Dad just shrugged her worries off, doing and saying exactly what he would've done anyway. People still gave him their business but when they walked away from his shop, Mom said they would shake their heads and whisper, "It's a shame what he and that pretty little Andrea Burke (that's my mom) did back when she was a senior in high school." Dad was a hard-working man and I helped him sometimes in his shop. I'd only started doing this recently, though. Marty used to be his right-hand man. But since the parents in town had started back into the competitive spirit, Mom had been putting pressure on Marty, and they'd had a falling out a few months before. So after a pretty loud yelling match between my mother and brother, Marty moved out and was currently living in an old rundown shack with his friend, Austin Fitz. 26

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Like I've already mentioned, Marty started working at Getty's General. Dad gave him a hard time for being a grocery store clerk at twenty-three. But I don't think it was Marty's life ambition to become one. It just turned out that way. Both Mom and Dad thought he could be so much more. I, on the other hand, had my doubts.

Since he'd been gone, I'd spent some time standing around the shop while Dad crawled under cars. I handed him screwdrivers and stuff. Piece by piece, I was learning what a carburetor and a head gasket were. And if I felt so inclined, I could even change the oil in a car or switch out a flat tire. Dad started calling me his little mechanic. Mom made me shower every time I stepped foot inside the house after helping him.

I was helping Dad one Saturday afternoon, a little over a week after Football Homecoming and that dreaded interview, when Luke Carter strolled into the car lot next to the shop. Mom was gone uptown to get her hair styled and I was thumbing through one of Dad's magazines, leaning against the workbench and looking at pictures of old cars, when I saw the movement out of the corner of my eye.

I looked up and the paralysis set in. Dad was asking me for a nine-sixteenths wrench. But his voice sounded distant and its meaning didn't set in.

Then Dad noticed Luke too—or noticed me noticing him. And he slid out from under the engine. He dusted off his pants, pulled a cleaning rag from his back pocket and wiped his hands. Walking out toward Luke, he called a greeting and I felt compelled to follow. The gravel crunched under our 27

The Stillburrow Crush

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shoes as we neared Luke, who was slowly circling a black '93

Ford Mustang like some kind of prospective buyer. He looked wonderful. His shoes were leather Dockers. His designer jeans were held snug around his waist by a thin, black leather belt, and he wore his letterman's jacket, bright red with the school emblem of a brave weighted down with medals, over a navy blue collared shirt. He wore a lot of blue, which was good, since I thought he looked best in that color. The top two buttons of his shirt were undone, and he had the shadow of a beard along his jaw as if he hadn't shaved in a while. It gave him that masculine, rugged appeal and made him look too mature for a mere seventeen.

"Car shopping?" Dad asked, stuffing the rag back in his pocket and crossing his arms over his chest. He planted his feet wide. He always stood that way when he got into talking cars with someone. It was like he was in a boat, braced for anyone trying to rock him with the wave of an unsolvable automobile problem.

"Maybe," Luke said. "Since I'm going to college next year, I'll need a car. And Dad's making me buy my own. He thinks it'll teach me to watch my finances. So..." He rubbed the back of his neck and sent a quick glance my way, making my stomach churn with nervous jitters.

He turned his attention back to Dad and I lifted my hand to my mouth to chew on the nail of my index finger.

"I was just checking out my options," Luke said with a shrug.

28

The Stillburrow Crush

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Dad stood by him and stared at the Mustang. He rubbed his chin thoughtfully and then glanced at Luke. "You going to Paulbrook University, then?"

"Yes, sir." Luke darted another look at me.

"Are you going to be staying at home when you go to college, or will you find some place in the city?" I wanted to tell my dad to quit interrogating him. Instead, I shifted my weight from one leg to the other and crossed my arms over my chest. I stared at the gravel between my feet and soaked in every word Luke said.

"I was planning on staying home. At least through my first year."

"Well," Dad drawled the word slowly. "Commuting to the city everyday's going to be a long drive." He glanced toward the Mustang. "And this thing here is quite the gas guzzler." Luke made a noise of understanding. "I guess it wouldn't be very practical then."

Dad nodded. "Now if you want something that's got good mileage..." He turned from the sporty coupe. "This Toyota will run forever on a single tank."

Three pair of eyes moved to the blue compact car. I almost slapped my hand to my forehead and groaned. The car was so un-Luke-Carter-like, I felt embarrassed for...well, for all three of us. Luke for meeting someone who actually assumed he'd ever drive this heap, my dad for misreading his customer so badly, and me for witnessing the mortifying exchange.

Besides the dent in the back door on the driver's side, the Toyota's previous owner had been Loma Myers. And the only 29

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reason her daughter had confiscated the keys and sold it was because Loma was being put into a nursing home and was too senile to drive anymore. I couldn't believe my dad even considered selling the old hunk of scrap metal to Luke. Dad must've realized his mistake or he read the look of complete horror on Luke's face because he went on, scratching his chin again. "We don't have a lot of options here." We only had about seven or eight cars on the lot. "But if you think up any questions or see anything you're interested in, I'll be in the shop there."

"OK," Luke said. "Sure thing." Dad nodded and started back toward the garage. His mind, I knew, had already returned to his work. I pivoted to follow him when Luke spoke.

"Hi, Carrie."

I stopped and pressed a hand against the constriction in my chest before I could face him. Then I dropped my fingers to my sides and turned back. "Hi."

"I read your article about the game." He left the Mustang and neared me. "Good piece."

"Thank you." The words came out a hoarse, garbled mess because my throat had dried up, and I had to clear it.

"Thanks," I repeated.

"The only thing is..." He slowly began to circle me as he had the Mustang. "I don't ever go by the name Lucas." He looked up and stopped. I fell into a trance staring back at those hypnotic blues, and I couldn't glance away. 30

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I swallowed. He'd caught my barb. Everyone knew how much Luke detested his Christian name. And that's exactly why I'd called him Lucas Carter in the article. He started walking again, kicking a little at the gravel. "I figure there's really only four times in my life I have to suffer through it. The day I was born since it's on my birth certificate, the day I graduate, the day I get married, and the day of my funeral. So unless you're planning on killing me off or marrying me, I'd really appreciate it if you'd just call me Luke." He looked up again for my response. I could only nod.

He lifted one of his eyebrows. "You already knew that though, didn't you? That I hate my name?" My voice sounded small when I answered. "Yes."