Wendy sighs. “Well?—”
“Then no,” I answer from halfway inside Tink’s bike.
Wendy seems to like spending a lot of the day in the garage with me. Which I don’t really mind. She doesn’treallyget in the way, not like she would for Kit or Blue, anyway. And it’s nice to have someone to talk to.
“Do dirt bikes need a license?” she asks.
“Technically?” I give the wrench another ratchet. “No.”
“Okay, so can I ride the dirt bike?”
“No.”
“Aw, why not?”
“Because it’s still kind of broken.”
“I thought you could fix it.”
“I can,” I say. “But I’m fixingthis oneright now. For Tink.” Not that it was exactly broken to begin with. Not in the same way that little dirt bike is. But now I’m committed. And Tink’s ride is going to be pretty good once I’m done. “Can’tyougo watch TV or something?”
“TV’sboring.”
“Well…” I squint into the bike, feeling around for where the teeny tiny little threads of the nut seat around the bolt to loosen it. “What—else—do you do—for—fun?” Damn, but that sucker’s seized.
“I dunno.” Wendy lifts a shoulder as I pull my head out. “Do you have any books?”
My chest squeezes tight. “Uh, not…really,” I say. “Not around here.”
“Oh. Okay.”
After that, Wendy goes silent. She’s sitting on the work table, her legs dangling and her wrists between her knees, and she’s staring at the wall. At this drawing of Kit’s I have pinned up, one he did when we were kids—I forget how old, because it doesn’t really look like a kid’s drawing since he was already really good. It’s of us, me and him, in this more comic-book style he used to draw, posing with our hands clapped together like superheroes.
“Have you heard from my brothers yet?” Wendy asks, her voice suddenly very small.
And I swear my heart actually breaks.
Here I am thinking how cool it is to have a little sister, and I forgot this kid alreadyhasbrothers.
Had. I mean.
I swallow. “I don’t know,” I say. Which is the truth, pretty much. “I can ask Tink later.”
Wendy just nods. “Okay.”
She keeps staring at the drawing. I swallow again and?—
“You know what?” I say, putting down my tools and wiping my hands on my work pants. “I know where we cangetsome books, if you’re interested.”
The libraryin the Strip is small, hot, and dark. It’s this brick building a few blocks down the boulevard with a cracked-up parking lot, the kind of place where, if I saw a bike like mine, I’d definitely swing by later to boost it.
But no one boosts my bike. Not if they want to work with Fox again. And most of the shop guys do, so.
“Do you have proof of address?” the librarian asks. Wendy already tore off for the kids’ section, leaving me at the desk. Inside, the place has that smell, like old carpet that’s been baking in dusty heat for years. But there’s posters and decorations up. Construction paper letters and pictures on the wall. Like they’re really trying.
“Oh, uh…” I frown. “Like a driver’s license, or something? Sure.” I fish out my wallet and hand mine over.
The librarian takes it and looks.
