Home > Candy Colored Sky(4)

Candy Colored Sky(4)
Author: Ginger Scott

“It’s Dad’s.” I glance up just long enough to catch Mom’s glossy eyes and half smile. I lift the book and suck in my lips, feeling some reverence for this notebook, but probably not as much as I should.

“Now, I know what you’re thinking. ‘Great. I turn eighteen and all I get is a crappy old notebook,’” Grandpa says.

I breathe out a laugh at my grandfather’s guess at my inner dialogue.

“No, I like it,” I say, thumbing through the first few pages.

“Well, you will . . . when you crack that hood of the thing that goes with it,” he says.

It takes a few seconds for his comment to sink in, and when my head pops up from reading my father’s notes, my sudden realization is quickly confirmed by the glimmer of a gold key dangling from his index finger. I haven’t seen that key in years. It used to hang on the small hook by the back door, a nagging reminder of my dad’s long-gone teenage years.

“All registered, and insurance is paid up for six months, mostly because it’s considered a hobby car until you can get it running, but . . .” My mom stops mid-sentence and moves close enough to weave her arm through mine and rest her head on my shoulder while I flip through the pages of notes my father left behind.

“You really think I can get Dad’s old Bronco up and running?” I’m being serious because right now, I have major doubts. I’m book smart, sure. I’m great at math and I figured I’d study engineering in college, but the inner workings of an automobile feel a bit impossible, especially a seventy-two Ford that hasn’t run, at least not well, since my dad was seventeen.

“I know you can,” Grandpa answers. “My gift to you is I will pay for the parts. Whatever you need.”

“Yeah, but that’s the thing. You guys, this is— I mean, I would love to drive the Bronco around, but I have no idea where to begin. And insurance after six months. Mom, we can’t afford that unless I work part time, and . . .” My hand finds its way into my hair and I grip at it, feeling overwhelmed.

“Page one.”

I stare at my grandfather for a beat, my brows dented as he leans forward and taps on the notebook clutched in my hands.

“That’s where you begin. Page one. Your dad kept that diary of everything he ever did to that heap of metal. From the moment he bought it for four hundred bucks to the last time he tinkered on that thing when you were in diapers. Damn thing’s too old to still have a manual so he figured he’d make his own.”

On Grandpa’s suggestion, I flip to the first page and begin reading. His analytical mind wasn’t great at being conversational, but there’s a bit of humor to his words.

Step 1: Battery and gas, you idiot!

“He always hoped it would be yours one day. We’ll make the insurance work. You worry about the normal things a kid your age is supposed to worry about.” Mom squeezes at my arm, and a shiver runs through my body. Maybe it’s a tinge of guilt over getting something so big I don’t really feel I deserve it, or worse, properly appreciate.

“Happy birthday, kiddo.” Grandpa’s mustache lifts with his crooked smile.

“Thanks.” I lift the book again and take the keys as he hands them over.

“It’s in the garage. I had an old buddy give ’er a tow from the storage yard he was keeping it at for your dad as a favor. Go on, spend some time with her.” Both he and my mom tilt their heads toward the garage door, urging me forward.

My feet feel like lead, though. I’ve never been more sure I’m going to fail at something in my life, and this includes that time I decided to try ice skating backward with Lindsey Monahan in junior high. I fell on my ass then, and I’m pretty sure the same fate awaits me now. But I haven’t seen my mom look this alive in months. The least I can do is spend some time in here every now and again pretending I know what I’m doing.

I step into the garage and let the door close behind me, feeling along the wall for the light switch. I smell oil in the dark, and when the fluorescents above finally kick on, my eyes fill in the rest of the picture. The yellow paint has held up. For the most part, there’s still a decent sheen on the doors and the hood. The seats are ripped to shreds from years of wear, though, and even through my novice eyes I know there are serious pieces missing from the dash. It’s as if my dad stopped halfway and left many things in limbo.

Needing fresh air, I hit the button to raise the garage door and lean in through the Bronco’s open driver’s side window. In my own selfish bubble, I’d forgotten about the chaos happening at the end of my driveway. A reporter and his camera man jet to their feet from the open back of a van. I hold up my hand in apology, sorry I disturbed them. But when they meander up my driveway, the nicely dressed one with a microphone in his hand, I regret being open and friendly. They took this as an invitation.

“Hey, there!” The guy’s wearing jeans and a sweater vest over a shirt and tie. In two words, I detect a slight accent—Texas, Oklahoma maybe. He’s not local, that’s for sure.

“Hi,” I stammer out, gripping my dad’s notebook while my arms rest along the open window. My eyes dart to the circus forming in our street. The last thing I want is for more people to see me, to approach me, to want to talk about the family across the street, a girl I barely know.

“Would you mind if we asked you a few—”

When the garage door begins to shut between us, I jerk my head back to see my Grandpa standing behind me, his thumb poised over the button on the remote. He waves at the two-man media crew, then switches to giving them the bird when the door blocks their view.

“Sorry. I forgot they were out there,” I say, my own words echoing in my head. How could I forget?

“I figured when I heard the door open.”

My grandpa has a bit of a limp. It’s at its worst in the evening and early morning. He ambles to the front of Dad’s Bronco and slides his hand along the crevices in the grill, feeling for the latch. He nods at me to join him as he lifts the heavy metal. I jump in, knowing enough to at least find the support bar to hold the hood in place.

“She’s a beauty under the hood,” Grandpa muses.

“Mmm.” I nod in agreement but honestly, I don’t have a clue what I’m looking at. The book in my hand may as well be written in Pig Latin and deciphered using a cereal box decoder ring.

“You can do this.” My grandfather’s heavy hand lands on the center of my back. He must sense my reservations. I’m sure they are vibrating off my skin.

I clutch my dad’s book to my chest, my thumbs nervously running along the corners of the pages that are no longer sharp. Maybe this is why Dad and I never really bonded. He could look under this hood and understand the workings of the engine so easily; all I see is a lot of dirty wires haphazardly taped together and strung around random filthy motor parts that do important jobs, I’m sure, but all look the same.

“Want a tour?” Grandpa leans his head under the hood and quirks a brow.

I shrug and set Dad’s book on the fender, leaning over for a better view. Holding on to the sides of the cavity, I breathe in deep. “Gotta start somewhere, I suppose.”

“Battery. You start here.” His hand hovers over the one thing in this mess that looks new. I’m guessing it is.

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