Oil Change at Rath's Garage Read online

  ©Shari Narine, 2017

  All rights reserved

  No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, graphic, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher or a licence from The Canadian Copyright Licensing Agency (Access Copyright). For an Access Copyright licence, visit www.accesscopyright.ca or call toll free to 1-800-893-5777.

  Thistledown Press Ltd.

  410 2nd Avenue North

  Saskatoon, Saskatchewan, S7K 2C3

  www.thistledownpress.com

  Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication

  Narine, Shari, author

  Oil change at Rath’s garage / Shari Narine.

  Issued in print and electronic formats.

  ISBN 978-1-77187-132-7 (softcover).–ISBN 978-1-77187-133-4 (HTML).–ISBN 978-1-77187-134-1 (PDF)

  I. Title.

  PS8627.A75O35 2017 C813’.6 C2017-901115-4

  C2017-901116-2

  Cover and book design by Jackie Forrie

  Printed and bound in Canada

  Author photo by Rhonda Lemoine

  Thistledown Press gratefully acknowledges the financial assistance of the Canada Council for the Arts, the Saskatchewan Arts Board, and the Government of Canada for its publishing program.

  Acknowledgements

  Thank you to my siblings and their partners for all their support: Nandia and Mike; Shaun; and Nandini and Robert.

  To my wonderful friends: Cathy; Colleen; Lori; Nancy; Sandy, Ellen and Tammy; and Carol.

  To my Daysland school teachers: Mrs. Tylosky, who set me on this path in grade two, and Mrs. McCarroll, who made me feel the power of words.

  To my editor Michael Kenyon, who said the words every writer wants to hear: “my changes are only suggestions.” Thank you for the fantastic suggestions, Michael. You made this work stronger.

  To my mentor Margaret Macpherson, who took a piece of me and helped me finesse it into something of which I am proud. And to the Writers’ Guild of Alberta, who brilliantly paired me with Margaret through their mentorship program.

  To the wonderful people at Thistledown Press who gave me words of encouragement when I needed them the most and guidance through this sometimes daunting process.

  To my mother, who gave me the talent, and my father, who gave me the work ethic.

  To my sons: Ethan, whose passion for hockey kept me going in my passion for writing when we both suffered setbacks, and Jonathan, for reminding me that perseverance is an admirable quality.

  Contents

  Acknowledgements

  Arrival

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  School Days

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  17

  18

  19

  20

  21

  22

  23

  24

  25

  26

  27

  28

  29

  30

  31

  32

  33

  34

  35

  36

  Summer Holidays

  37

  38

  39

  40

  41

  42

  43

  44

  45

  46

  47

  48

  49

  50

  51

  52

  53

  54

  55

  56

  Departure

  57

  58

  59

  60

  61

  62

  63

  64

  65

  66

  67

  68

  Arrival

  1

  THE ATTACK COMES OUT OF nowhere. One minute Matt Humphreys is checking out girls. The next minute he is slammed against a bank of blue lockers.

  “Stay away from my girlfriend!”

  His eyes swim. The face inches from his is a blur. His head echoes the crash of the hollow steel. He sucks air into his lungs.

  “Son of a bitch.” He blinks once, twice. The face comes into focus. Who the fuck is this jerkoff?

  “You hear me, asshole? Stay away from my girl!” Another quick shove.

  Another bounce of his head off the locker and Matt explodes. His fists fly. He clips the prick’s chin. He brings his knee up, connects with empty space. “What the fuck?” He plants his feet shoulder-width apart, rubber soles grip linoleum. His hands remain fisted for protection and to keep from exploring the back of his head. He is not going to show weakness. “I don’t even know you!”

  “Now you do.” And the guy is back in his face.

  This isn’t a good thing. He and Ben have been in this school for only two days. He is supposed to be knocking guys into lockers, making them understand they need to keep their hands off his little brother. This, right now? Not a good thing.

  He throws his shoulders back, collides with the locker, tries not to panic as he pins himself in. The best defense is a good offence. He spits out, “Let’s see you try that again, fuckhead.”

  The guy falters, his sneer slips. The jeers behind him grow louder. Then he is at it again. “I think I will, asshole.” And he two hands Matt back into the locker.

  “That’s the best you can do? Scary,” Matt draws out. He steals a quick look around. A crowd has gathered, but no Ben. The kid would have a fit if he saw his big brother getting pummelled. He steps forward, holds his hand out to illustrate his next statement. “I’m shaking.”

  “Rick, what are you doing?”

  It all comes together then. This hot blonde. Lyne. She is the girl he helped yesterday with her biology books. She is this fucktard’s girlfriend.

  “Nothing, babe,” Rick says, pulls Lyne in, kisses the shit out of her. She pastes herself against him, shoves her hands into the waistband of his jeans, and gives right back.

  Matt has seen this dance at too many schools. It is show and tell, all for his benefit. Because getting slammed into a locker didn’t deliver the message. Now he has a visual to go along with his throbbing back. Life just keeps on rocking.

  He walks away, shrugging his shoulders, rotating his neck to work out the stiffness.

  “They’re always like that.”

  He stops, stares at the girl beside him. He noticed her yesterday, too, but didn’t ask about her. She is not his usual flavour. Lyne is. But this girl, with the short brown hair, wide brown eyes, has a great rack.

  “Yeah?” he says.

  “Yeah,” she says. “I’m Kennedy.”

  “Matt.” Introducing himself is a fucking stupid formality.

  “Well, yeah, new boy in grade ten Everybody knows who you are.” The corner of Kennedy’s red, red lips quirks up. She is hot. A tight little bod and the way she keeps moving closer, fuck, there is potential here.

  He smiles, too. “Guess not much excitement in a town this size.”

  “No,” Kennedy says, shaking her perfectly styled hair. “New guy in school and everybody talks. Most excitement we’ve had in three years.”

  “Two new guys.”

  “Two?” Her voice trails off, her carefully plucked eyebrow arches.

  He follows her gaze. Rick has Lyne backed up against the wall, is still playing tonsil hockey wi
th her. There is obviously history between these three. He doesn’t give a shit. “My kid brother’s in grade six. Name’s Ben.”

  Kennedy turns back to him. There is nothing coy about her smile now. “Yeah, us high schoolers, we don’t pay much attention to the elementary intake.”

  He gets that. He wouldn’t either if the elementary intake weren’t his responsibility.

  Kennedy glances back then squares her shoulders to him. “You free tonight? There’s a bush party a few miles out of town. Kind of a pre-grad thing.”

  Oh, yeah. There is something here. But he’s not sure what this is and any girl who is not a guaranteed lay is not worth Ben bitching him out. And those damned puppy-dog eyes Ben would send his way? So not worth the combo slap-down guilt trip from the kid.

  “Gotta pass. Gotta go home and do my Mrs. Doubtfire thing. With school yesterday and today, we have to unpack, get our shit together.” Kennedy doesn’t need to know that it takes ten seconds to unpack because what they can fit in the back of the BMW hardly breaks a sweat.

  She screws her lips up in a pout. “Another time, then,” she says and her tongue darts out to touch her top lip. She sashays away, her hips swinging in the tight mini-skirt.

  Fuck. Maybe getting bitched out by Ben is worth it if he can get some action. But then again, Dad is still around. So no sweet piece of ass is worth what could happen at home.

  Lyne Rutger shoves at Rick. It wasn’t the new guy he was performing for. Matt. He didn’t stick around. The show was all for Kennedy. Lyne should be pissed royally and part of her is totally annoyed, but another part of her is fully in the take-that-bitch mode. She will work on being angry with Rick now, make him feel guilty. She won’t admit to him that that was hot. Incredibly hot. Everyone was watching. Well, with the exception of the new boy. But hell with him. Kennedy and the other rich bitches were drooling, wishing they were with Rick.

  “What was that about?” she asks, pulls her shirt down, covers her midriff a little more. The dress code is worse than useless at Delwood Public, but if the principal catches too much skin, he will call home. She doesn’t need to hear the that’s-what-got-me-into-trouble speech from Mom again. She doesn’t need to be reminded that one thing leads to another. And she was the thing it led to with Mom and Dad.

  “What, babe?” Rick’s grey eyes go wide in feigned innocence. “Can’t show my girl I miss her?”

  She wards off Rick’s advance with her hand to his chest. Holy crap, he is ripped. And all hers. This makeout session is only a taste of what tonight’s bush party is going to bring. “I mean, with Matt before that.”

  “Matt? Oh, that’s the dickwad’s name.” Rick rubs his jaw, a small purple bruise a reminder of where Matt connected. “Fucker needed to know you’re taken.”

  “Whatever!”

  “What?” Rick snaps and his eyes spark.

  “Taken?” She places her hand on her thrust-out hip. “What is this? Caveman days?”

  He pushes her up against the wall, pins her there, hands gripping her arms. There is nothing gentle about his touch. He growls, “What? You don’t want to be taken?”

  She drops the teasing smile, holds in a gasp. She has seen Rick this way before. All predatory. It is a little scary. But it means he wants her. And she has been fighting for this, for him. She pulls him down, kisses him hard. “I’m all yours.”

  “Damn right.” His sloppy grin reminds her why this boy lusting after her is the catch of the school. “You don’t need that jerkwad dicking around after you.”

  She pulls back. That jerkwad dismissed her, walked away, as if she was not good enough. Who the hell is he to judge her like that?

  Glory shuffles back before Lyne sees her. As if she would! Her sister is so engrossed in Rick an earthquake wouldn’t stop her from swapping spit with him.

  Glory has no idea what she has just witnessed. None of it makes sense. Not Rick Jeffries pushing the new boy — Matt — up against the lockers. Or the way Kennedy stood so close to him and then looked flustered as Lyne and Rick made out in the hall. And how could Lyne do that? All those eyes on her. Rick’s hands all over her. Doesn’t she have any pride? But then again, all Lyne has been about these past few months is Rick, Rick, Rick. Getting Rick. Having Rick. Now it has to be about showing him off, doesn’t it? Lyne has always been about boys. She lives and breathes Rick. As if Rick is the answer to the question of life.

  Matt hasn’t even been here a week and all the girls in Glory’s grade nine class — and the entire high school! — are talking about him. She even overheard a couple of Kennedy’s friends in the bathroom gushing about how he walked down the halls as if he owned the world, how confident his stride was, how they wouldn’t mind slumming it for him. The whole school has gone crazy. Even the boys are talking about Matt, pissed about his swagger, worried about their girlfriends.

  But she saw him just now when he threw down with Rick, and Matt wasn’t about confidence. He acted like a boy who had nothing to lose. As if one cream-coloured cinder block hallway was the same as any other and he was no more invested in Delwood Public School than he was in the school he came from. Just passing through. He is like the solitary figures she reads about in her novels.

  The buzzer sounds.

  Ugh! She has run out of time to check the bulletin board for summer jobs. Now she will have to come back after school. She hates being here longer than she needs to be. She turns around and slams into Tina.

  “There you are.” Tina moves closer as if to share a secret. “Did you see the fight?”

  “No, not really,” she says.

  “Oh.” Tina falters, then she flutters her hands in excitement. “You can ask Lyne about it!”

  Glory snorts. She is not going to listen to her sister give a blow-by-blow of Rick sticking it to the new guy to protect her virtue. As if Lyne has any virtue left to protect. “Yeah. Not.”

  “Whatever,” Tina says.

  Glory walks back to the junior high section of the school, Tina on her heels, chattering. But it is the look on the new boy’s face that stays with her until she slides in to her desk. Of Mice and Men is propped open, pen between the pages. It irritates her that she wasted so much of her noon hour. Now she will have to wait until after school, after she has looked at the job board, before she can return to her book. She finds George fascinating. This little man with the sharp eyes who cares for Lennie, is so devoted to him. What would drive someone to give so much? Life would be simpler for George on his own. Nobody paints a picture of the complexities of life as well as Steinbeck.

  2

  JACK HUMPHREYS PUSHES BACK HIS lank dark curls with one hand. With the other, he touches the almost empty bottle of Labatt Blue to his forehead. No relief there. His beer is warm. Benny is clasping a thick book, carefully turning the pages. It is hard to read the kid’s face. His damned bangs are a curtain. “You’re supposed to be unpacking the books, not reading them.”

  Benny fumbles the book, drops it. A photograph flutters loose, lands on the stained yellow carpet.

  Jack looks at the book now resting at the kid’s feet. Thick book. Christ. Is that one of his old textbooks from the University of Alberta? “Where the hell’d you get that?”

  “Uh.” Benny whips his bangs out of his face with a quick jerk of his head, hesitates a moment to look behind him. Then he tracks the textbook, the photograph, before he lifts his eyes. His words come out in a rush. “It was stuck in a corner of the trunk. I didn’t know it was yours. I would have left it if I’d known.”

  “Put it on the shelf.” Jack braces his hip against the yellow and brown plaid couch. He waits a beat or two as the kid shuffles his feet. “Well?”

  Benny stares at the book. It lies open, spine facing the ceiling, purple cover no longer glossy. “It has your name in it. But it’s not your writing.”

  “What do you mean it’s not my writing?” Sweat runs down his neck, presses the cotton of his shirt tight against his chest. An armoured plate. “Benny?”


  “It’s a girl’s writing,” Benny says softly.

  “Miriam.” The name is heavy in the thick air. This is unexpected. One more move to get away, but still she follows.

  “Yeah. Mom’s.” Benny hovers over the book.

  Jack’s wedding ring clinks on the glass as he waves the bottle. “Pick up the photograph.”

  Benny moves quickly. His eyes stay firmly on the picture and he swallows convulsively.

  “Whatcha got there, dude?”

  Benny jumps.

  Jack loses his perch on the couch. “Christ, Matt.”

  Matt grins unrepentantly.

  “A photo,” Benny says.

  “Duh, Einstein.” Matt moves in. “Let me see.”

  “It’s a picture. Of you and Dad.”

  Matt takes it, brushes his fingers softly over the surface. His eyes are gentle. “It’s your graduation from university, Dad. When you got your engineering degree.”

  “Yeah?” Jack says. It is too hot to remember.

  “Yeah, Mom took it.” Matt’s eyes return to the photo. “She called us her two handsome men.”

  The boy was four and a half, Miriam only just pregnant with Benny. Does Matt really remember that day? It was such a good day. Miriam smiling brightly, one hand constantly resting on the slight swell of her tummy, the other stubbornly twisting Matt’s curls into compliance. Jack had wanted that second baby so badly. Miriam did it for him.

  “You have matching ties, Matt,” Benny whispers.

  Jack closes his eyes tightly, can see that June morning like it was yesterday. Sunshine and warmth. Miriam dressing Matt in his little-boy suit, looping the tie around his neck, fussing with him to keep still. She had sewn those matching ties. She said the little flecks of gold in the green silk brought out the hazel that was hidden in their deep brown eyes.

  “Yeah. Dad wore a green gown.”

  “Green?” Benny asks.

  “Tinkerbell green, right, Dad?” Matt’s smile is strained. He moves, flush side-by-side with Benny.

  “What? No!” he says. “Dark green.”

  Matt toes the book. “Huh. Your engineering textbook.”