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“SO, WHO’S READY to set and tune the band saw?” Mr. Hart stood with his lanky arms bent and his hands on his hips, glancing from face to face. The students stood in a semi-circle around him, no one making eye contact. Everyone would have to take a turn over the next two weeks.
Peter averted his gaze, not because he didn’t know how—he could do it blindfolded . . . probably—but because he wanted to talk to Brice, and setting and tuning the band saw would take time. They could measure their wood together at a workbench instead. He could ask her about the bracelet.
Just outside the circle of guys, Brice leaned back against the corner of the nearest workbench, worrying a hangnail or something.
“What about you, Fred?” Mr. Hart bounced on his heels and flung a hand out, palm up. “You know what you’re doing, right?”
Hunching as if to camouflage his height, Fred ran a hand through his dark blond hair. “Um, I wanted to watch one more time. Maybe I’ll do it tomorrow.”
“Okay, so . . . anyone?” Mr. Hart pivoted, scanning the circle of students, all boys except for Brice.
A kid cleared his throat. Someone else sniffed. And another guy whispered something and stifled a nervous laugh.
Mr. Hart played with a tuft of his wild hair while he waited a few seconds more. “Well, someone’s got to go first.”
Brice pushed off from the workbench, flicked her safety glasses open, and stomped through the circle of boys. Then she yanked the plug of the Delta 14-inch band saw, flung open the wheel guard, and set to work.
A few guys sighed in relief. And over half walked away, mumbling to each other. They could start measuring the wood for their projects.
“If you’re not sure what you’re doing, better stick around,” Mr. Hart hollered after them. But a few more kids walked off, leaving Peter and three other guys to watch Brice work.
Admiration brought a grin to Peter’s face. The bravest kid in class was the only girl.
“Okay, so Brice is adjusting the blade so that the deepest part of the gullet—that’s the curved area at the base of the tooth—is lined up with the center of the wheel, which is always smart . . .” Mr. Hart started giving the remaining observers his play-by-play commentary.
Brice moved like no one was watching, spinning the wheel, her eye on the blade as it crept into position. Then she stepped to the side of the machine and reached up, the sleeve of her t-shirt riding up her solid arm. She checked the tension of the blade from the point just inside the wheel door—which was not how Mr. Hart had taught them to do it.
Peter tensed, hoping Mr. Hart didn’t notice or didn’t care.
“Okay, so that’s another way to check the tension,” Mr. Hart said, hands on hips and leaning to watch her.
Brice, acting like she hadn’t heard him, stepped back around the band saw and rotated the wheel again.
Next, she pulled a wallet from the back pocket of her loose-fitting faded jeans and removed a business card. Then with efficient, confident moves and no wasted steps, she set up the upper and lower side guides—using an Allen wrench and a business card. How cool was that? Brice was a mechanical wizard.
“A business card, huh?” Mr. Hart folded his arms and twisted his lips to one side. “I guess that works.”
Brice spared a glance. “It gets the right distance for the guides every time.”
“Yeah, yeah, I can see that.” Mr. Hart bobbed his head, looking impressed.
Within a few minutes, Brice completed the job and stepped back so Mr. Hart could check her work. She stuffed her thumbs in her belt loops and slouched, waiting as the teacher checked each part. Then Mr. Hart flipped the band saw on and it made a contended, easy humming noise. Finally, he ran a scrap of a two-by-four through and mumbled something to her about leveling the table—which Peter thought sure she’d done. The rest of the observers moseyed away, but Peter didn’t budge.
“Okay, good job.” The teacher scribbled something into his notebook and shuffled to the drill press. He’d want another victim to set that one up.
Brice turned and her gaze fell on Peter. Looking a tad suspicious, she gave him the once-over before blowing past him.
Peter warmed under her attention, even though it lasted a split second and didn’t seem entirely friendly. Then he followed her to their workbench. At the beginning of class, while everyone else had been talking, they’d grabbed the boards and the measuring instruments they would need for their projects and set them on the table. They were both building wall-mounted three-rifle gun racks.
“So, you totally owned that.” Peter propped his foot on the rung of a stool.
“Thanks.” Brice pulled a folded white paper from her back pocket and straddled a stool. “I don’t get what everyone’s afraid of, why no one wants to go first. Go first, get it over with, I say.”
“Yeah, I’ll get it over with tomorrow.” He glanced at the drill press. Mr. Hart motioned Fred over.
Back to her own business, Brice unfolded the pattern for the side of her gun rack and clicked a mechanical pencil. She placed the pattern on a board and smoothed it out. Unlike girls obsessed with fancy fingernails, Brice had chewed hers to the quick.
She glanced up.
Peter’s stomach did a strange squirrelly thing. He yanked his backpack off the floor and found the folder that held his gun rack pattern. He’d used Dad’s wall-mounted gun rack as a guide.
For the next several minutes they passed the mechanical pencil, a ruler, and a try square back and forth. And in a few minutes more, they’d have their curvy patterns transferred to the boards and they’d move to a machine. And he’d have blown his chance to talk to her.
Two machines hummed now, creating a comfortable white noise. The oil and sawdust smell in the air intensified. One kid spoke loudly to another, but everyone else worked in relative silence.
Peter stuffed his hand into a front pocket of his jeans and pushed past his keys to the wooden beads of the bracelet. What was he going to say to her? She didn’t seem the type to wear jewelry. Hand still in his pocket, he wriggled the bracelet onto his fingers and then up past his thumb. The bracelet probably belonged to her foster mom. Maybe she was shaking out a rug and it slipped off and sailed over the porch rail.
The bracelet popped up past his thumb knuckle and slid to his wrist.
“Are you done?” Brice’s stool squeaked. She stood next to it, two boards in her hands.
“Huh?” Snapping from thought, Peter grabbed the mechanical pencil and looked to see where he’d left off. She was already done? He still had the backboard to trace, but he wanted to go to the band saw with her. In fact, she had to wait for him. That was Mr. Hart’s policy. They could only go to the machines two by two, like animals on Noah’s ark or like Jesus’s disciples. Or Jehovah’s Witnesses.
“Where’d you get that?”
Peter snapped his head up. “Huh?”
She glared at the bracelet—now on his wrist. Then she looked him in the eyes. “I said, ‘Where’d you get that?’”
“Get what?” Why had he pretended not to know what she meant?
“That. Thing on your wrist.”
“Oh yeah, I was gonna ask.” Dropping the mechanical pencil, he peeled the bracelet over his knuckles and held it out to her. “So, I found it at your house last night. You know, when we—”
“I know.” She snatched up the mechanical pencil and traced a line she’d already made on one of her boards, getting down to business with quick movements. “Where’d you find it, exactly?”
“Oh, on the porch.” Was that what Caitlyn had said? “Er, not on it, really, but hanging off the lattice. Like maybe it fell. Is it yours?”
She shot a hard glare. He could almost see her guard going up. “No.”
“Well, do you know whose it is? Someone in your house? Or a friend who came over?” He offered it to her again. “Want to take it and see?”
Jaw clenched, she shook her head, grabbed her pile of wood, and stalked away.
Peter shoved the bracelet into his pocket, grabbed the board he’d finished marking, and followed her. Why would she respond with cold anger? . . . unless she knew something about the bracelet. It couldn’t have simply belonged to her foster mom or someone else in the house. Everyone else was too little anyways. So, she must’ve recognized it.
Peter stood by while Brice cut every one of her pieces at the band saw. He even helped, holding the boards she wasn’t working on. Her adept movements had him spellbound. How could anyone be so quick and accurate on a band saw? He could watch her work all day. Better yet, he could work with her all day.
She made her last cut and grabbed her pieces back from Peter without a word.
His own board in hand, Peter stepped up to the machine. Though he loved and felt at home in every kind of workshop, his heart raced and his hands were all sweaty now. Transferring the board to one hand, he wiped the other on his jeans and a thought occurred to him. Directly asking about the bracelet had been the wrong tactic, but she’d probably talk shop with him.
“So, are you as good with cars as you are on a band saw?” After adjusting his safety glasses, Peter lined his board up with the humming blade.
“I dunno. Why?” She stood nearby, looking cool and relaxed now, her cut pieces all held to one side.
Peter guided the wood to the blade, turning it one way and the other as he followed the curves of the pattern. “Well, I’ve got this twelve-year-old Dodge Durango.” He wanted to check out her reaction, but he needed to focus on his work. He couldn’t have her outdo him completely. “It was pretty cheap, ’cuz it needs a bit of work. But I like doing that, working on things.”
“Oh, yeah?” She sounded either amused or skeptical.
“Yeah, I’ve been working on projects all my life,” he said, his tone defensive. “I mean, granted, working on a car’s new to me, but I’m mechanically inclined so . . .”
“Yeah, I bet.”
The urge to glance almost overpowered him, but he had a few inches left to cut. Do not mess this up. He could wait. “The Durango wouldn’t start. And it was all filthy when we got it. Came from a farmer and he must’ve used the heck out of it, so I scrubbed the dirt off it, inside and out.” He finished his cut and shut off the band saw. They walked side by side back to the table. They’d need to see how their cuts turned out and sand the pieces down.
“So what was the problem? New starter?” She placed her boards on the table and took a stool.
Peter smiled to himself. He had her. She couldn’t resist car talk. “Yeah, it just needed a new starter. And I ran new wires, but it still sounded rough so I changed—”
“Spark plugs and wires. I’d have changed those first. Any older car. It’ll run ten times better.”
“Now I need to work on the brakes. I took a look at them but not sure.”
She fidgeted with a piece of sandpaper but hadn’t touched it to the wood yet. “Not sure about what? If it’s that old and beat down, you’ll need new brakes.”
“Yeah, I figured.” Flipping the mechanical pencil between two fingers over a piece of wood he had yet to mark, Peter considered the best way to word his next statement. He’d hooked her, but he needed to reel her in. “I, uh, watched some online videos, so I’m sure I know what I’m doing.”
“Ha!” A big smile appeared but her eyes showed sarcasm. “You’ve never helped your father or anyone with brakes?”
“You have?” he challenged.
“I’ve done brakes.” She took his challenge.
He posed a new challenge. “Oh, well, I’m sure it’s not that hard.”
“You’ll need someone to help you,” she corrected him.
He’d expected it. “You don’t think I’m competent?”
“Even if you were, it’s a two-man job.”
Peter smiled, impressed by her sexist wording. “Well, my dad never has time, and my only brother’s autistic. My mom and aunt are always busy with the Bed-n-Breakfast, so I guess I’ll have to manage. Why is it a two-man job anyway?” He cringed, fearing she would see right through him. Everyone knew it took two people to bleed brakes. Unless you made a contraption. But he’d already watched online videos about that too. He’d need a plastic bottle, drill and drill bit, zip tie, and clear plastic tubing. While it was not how he wanted to do it, he’d have no problem going it alone.
“If you don’t even know how to bleed brakes, don’t attempt the brakes on your own.” As if she’d just dropped the final word, she set to work sanding a side panel.
He grabbed a sheet of sandpaper too. They’d need to drill a few pocket holes in the top and bottom brackets. “So what else am I gonna do? Just leave ’em all rusty and gross? I’ll watch more online videos. I’m sure I can figure it out.”
She stopped sanding and looked at him a long second. “Where do you live?”
Peter met her gaze, smiling inside and trying not to show it. Had he won? “Forest Gateway B & B. Heard of it?”
“Out on Forest Road?”
Both hope and fear spiked inside him. Straining to maintain his equilibrium, he nodded. “That’s the one.”
“I know where that is. You got all the parts you need?”
“Uh, yeah.”
“I can help you around six.” She stared for a moment.
Peter’s mind swirled with a strange mix of emotions that kept his mouth from working.
“That time good for you?”
Peter sucked in a breath. “Uh, yeah. Perfect.”
Without another word, she went back to sanding.
Peter did too, but inside he pumped a fist in the air. Victory!
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