Page 87 of The Backup Plan

“Is that your truck?” The voice asking is high-pitched, curious, and way too close for me not to have noticed.

I glance over and see a kid standing a few feet away. He’s about ten, wearing a Rebels hat that’s too big for his head, and there’s a smear of dirt on his cheek. He’s straddling a bike that’s a little too small for him and has definitely seen better days. Who knew kids actually played outside these days?

“Sure is.”

He has that curious but fearless look in his eyes that kids get before the world shows them otherwise. I glance around to see if there’s a parent in sight, and he points to the park on the other side of the street where a woman has her hand shielding her eyes and is watching us.

“You know anything about engines?” I ask.

He shrugs. “Not really. I mean, I know they make my dad curse when ours doesn’t work right. But he says they’re just puzzles and you have to figure out what’s wrong with them.”

I chuckle. “He’s not wrong.”

“What’s your name?” I ask as he lays his bike on its side and steps over the frame so he can get a closer look at what I’m tinkering with.

“Simon. It’s a horrible name, but it’s not like I have a choice, now do I?”

I bark out a laugh. “It’s not a bad name at all. I’m Lucas.” I reach out a hand, and he looks at it and then up at me, surprised I guess that an adult wants to shake his hand.

“Nice to meet you,” he says, his hand disappearing in mine as we shake. He rocks back on his heels, craning his neck to peer under the hood like he might magically understand it if he looks hard enough. “You play for the Rebels, right?”

I’ve been found out. Was waiting for that to happen.

“Sometimes,” I say.

“If you play for the Rebels, how come you have a truck you have to fix? Why don’t you buy a fancy sports car and have a mechanic?”

“Well,” I say and wipe my hands on the red rag I had placed on the fender. “Because all shiny things get dull eventually and dull to me means it has character.”

“Huh?” His brow furrows.

“Shiny and fast is fine, but older and consistent is also something to value.”

I don’t know who I’m trying to convince, the kid or myself, and by the way he just stares at me, he doesn’t really care either way.

“My mom said you played good the other day.”

“She did?” I pause, wrench in hand. “She watched the game?”

“It’s Texas,” he says like it’s the most logical response in the world.

I laugh. “Guess you’re right.”

“She yells at the TV during the games like you guys can hear her.” He rolls his eyes. “We tell her she’s ridiculous, but that only makes her yell louder.”

“Passion is passion.”

“Yeah, well you might not say that if you heard what she yells when you guys mess up.”

“Don’t worry. We say it to ourselves when we screw up.” I tighten the distributor cap. “And probably with worse language.”

He shakes his head and makes a funny sound. “Hmm. You ain’t never heard my momma.”

“True.” I smile and turn to look at him as he knocks his knuckles on the headlight as if that will fix whatever it is I’m tinkering with. It makes me smile. “Do you play?” I ask him, thinking of the Pop Warner game the other day and how, it is in fact Texas.

“Nah. I play soccer. Midfielder.” He glances over to where his mom is still standing and watching us. “I’m fast.”

I nod. “You’re lucky. Speed is something that can’t be taught.”