And what about when school starts in the fall, and when Lana and her dad go on the sur ng tour? Is Mrs. Roth going to run the store by herself? How will Porter keep his grades up and help her and hold down his job at the Cave?
My phone buzzes with a text. Surprisingly, it’s from Patrick, as in, Patrick of Killian’s Whale Tours and my broken gaydar: Hey. You free? Wanna get coffee at the Shack? I’ve got new stuff from the
lm festival.
Well, what do you know? He doesn’t think I’m a total loser after our “date” fail in the video store. Before I can text back, the back door swings open and Porter breezes in, a huge smile on his face. Delight rushes through me until I see his father behind him … then I freeze up. “Pops xed the seat. You’re good to go.”
Mr. Roth hands me my keys without looking me in the eyes. I think. I’m not looking him in the eyes either. ?is might work if we both keep avoiding each other. “Still dented,” he mumbles, “and it might stick when you unlock it, but there’s nothing I can do about that.”
“You’ll just have to wiggle the key some and knock it with your palm,” Porter volunteers cheerily.
“Or take it somewhere to get it xed professionally,” Mr. Roth says. “But the worst problem you’ll have is locking yourself out, so you might want to carry your helmet inside with you until you’re more sure about it. And get a better wheel lock.”
“I’m headed to buy one right now,” I tell him. I scratch my hand, uncomfortable. “?ank you for doing this.”
Looking away, he grunts and shrugs the shoulder that doesn’t have an arm. After a few seconds of awkward silence, just when I think he might turn and leave without another word, he pins me with a hard stare and points a nger in my face. “You really want to thank me? Next time you see Davy Truand, you call me day or night and I’ll nish what Porter started. ?at boy is stupid and dangerous, and he’s obviously got you in his sights, so I’ll tell you what I tell my own daughter: You stay away from him as best you can, but if he comes anywhere near you, get your phone out and start dialing my number—hear me?”
Um … ?
I feel the rattle of the weird, low note that escapes the back of my throat. He’s sort of yelling at me again, but it’s in a concerned-parent way, and I’m not sure, but I think he’s offering to kick Davy’s ass for me now. I look at Porter for con rmation and he’s grinning.
So very confused.
All I can do is nod. So I do, several times. ?is seems to meet Mr. Roth’s approval. He nods back at me, also several times. And then he tells Porter to quit standing around like a lump and help his mom with the delivery that’s now coming around to the back door. I watch him head toward Mrs. Roth, and I’m stunned.
“He likes you,” Porter whispers near my ear, sending a small cascade of shivers over my scalp. It freaks me out that he has that effect on me in public, especially when his family is halfway across the store.
I nd my voice and ask, “How can you tell?”
“For my dad, that was practically hugging and welcoming you into the family. He said you have grit.”
Artful Dodgers don’t have grit. Is this because I snapped at him outside? It’s hard for me to think too hard about it, because Porter is linking his index nger with mine.
“Hey, Porter,” a voice calls out.
I drop his nger and look up to see Mrs. Roth smiling sweetly from the door to the back room, her dark storm cloud of hair haloed around her shoulders. “Aw, I’m sorry, kids,” she says.
“You ladies met?” Porter asks.
“We did,” she answers, “And Bailey’s going to come watch you do your thing one morning.”
Porter raises both brows and has a look on his face that’s hard to decipher, like maybe he’s embarrassed, but kind of happy, too. “Yeah?”
“If you want,” I say.
“Yeah, maybe,” he says. “You should come see Lana, for sure. If you can get up that early.”
“Yeah, maybe,” I say, mimicking him. “I mean, I know nothing about tides and waves, and all that, so you’ll have to alert me when and where it’s going down.”
Mrs. Roth gives me an enthusiastic thumbs-up sign from the door and then quickly lowers her arm before Porter can see it. “Sounds like a plan to me,” she says. “And I’m sorry to break this up, but I really need some help back here—Porter?”
“Sorry, duty calls,” he tells me.
I shake my head, dismissive. I’ve got to buy that new wheel lock before work. ?ere’s plenty of time for that, but he’s clearly got stuff to do here, so I don’t say that. I just tell him I’m busy too, thank him again, and ask him to thank his dad again, who has disappeared with Lana. Mrs. Roth waves good-bye over the top of a stack of boxes when I leave through the back door.
I still have a couple of hours to kill before work, plenty of time to buy my new wheel lock, so I text Patrick back and make plans to meet up with him at the Pancake Shack as I test out my newly repaired seat lock. As I’m doing this, high up on the gutter of the roof, I catch a glimpse of white fur: a cat. Two cats, actually. It’s my tabby from the churro cart, Señor Don Gato, and she’s stalking a big, uffy white feline. I laugh out loud—I can’t help it—because it’s just like that children’s song. My Don Gato has found her true love.
“Don’t jump,” I call out to Don Gato. Both cats look down at me quizzically. “Trust me on this one, you’ll only break your leg and die. ?at stupid white cat is not worth it. But if you do jump, remember that during your funeral, the scent of sh will bring you back to life—or probably, in your case, the smell of churros.”
