean he’s going to look into it. Rafe seems interested in everything. I respect it, that curiosity. Like he genuinely cares enough about some teenager to look into the music he likes so he can talk to him about it. I can’t even imagine Pop doing something like that. Or my brothers, for that matter. Well. No, Daniel would do that. Hell, Daniel did do that. He’d ask me who did a song and then ask me things about the band. Then the next time that song came on the radio, he always remembered it.

“So what kind of music do you like?” I ask.

“Honestly?” Rafe runs a hand through his hair. “I mostly end up listening to whatever radio station the kids put on: Top 40 or hip-hop or alternative, usually. I think I know the words to every Taylor Swift song, but I wouldn’t know her if I fell over her.”

“Taylor Swift—I—wow.” I can’t help but laugh at the picture of Rafe singing along to Taylor Swift, but he smiles at me, not seeming embarrassed by it, really.

“What would you listen to at home, then?” I try to predict what he’s going to say; I’m usually pretty good at that, but he’s jammed every signal I have for this sort of thing and I really have no idea.

“I don’t listen to music that much,” he says. “Mostly in the car, and I don’t drive that often. I like country some. I used to listen to mostly rap and hip-hop when I was younger, but that was when I was with friends. Yeah, country. Bluesy country I like a lot. Mostly when I’m home, though, I listen to podcasts.”

“Like the news?” Just the sound of those people talking puts me to sleep.

“No. I like ones about history or politics, sometimes science. Do you listen to podcasts?”

I shake my head, my mouth full.

“They’re usually about specific topics, like… the Boxer Rebellion or black holes or how icebergs work. And then, depending on the show, they go into different levels of detail on the topic, tell stories about it, that kind of thing.”

“So, they’re like little documentaries?”

“Basically, yeah.”

Hmm. Sounds like school. But, again, he seems so interested in everything. “Black holes… I guess that’s pretty cool.”

“Actually, DeShawn’s the one who first turned me on to the podcast about astrophysics—black holes. DeShawn’s the—”

“Big black dude?”

Rafe nods. “He’s incredibly smart. Obsessed with science. He wants to be a geneticist.” A shadow crosses Rafe’s expression, as if that makes him sad or something.

“Hey, what’s the deal with Ricky? Does she really have a photographic memory? I didn’t know that was a real thing.”

“I heard a podcast about that too. Most people don’t believe in photographic memory, per se. Not as we think of it, anyway, with someone looking at a book and being able to see each page in their head later on. But people, especially kids, have an incredible ability to recall huge amounts of information, especially if they actively work at it. Like you saw, Ricky does have amazing recall, but I don’t think her memory’s actually photographic. She doesn’t like to talk about it, so I only know what I’ve seen.”

“Is she like—sorry, I don’t know the right term or whatever, but does she have that, uh,
Rain Man
thing going on?”

“Autism,” Rafe supplies. He runs a hand through his hair, which seems to be an indicator that he’s uncertain. “Colin, I’m sorry, but I can’t really tell you anything personal like that about the kids. Confidentiality, you know?”

“Oh yeah, of course.”

I feel like an idiot for asking. Of
course
he’s not going to just tell shit about the kids to some random mechanic who met them once.

“But I can tell you that I’ve never seen her that intent on something at a workshop before. She was really into it. Mostly, she’s interested in military history, like you probably noticed from the stuff she was saying about the world wars. That kid can tell you every battle that was fought during World War II, in order. It’s pretty amazing.”

“Wow. Isn’t it a little strange for a kid to be obsessed with military history? She’s, what, like thirteen, fourteen?”

“She’s sixteen. I don’t think so. Not any weirder than being obsessed with cars when you’re sixteen, is it?”

“Yeah, I guess not.” But I was only interested in cars because they were around all the time, because Pop was always talking about them and I wanted to be just like him. But hey, maybe Ricky feels the same way about history.

“You were good with them, Colin.” Every time he says my name, a little shiver runs down my spine. It makes me realize that people almost never say my name at all. Pop calls us all “kid,” Xavier usually calls me “man” or “bro” or something. “You gave them a lot of information but still made it fun. And they responded well to you.”

“Heh, yeah, well, I really like explosions, what can I say.” Rafe nods. “Um,” I start, but then I shove the rest of my burger in my mouth, hoping Rafe’ll just keep talking about the kids. But he doesn’t. He looks at me, waiting for me to go on.

I choke a little under his regard. It feels like everywhere he looks, I can feel his eyes on me. No one else in the burger place is paying any attention to us, but I suddenly feel like everyone is staring at me, able to read every thought in my head. Rafe pats me on the back as I cough and I flinch. He takes his hand away.

“What were you going to say?”

“Oh well, I remember you said that maybe I could do more workshops—I mean, if the kids’d want me to come back….”

Rafe smiles at me. “You’d want to come back?”

I nod.

“Why?” he asks, and though his tone is matter-of-fact, I can tell my answer is important. He’s obviously really protective of the kids.

“It was cool,” I say automatically, “getting to shoot the shit about cars.”

When he says nothing, just keeps looking at me like he’s waiting for my real answer, I try to pinpoint it for myself so I can have some hope of explaining it to him. It’s not the cars. Not really. Hell, I talk about cars all day long most days. And it’s not the kids, exactly. I mean, I liked them a lot, but… it’s me.

“I don’t know how to explain it, but… it feels different from the other stuff I do. Like, I go to work and I run and I… I just. It’s nice to do something that’s not about… me, I guess.” Shit, that’s it. I don’t do anything for anyone else. I mean, I fix cars because I get paid to do it. I listen to music and watch movies for entertainment. I run and lift weights because if I don’t, I’ll go crazy. But none of that feels good; it’s… necessary. Even building my models is just a distraction. Something to do with my hands, a problem to solve, like fixing cars, so I don’t have to think.

Rafe is looking at me intently, nodding.

“Javier was the first one who got me to understand that. That doing something for someone else, for a cause, was the best way to get outside of myself, of my own shit. That being a part of something—at least
trying
to make things better—was a way to feel like I had something to offer.” His voice is fierce.

Something to offer. Yeah, that’s how I feel. In the shop I have something to offer, sure, but it’s always been more about getting to a place where I could offer the same thing as Pop or Luther or the other guys who I learned from. But this—I get what he’s saying. It’s not just information about cars that I’m offering these kids; it’s, like, the possibility that they can be good at something.

“I thought, um, Javier might be there today. Since you’ve talked so much about him,” I say, and I cringe a little because I sound… jealous.

Rafe’s eyes widen and he swallows hard. He shakes his head and looks at his hands, fisted on his knees. Not so relaxed now.

“Javi’s dead,” he says, his voice breaking. “He died three months ago.”

“What? Fuck, man, I’m—shit! I just thought… shit, sorry.”

Rafe’s arms are crossed over his chest, the fabric of his shirt pulling taut. His posture reminds me of Ricky’s as she walked away, her skinny arms holding herself tight against the world. He shakes his head like he wants very much for me not to make him talk about it.

“I run it now. The YA. I’ve run it since Javi died.” Rafe clears his throat, and I can tell he’s making a conscious effort to keep his voice steady. He fists his hands but uncrosses his arms. “So, if you want to make these workshops a regular thing, I think that’d be great. Maybe we could figure out a way to get a car you could actually work on.”

“Yeah,” I agree. Rafe obviously wants to change the subject and it seems like the least I can do after stumbling into it. “Um, we get piece-of-shit cars at the shop all the time, like I was saying. I could bring one over and leave it in the parking lot? I guess I could tow it over; that way I could get one that didn’t run and it’d be more stuff for me to show the kids how to fix? Oh yeah, well, I have one that came in the other day—the engine basically seized completely and it would’ve cost about five grand to fix so the guy just left it there. That’d be awesome to show them because the whole engine kind of melted….”

Rafe’s staring at me. He seems to realize he’s doing it and clears his throat.

“Let me check with Marcus. He’s in charge of the actual church and the parking lot. He’ll know if it’s okay to leave the car there. I think it sounds great, though, if he’s all right with it.”

Then he gets a wicked gleam in his eye.

“I know someone who will be very excited to see you again,” he says. “Mikal took quite a shine to you.”

“Yeah, what was the deal with that, man? I’m surprised some of the other kids don’t want to kick his ass, being so obvious like that. Like, uh, Carlos? He seems like the type… well, at least when I was in school, he would’ve been the type to kick someone’s ass for acting, um—”