Wicked Restless

I’m waiting at the back door, my feet dangling outside over the stoop, but my body inside where it’s warm. Mom keeps yelling to shut the door. We have a fire going, and I’m letting out heat I guess. But I want to watch them work. My other brother, James, didn’t come to Christmas. We all woke up in the morning, and he wasn’t home.

Owen told me James is lost, but he seems to find his way home. I think he didn’t want to come here because we don’t make him very happy. There’s a lot of yelling when James is home. And my mom cries a lot, too. I feel terrible, but I’m sort of glad he wasn’t here for Christmas. It was a really nice day.

My grandfather just swore and threw that wrench thingy down on the ground. I giggle, and he and Owen both turn to look at me. I pull my feet inside and start to shut the door, hoping I didn’t make them mad, but Owen catches the door before I can close it.

“You think you can do better, hot shot? Come on out; let’s see you give it a try.” Owen hands me his work gloves and a screwdriver. I stare at them, and the box of tools spread around the garage floor, then look up at Owen’s face. He’s smirking, so I know he isn’t mad. And I would like to be in the garage—with the men, doing man things, like swearing and stuff.

I pull Owen’s gloves on, my fingers barely making it halfway down the finger slots, and I grip the screwdriver in my right hand. My grandfather holds a flashlight up and begins walking me through the way my car works.

“The chain has to loop through these gears, but it’s tricky, because those gears are bigger than the ones from Owen’s bike, so we have to somehow make his parts work with the car parts, and all of those things need to turn the front tires when you pedal. Make sense?” My grandpa’s hair tufts down in his eyes, and he reaches up, smoothing it back and pulling his glasses from his face, wiping away the smudges on his shirt before putting them back on.

“I think…I think I got it,” I say, letting my eyes run through the process, what my grandfather said, over and over.

Owen moves to a chair, pulling up a water bottle and guzzling down half of it before handing the rest to our grandpa. I hear them whispering in the background, something about how they’ll give me five minutes to play, then step back in and finish, but eventually their voices fade away, and all I hear is my own voice in my head.

My eyes lock in on individual parts, on grooves and patterns, and suddenly everything becomes clear. “I need both chains,” I say.

My grandpa laughs and continues to talk with Owen.

“No, Grandpa. The old chain. I need it,” I say, my voice serious. Owen stands up and moves over next to me, kneeling down and following the line of my sight, staring at the same gears and parts I am.

“He’s right,” he whispers, snapping to my grandpa to bring over the chain. Our grandpa does, and Owen hands it to me. I start snapping and unsnapping gears, blending both sizes into one, asking Owen for help when I’m not strong enough. My hands can’t work fast enough, and it’s like my mind is already riding the pedal car down the hill while my hands are still busy screwing and clipping metal pieces.

Within the hour, the three of us are rolling my new car down the driveway, already dusted with a fresh layer of snow. I don’t care, though, because I deserve a test drive.

“How did you do that?” Owen says as he buckles the helmet to my head. It’s an old motorcycle helmet that we bought from a garage sale, so one of Owen’s shirts is stuffed inside to make it fit.

“I don’t know. I just…I could see it. Is that…am I…weird?” I ask.

Owen presses on my head, making sure the helmet is snug enough.

“Yes,” he grins. “You’re very weird. But you might also be a genius. Now go kick some ass down that hill and don’t crash your present.”

The wind hits my face with Owen’s push, and soon I’m soaring down the roadway, pulling on levers and leaning to veer from the right to the left. The road is empty. In fact, there aren’t any houses near me anymore. I look up, and the sky is clear, and the sun is bright. When I look back, my house is gone, and so are Owen and my grandpa.

I’m going so fast, though, I can’t stop. I keep pulling on the brake, but nothing is working. I didn’t look at the brakes—I should have checked them!

“Andrew…Andrew, stop!”

I hear Owen. I can hear him, but he sounds different.

“Stop fighting, Andrew. Stop fighting!”

I’m not fighting. Why does he think I’m fighting? I’m scared. I’m lying down and the roadway is bumpy. I can’t stop. But I’m not fighting.