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LEANING AGAINST THE COLD HOOD of the Durango, Peter slid a screwdriver into the slot on one of the windshield wiper mechanisms. The old blade popped off just as Toby let out a whine.
Hands to his ears, Toby paced back and forth along one of the workbenches. His whining almost ruined the song blaring from the Durango’s radio. But not quite. A person would be hard pressed to ruin Sammy Hagar’s “I Can’t Drive 55.”
Peter set the screwdriver down and tossed the old blade over his shoulder, in the general direction of the fiber drum garbage can. It clanked against something metal and scraped against something else, obviously not making it to the can. He grabbed the package with the new blades and slid his torso off the hood, straightening as he tried to figure out how to open it.
If Brice were here, she would have yanked it from his hands by now and ripped it open. If Brice were here . . . Peter smiled, thinking of her. The way she strode with confidence, not caring what anyone thought about her. The way she hunched over her notebook in Woodworking or sat slouched in speech class but could answer any question a teacher threw at her. The way she handled any machine or tool . . .
In Woodworking yesterday, he’d invited her to come over. She must’ve had better things to do on a Saturday morning. Or maybe he’d turned her off with the way he’d stammered, “Hey, so, like, if you’re not doing anything, you know . . . Saturday, uh, tomorrow . . .”
Still fidgeting with the wiper packaging, Peter sighed and his gaze shifted to the view outside the open garage door. A black car drove by as Sammy Hagar sang, “Take my license, all that jive.” A woodchuck scuffled through the dew-laden grass across Forest Road. And a fishing pole lay in the yard near the driveway.
“Too loud for Toby.” Toby came up beside Peter and stared into the open driver-side window, irritation showing in his big brown eyes. “Too loud for Toby,” he said again.
“Yeah, so you said. What’re you doing out here, anyway?” Using his thumbnail, he separated the plastic from the paper backing, and a swift yank freed the blades. “Why don’t you go see what Mom’s doing in the house?”
“Daddy come home, take me bowling.” Toby took one hand from his ear and reached through the open window.
“Oh, no, you don’t.” On impulse, Peter’s hand shot out. He grabbed Toby’s chubby wrist and yanked his hand out of the car. “Hands off the radio. Hands off the SUV, for that matter.”
His face twisting into a babyish pout, Toby wriggled his wrist from Peter’s grip. He never like being touched without warning.
A hint of remorse teased Peter.
“Sorry, bud.” Still clutching the wipers in one hand, Peter lifted his free hand, palm out, in an apologetic gesture. “Why don’t you wait for Daddy inside? Or, you know what? Go play with your fishing pole. You left it in the yard. Then you’ll see Daddy coming down the road.”
“No. Toby go bowling.” Toby covered his ears and shuffled to the workbench.
Taking a breath to stave off frustration, Peter set one wiper on the hood and leaned to install the other. He couldn’t wait to get this thing on the road. Maybe he could practice driving today, not that he needed the experience. After all the time he’d spent on the riding lawn mower and racing off-road vehicles, driving came natural to him. But he had nothing better to do, and he needed the hours to get his license.
Hey, maybe he could drive past Brice’s house. Of course, with only a temporary license, he’d need Mom in the passenger seat. Not cool.
One brand new wiper installed, he snatched the other and headed for the passenger side. As he rounded the front of the Durango, his foot bumped the bucket he’d gotten out earlier. He wanted to wash the thing inside and out and hopefully get the funky used-car smell out of it, make it something he wouldn’t be embarrassed to drive Brice around in.
Oh, wait . . . she’d have to drive him around since he only had his temps. He wouldn’t mind that. Maybe he’d ask her over on Monday. She could come for dinner. Not like a date. She’d never agree to that. Just like friends.
Peter leaned across the hood and reached for the screwdriver.
Hopefully, she had no clue that he and his friends had been snooping around to find out who vandalized her house. If she knew and it bothered her, she’d bring it up, right? Or would she just stop talking to him?
What was she doing today? As the old wiper blade popped off, his gaze shifted to his bike. Tempted to stalk Brice for real, he’d pulled it out of the shed this morning.
Peter tossed the old blade into the fiber drum, making a basket as Hagar sang, “Go on and write me up for 125. Post my face—”
The radio shut off.
Peter peered through the windshield of the Durango.
Toby sat behind the steering wheel. “Toby drive,” came his voice through the open windows.
“Oh, no, you don’t.” Peter dropped the new blade onto the hood and yanked open the passenger-side door.
Sitting bolt upright, Toby clutched the steering wheel with both hands. He was tall for a nine-year-old and could’ve passed for a teenager with his temps. His right hand slid off the steering wheel and dropped to the key in the ignition.
Peter leaned over the shifter and into Toby’s space. He rammed a shoulder into him and grabbed his hand. “Get out or you’re not going bowling.”
“Yes, Toby go bowling,” he whined, jerking away.
“Okay, then”—he took a breath to keep from shouting—“you have to get outta my car.”
Toby humphed and scooted back out, mumbling to himself.
Peter turned the radio back on, but his song had ended and one with crappy lyrics now played. He shut the radio off and got back to work, installing the last blade.
With his gaze on the road and talking to himself, Toby paced just outside the garage.
Satisfied with his installation of the new wipers, Peter leaned against the Durango and watched Toby for a moment. “I’m such a jerk,” he mumbled to himself. Toby couldn’t help how the loud music affected him or how physical contact made him cringe or how he interpreted the world. Still . . . Mom always held him responsible for whatever he could control, even when some of it challenged him.
Maybe Brice couldn’t help how she felt about guys, any more than he could help feeling attracted to her, or any more than Toby could with his obsessions. But, then again, maybe she just hadn’t met the right guy. Maybe he was the right guy, and she just couldn’t see it yet.
“Pee-ter.” Mom’s sing-song voice came from outside. A second later, she stepped into the garage with the cordless phone. “Telephone.”
“Thanks, Mom.” Glad for a break before he started another project—washing the Durango or something from the list Dad had given him—he took the phone, opened the front passenger-side door, and dropped into the seat. Maybe Caitlyn had news for him. Hopefully not something bad concerning her social media account. “Hey, Caitlyn. So, did you close your social media account already?”
“Oh, so I am right in thinking you were in on it.”
Peter tensed like a rubber band ready to snap at the sound of Dominic’s voice, and his grip tightened around the phone. Argh, no! No one but Caitlyn ever called the landline! “What?”
“Why you no answer your cell phone, vato?”
“Huh?” Peter slapped his pockets, finding them empty. “It’s probably in my room. So what’s up?”
“I heard about Caitlyn’s social media account, her pretending to be the school mascot. Doesn’t want anyone to know it’s her, huh? Why so secretive?”
“What? I don’t know.” Peter’s legs bounced all on its own. Dominic was the last person he’d want to know about all this. “Is that the reason you called? To pump me for information?”
“I am certain you know. Bad idea sending a friend request to su madre. Audrey Summer, that is her mother’s name, no? Kids have been asking if Caitlyn has an older sister.”
Deny, deny, deny, Peter’s mind screamed. Throw Caitlyn under the bus if you must. Dominic could not know.
“Look, I don’t know what Caitlyn’s up to. She’s weird, that’s all. And I’m sure she’s new to all this social media stuff. So she’s friending a few popular kids. Who cares? Give her a break. And don’t assume it has anything to do with me.”
“So you know the kids she’s friending, huh? Of course, you do. You were probably sitting next to her while she did it. And what’s with Roland going door-to-door. Is that all part of it?”
“What? Part of what?” Peter slapped his forehead. He was sunk. Dominic knew what they were up to. He was just toying with Peter, dragging it out of him slowly. Soon everyone would know. Brice would know. What could Peter possibly say to save himself?
“Scouring Brice’s neighborhood, that could only mean one thing.”
“Forget about it, Dominic. If you’re my friend at all, just drop it. Find someone else to gossip about.”
“If we are any kind of amigos, you would tell me. So, tell me, vato. What are you up to?”
“Listen, Dominic—”
“No, you listen, Peter. I think you are trying to find out who trashed Brice’s house and burned their tree. Why does it matter to you? And why you did not come to me first? You know I know things.”
Feeling vulnerable and exposed, Peter shoved a hand into his hair and considered what to say next. He could hear his heart thumping in his chest. One beat. Two. Three. Four. “Okay, so . . . what do you know, Dominic? Do you know who did it?”
“I have my suspicions. Give me a day or two. I will talk to you at school. Oh, and you know the police have started questioning Fire Starters, right?”
“What? No, I didn’t know.” That could only be a good thing, right? They’d see that the Fire Starters had nothing to do with it. Did all the Fire Starters have alibis?
“They did not talk to me, yet, but to three others from our group. They are barking up the wrong tree and I will tell them so.”
“Okay, but let’s not talk to anyone at school about things. I don’t want anyone knowing I’m looking into this. Okay?”
“Sure thing, vato. You know me. But I know you, too, and I think I know why you want to know so badly. You’ll have to tell me in exchange for the information.” Dominic ended the call.
Holding the phone to his ear in a death grip, Peter sat staring at streaks of dirt and dust on the dashboard. Snapping out of it, he tapped the button to end the call and dropped the phone to the seat. He was sunk. Dominic may have had good intentions, but he could not keep a secret any more than a punctured tire could hold air.
A sense of urgency ripped through him. Peter’s gaze snapped to his bicycle and he jumped out of the car. On the way to the bike, his foot bumped the bucket again, but the car wash and Dad’s list would have to wait.
He needed to talk to Roland.
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