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DESPITE THE DRIZZLE and the cool air, Roland had worked up a sweat from having ridden his bike hard all the way over to the Brandts’ house. Clammy and uncomfortable, he peeled off his black jacket and tugged his t-shirt straight. He’d found the battery and toolbox easily enough. Now he stood under the overhang of the Brandts’ detached garage, out of the rain, the toolbox and battery at his feet.
He’d knocked on the Brandts’ door to tell them what he was doing. Mrs. Brandt already knew, so Peter must’ve called her. Then Roland had called Papa. Now all he could do was wait.
Roland glanced at the time on his phone and peered down the road, in the direction Jarret would likely come from.
Would Jarret come? If he didn’t, Roland would have to knock on the Brandts’ door again. Maybe Peter’s aunt would take him. He’d hate to have to ask her. Didn’t he know anyone else?
A red car appeared in the distance. Jarret? The car cruised down Forest Road as if the driver had no intention of stopping. Drawing near, it finally slowed—Jarret’s cherry-red Chrysler 300.
Roland exhaled. He wouldn’t need to find someone else to drive him. Jarret had come to the rescue.
Guilt teased him. Jarret had ended his date early just to help him. Sometimes he still struggled to believe that Jarret had changed. He was really trying. He’d probably do anything Roland asked him to do. And here Roland had called Keefe first, afraid to simply ask Jarret himself. He needed to get over his fear of speaking . . . to ask a favor or before groups or to someone who might not agree with him. All of it.
The Chrysler swung into the Brandts’ driveway and jerked to a stop a few feet from the garage. Two blurry figures showed through condensation and raindrops on the windshield: Jarret and his new girlfriend, Chantelle.
Not wasting a second, Roland grabbed the toolbox and battery and rushed to the trunk through a sprinkling of rain. Jarret wouldn’t want him to put the battery anywhere else in the car. The trunk popped open and Roland arranged everything neatly beside a shipping box and a plastic shopping bag stuffed with garbage. He slammed the trunk and jumped into the backseat. An intense “new car smell” hit him hard, along with the hint of an underlying sour smell.
“Thanks, Jarret. I really appreciate this.”
“Yeah.” Jarret sounded like his old self, disgusted with the inconvenience.
“Hi, Chantelle,” Roland said to Jarret’s girlfriend. “Sorry to ruin your date.”
Sitting in the front passenger seat, Chantelle twisted to face him, a lock of blond hair curling up on her shoulder. She flashed a smile, though her eyes remained cold.
Before long, they were on the interstate. Jarret had balked at the route Roland suggested they take, the route Peter had told him to take. It probably didn’t matter. As long as they reached their destination. With a nicer attitude, one that seemed forced, Jarret then asked Roland a few questions about Peter’s car and his reason for going to Rapid City.
Chantelle only seemed interested in conversation when she realized Peter had gone to Rapid City to do a girl a favor. Then she wanted to know everything. Not wanting to fuel any rumors, Roland had given the briefest answers. But Chantelle wouldn’t give up until she got the girl’s name. Then she responded with a few condescending comments and a cruel laugh.
Once that conversation ended, Roland watched raindrops out the window and turned to his own thoughts. Peter had wanted him to discover who had vandalized Brice’s house, and he just may have figured it out. He still needed to discover the motive. He wouldn’t be able to talk to Peter about it tonight, not with Brice around. He’d have to tell Peter later. Then Peter could decide whether to tell Brice. She would probably know the motive better than anyone.
The radio came on and a Christian rock song played, but Jarret switched the channel to classic rock. Then he asked Chantelle what kind of music she liked, and they got into a lengthy conversation about their favorite this and their favorite that.
Roland tried tuning them out, but he still caught bits and pieces, and he couldn’t help thinking they didn’t have much in common. While Jarret had always been a bit narcissistic, he still had interests and hobbies that involved others. Chantelle was very much into herself and social media.
Sudden movement in his peripheral vision made Roland snap his attention to the front of the car again. Chantelle had whipped her phone out and was trying to show Jarret a picture of something.
Roland glanced and wished he hadn’t.
Jarret’s head had turned too, but he jerked his attention back to the road and blurted, “I hate looking at pictures.”
“But they’re pictures of me,” Chantelle said flirtatiously, still trying to show him a picture of herself posed seductively in a swimsuit.
Just what he needed to see while he was driving. Just what he needed to see after the type of relationship he’d had with his last girlfriend. Was he headed down the same path? Hadn’t he been trying to change? Why would he put himself to the test so soon? Maybe he didn’t want people to realize he’d changed because it would threaten his “cool” image. He should at least date girls who held the values he was trying to have.
Chantelle rested a hand on Jarret’s shoulder and bit her bottom lip. Then she whispered in his ear.
Jarret glanced at Roland in the rearview mirror. Hoping Roland didn’t hear? Wishing he wasn’t there? Did he see Roland as a reminder that he should say something to her?
A combination of disappointment and disgust surged inside Roland. Jarret recently told him he’d better find his voice because he might have something to say one day. “And you wanna be able to say it,” Jarret had said. And here Jarret couldn’t even find his voice when it mattered.
But maybe this was Roland’s test. Maybe he needed to say something to help Jarret think about the situation he was putting himself in. Did Roland want to be the kid who kept his opinion to himself when it mattered? No. He was going to be different. Today. Starting now.
“So, Chantelle, do you go to church?” Roland blurted, somewhat amazed that he actually said it.
Jarret glanced up at the rearview mirror and shot Roland a warning look.
“Me?” Chantelle flipped golden curls off her shoulder, backed away from Jarret, and twisted to face Roland. “No. I . . . mean . . . I have. But hardly ever. Why?”
“Are you a Christian?” Roland avoided Jarret’s gaze in the mirror. Had Jarret asked her this question already?
“I don’t know. I guess so. I mean, I celebrate Christmas. That counts, right?” She giggled and looked at Jarret.
“Hmm.” Roland turned back to the window. There. He’d done it. If Jarret hadn’t thought about it before, he’d think about it now and—
The engine roared. Jarret gripped the steering wheel as the car accelerated. The rain pounded harder on the windshield, the thumping wipers appearing useless. The windows provided nothing but a blurry view of the road under an occasional orangish street light.
Tensing, Roland reached for something to hold onto. Okay, so Jarret didn’t appreciate his comments, but he’d still think about it. Rather than tell Jarret to slow down, Roland turned to prayer. Please, Lord, don’t let us get in an accident.
A few minutes later, as if in answer to his prayer, a police siren blared and red and blue lights flashed behind them, adding color to the rainwater streaming down the back window.
With a headshake and a groan, Jarret gradually slowed the Chrysler and pulled onto a strip of grass alongside the road.
Roland felt a twinge of guilt as Jarret got a speeding ticket, but he thanked God anyway. An accident would’ve been far worse.
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