“Who made all this?”
She looks up, chopsticks hovering midair.
“That’d be me.”
Amy is full of surprises. Her desk is a cluster of engine parts topped by a piece of wood, her chair an ingenious assembly of upcycled shocks supporting a faded tan leather car seat she must’ve sniffed out down at the scrapyard. I like her bedside lamp the best—a headlight nestled in a chrome exhaust.
“It’s not exactly beautiful, but it’s useful, at least.”
“Are you kidding me? These are great! People love this kind of thing,” I add. “I bet you could make good money selling them. I should tell my dad—it’s giving me a few ideas for a cabin.”
“A cabin?”
“Yeah.” I nod. “You know—like, a cabin.”
“Still not getting it.”
I frown to myself.Didn’t I ever tell her about this?Now that I think about it, I realize she makes me feel so relaxed and at ease, it’s like hanging with an old friend. Except ultimately, she doesn’t know much about my life at all.
I scrape my tub clean and toss it onto the floor, and over the next few minutes, I talk her through my parents’ business and what I plan on doing with my life. I tell her all about West Virginia, how I love heading over there to get a little hands-on practice and clear away the cobwebs. Usually, when I tell people about the tree house cabin, their knee-jerk reaction is to ask to see it, which pisses me off. Like, nobody would ask an athlete to strip so they can check how good a shape they’re in. I feel the same way about my cabin. It’s a little pieceof my soul; something just for me. My happy place. Amy is different, though. She doesn’t say anything at all. Instead, she keeps her eyes on her crossed legs, nodding from time to time.
“How do you choose the tree?” she asks after a while.
“What do you mean?”
“How do you decide which one is strong enough to spend a whole lifetime holding things up?”
Something about the way she just said that moves me. I stare into her face for a few seconds.
“There are a few things you need to look for,” I start. “Circumference, terrain, what the trees beside it are doing. Finding the right one is almost as fun as working on it.”
“It reallydoessound fun. And I like how it’s something your mom and dad do together,” she adds.
“Yeah, I’m lucky. They’re really good together.”
“It was the opposite with my parents.” She laughs. “She was a good girl, and he was a rebel without a cause, I guess you could say. They were really in love, though.” She shrugs. “I guess opposites can attract. Now she’s married to a guy just like her, but seeing them together is kinda heartbreaking.”
Her voice has hardened, and I can sense there’s something more to this.
“So, your dad has…”
I pause. I’ve been wanting to hear more about the man since Brooklyn. Everyone up there called him El Mago, and I’m curious. She stares at the clock on the wall, and a whole minute trickles by before she speaks.
“Brown hair, brown eyes.”
Classic Firebird.
“You’re a pain in the ass, you know that, Amy Hitman?”
“Thanks, Lewis Conley.”
It’s funny—most people love nothing more than to talk aboutthemselves. They love questions. But again… Amy is different. She only ever reveals what she wants to reveal.
“What’s your favorite color?” I try.
“Chicken.”
I roll my eyes. “What’s your favorite food?”
