“God, Jake. There is no body. Addy is missing.”
“Oh.” Jake’s mouth hangs in this awestruck open form for a few seconds, his brow pulled in. “I thought, you know, because on Twitter it said—”
“What did I tell you about Twitter?” I interrupt.
“Twitter does not make it fact,” my friend recites, as if it’s a tenet he had to memorize to earn a badge.
I’ve had to drill a lot of life skills like this into Jake’s head. Of course, he’s the one who goes to parties on Friday and Saturday nights while I stay in and read or get ahead on my college essays.
I guide my friend to the kitchen table and he pulls out his last test for us to review. He’s getting better. When we started working on geometry, he could barely pull off a D on his exams. The last two have been solid C’s, including this one.
“Not bad,” I praise, holding up a palm. We high five.
We spend the first several minutes retracing what he did wrong on the problems he missed. I write up a few samples for him to try on his own, and after working together for about forty minutes, I feel good that he’ll get at least two more right on his next try. Must be nice to be an athlete and get a second shot at basically everything academic.
“You tell dumbass here about your birthday present?” Grandpa doesn’t mince words with Jake, and it’s a weird line where I can never tell whether he likes my friend or can’t stand him. Jake finds the trash talk endearing, so I guess that’s all that matters.
“Bruh, I missed your birthday?” Jake pulls his oversized flat-brimmed ball cap from his head and runs his hand through his curly shoulder-length hair, wearing genuine regret on his face.
“My birthday is still on November third. Like it always is.” I wait for Jake’s reaction with my crooked smile, but he just nods, as if relieved.
“It’s in the garage,” Grandpa urges. I think he’s a little excited to show it off. All it does for me is twist my stomach in knots. Telling Jake about the Bronco makes it this real project I’m going to have to tackle. I finally fell asleep last night with the comfortable idea that I could string the project along through senior year and manage to leave for college without actually taking apart anything.
“You got a car!” Jake’s jacked, and he speeds out of the kitchen to the garage before I can get out of my seat.
“You better get in there with him before he starts touching shit. That kid is bound to break things,” Grandpa says, motioning in Jake’s direction with his coffee mug.
He’s not wrong. Taking in a deep breath, I get to my feet and leave the books on the table, following my friend into the garage. Jake is already behind the wheel when I get to him, and I have to stop him from pressing the horn.
“There are still a dozen news outlets on the other side of the garage. Please don’t make them all rush over here,” I say, reaching in through the driver’s side window and covering the center of the wheel to stop him from doing any damage.
“Right. My bad. Seriously, though, Jonah, this is a sweet ride! Can we take it out?”
I grab at the back of my neck and wince.
“That’s the thing. It doesn’t exactly run. Yet.”
Jake’s shoulders drop and his hands slide from the wheel.
“Yeah, it was my dad’s. It was always his project car, but he did most of the work on it before I was old enough to remember. It ran great for a while, but that was years ago. My mom and Grandpa Hank registered it for me and my grandpa said he’ll pay for the parts. I just have to figure out where to start.” I slide my palm along the seam where the hood meets the side panel. I’m not even sure I could get the hood open again on my own.
“Sweet. I’ll help,” Jake offers, cranking open the door and skipping to the front to stand by me.
“You know cars?” I’m suspicious because we just spent ten minutes on how to prove something is a triangle.
Jake shrugs.
“A little. I mean, I can change the oil in my dad’s car, and I’ve replaced the battery in the Jeep, and I’ve changed tires a bunch of times. It’s all logical stuff. We can figure it out.”
I can’t help the laugh that gurgles out of my mouth in response.
“What?” He’s a bit offended. I can tell by the crease between his brows.
“No, sorry. I’m just surprised. You don’t strike me as a mechanic. That’s all,” I say.
“Yeah, well, you don’t strike me as a math geek but, well . . .” He paints his hand in the air, circling my frame.
“I look exactly like a math geek,” I laugh out.
He sighs with a tinge of sarcasm.
“You do. But that’s not a bad thing,” he says.
While he moves toward the garage door, I remain in place as I kick around the words he just said. I can’t help but feel that looking like a math geek might be a little bit of a bad thing. It might have something to do with my very slim dating history. I’ve kissed three girls—ever. And I don’t think I did it well.
When Jake drags the step stool from the corner and parks it against the garage door, I snap out of my fog. He’s standing on it a second later, rubbing dirt from one of the window panes with his sweatshirt sleeve.
“What are you doing?”
He glances over his shoulder at me and shrugs.
“Being nosy and shit.”
I’m struck with a battle of conscience, straddling this line of not wanting to join the gawking neighbors pretending to be out for walks, and wanting to see what’s happening right this minute because such is human nature. The Trombley house has been quiet today, for the most part. Nobody coming or going, not that there’s anywhere for them to go. My mom said someone showed up with food this morning and left it at their front door as she was leaving for work. They must feel so trapped. All of them. I saw the small red SUV in the driveway after my mom left. That’s how I know Morgan must be home from college. I keep having these fleeting thoughts about everything as it unravels. Like, I wonder if Morgan secretly wanted to stay away. Did she really need to be here? What kind of child would I be? That I entertain the notion of staying away makes me question my morals and family loyalty. I may be more emotionally broken than I thought.
“It looks pretty chill out there. I think we can open the garage.” He looks back at me for approval, but all I feel is the same panic that seared down my spine last night when a reporter wanted to talk to me.
Before I can get a real answer to come out of my mouth, Jake blows me off completely, hopping from the stool and slapping his palm on the garage door button. My legs lock instinctually and my eyes scan our driveway as it comes into view, but Jake seems to be right. Two media trucks are parked about twelve feet off the end of our driveway in such a way that the view of our garage is pretty well blocked from the others. It’s also lunch hour on a Sunday. I breathe out in relief.
“I’ve got all afternoon. What do you say we open this baby up and see what we’re dealing with?” Sudden tension crawls back into my chest at my friend’s offer.
“I don’t know. It’s Sunday, and I’ve got an essay to finish, and—”
“Don’t pussy out on me. You know you finished that essay already. You’re just afraid.”