Page 70 of Full Throttle

He looked behind him. “Okay. Bye.”

“Night, kiddo. See you soon.”

Josh sent me a couple of texts on Monday and Tuesday, then there was nothing the rest of the week. Cherry told me he had sent her one on Tuesday and she had wished him well for a test he had on Wednesday, but he never replied.

“He’s probably busy,” she assured me. “He’s a teenager.”

I knew she was no doubt right, but when I arrived on Saturday to pick him up, I sensed a change in him. Roxanne hadn’t bothered to come outside to goad me, for which I was grateful, but Josh’s demeanor was unexpected. He was quiet in the car, answering most of my questions with a grunt or a short yes or no.

“Cherry has breakfast,” I said. “Then we’ll head to the garage if you want.”

“Sure,” he replied, but not with the enthusiasm I expected.

“How was the test?”

He shrugged. “What I expected. I failed.”

I frowned. “Maybe we can go over it, see if I can⁠—”

He cut me off. “You’re not my teacher. I don’t need your help.”

I bit back my retort, not wanting him to see me angry.

At the house, he greeted Cherry coolly, picking at his breakfast. She and I exchanged worried looks, and she tried to engage him in conversation. But his replies were short and, at times, dismissive.

After we finished, we began to clear the table.

“Josh,” Cherry said. “Can you bring me some of the dishes, please?”

He frowned. “I’m not a servant.”

She stopped what she was doing. “I beg your pardon?”

“I’m not here to work.”

“I never said that. I asked you to bring me some of the dirty dishes.”

“This isn’t my home, and you’re not my mom. I don’t have to,” he snapped and stomped off to the small room we’d made into a temporary bedroom.

I gaped at her. “What was that?”

“Him being a teenager.”

“I don’t like it. He shouldn’t speak to you like that.”

“I think he’s a little tense today. Let it go.”

I helped her clean the kitchen and went to get Josh to head to the garage. Part of me wanted to tell him unless he lost the attitude, we weren’t going, but I hoped his mood would improve.

It didn’t.

In the garage, he sulked and barely spoke. Showed no interest in the cars or what the guys were doing. He sat in the corner, playing on his iPad and slowly eating away at my patience. He was rude to Charly when she sat talking to him, and she looked at me with her eyebrows raised.

“Something is eating him,” she observed, coming to stand beside me.

“He’s been like this all day.”

“Have you talked to him?”