Kris the race. Jackman went into the weight room.
Kyle spotted his Camaro in a repair bay, on a lift. The redhead was peering up at it. Her braid was tucked inside a cap. When she saw him, she said, âDonât you ever listen to your car? You drive like Kris.â
It was no compliment the way she spat it out. He felt off-balance and blurted, âWhat are you doing here?â
âDrove your car back. Kris rode home with Jeff.â
It took him a moment to remember Jackmanâs name was Jeff Myers. Heâd been calling himself Jackman for years, ever since he had talked Uncle Kale into letting him take over the top spot on the pit crew. âWell,thanks. You going to fix it or just take it apart?â
âI can fix it.â She sounded insulted. âIâm a certified mechanic, and Iâve crewed in modified and late model. Drove âem, too. What?â
âI didnât say anything.â
âYou donât believe me?â She waved a wrench in an oily hand. âYou thought I was some groupie?â
âNo offenseâI didnât think about you at all.â He liked the way that rocked her back, but she recovered, nodded, and turned again to the underside of the Camaro.
âWhenâs it gonna be ready?â
âWhen I fix what you broke.â
He walked away. Three bays down, Dad was circling number 12. The car was scraped and dented. The back panels were smashed in where the green Ford had rear-ended it at the finish. âTook some shot there.â
âYou know Slater?â said Kyle.
âHe ran Busch and Craftsmen Truck, did okay, woulda gone up to the Cup series, but he couldnât get along with anybody. Heâs trying to restart his career.â
âSome start. He should get set down for that.â
Dad shrugged. âHard to prove it was deliberate.â He took a breath. âYou kind of leave yourself real vulnerable with the sling.â
âWouldnâtâve won otherwise.â
âTrue. When you boys cook that up?â
Never lie to Dad. âJust before the race.â
He nodded. âKris been practicing it?â
âNot that I know.â
âKaleâs pretty wound up. If Kris misses any races, heâs gonna chew your ear.â
âDid already.â
âThatâs his way.â He put his hand on Kyleâs shoulder. âI know you thought you were doing the right thing.â
That made Kyle feel worse. Kris better be okay. For me as well as for him.
TEN
He thought heâd be glad to have Kris home even though he didnât expect a return to the days before he had moved into a condo in town with Jackman last year. Back then Krisâd invite Kyle into his room for video games, TV football, a wrestling match. At the very least Kyle figured heâd have someone to talk to who wouldnât be laying on a guilt trip for calling the sling or missing the Brooklyn Brass in Charlotte.
But he hardly saw Kris even though he was next door in his old bedroom. Meanwhile, Mr. G and the other brass players didnât give him a hard time. They werenât angry or disappointed that he had missed Charlotte; they just felt sorry for him. The trip had energized them, brought them closer as an ensemble, and left himout. When they played, he felt he was missing signals. On breaks they reminisced about the trip, discussed techniques theyâd picked up. They didnât try to include him. Were they punishing him? Did they think he wanted to bail on them? He avoided Nicole, who didnât seem to notice.
His makeup lesson with Mr. Sievers was a little tense. He had barely practiced the new piece. Mr. Sievers already thought he was giving Mr. G and the quintet too much time.
Kris was asleep when Kyle left for school and at the garage when he got back. The family didnât eat together until Tuesday night. Kris looked tired. He picked at Momâs lamb shanks, usually a holiday meal and one
Learning to Kill: Stories