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Then again, she did make me ride in the back of the Jeep with my head down on the way home and dropped me off a mile outside of town.

Flat tire or not, this “new” Eliza didn’t stop me from eyeing every exit in this theater and keeping my head down.

At least Thatcher had me working backstage.

“Reed,” he called from the opposite side of the stage.

Jesus, just announce me to the whole crew.

He pointed behind me. “Go downstage center to where I left my toolbox and grab me one of my drill bits, will ya? The high-speed ones, kinda twisty looking.”

“Kinda twisty looking.” Right.

I turned around and looked left and right, scratching the back of my neck. Downstage? Where the hell was downstage? Was that theater-talk for a basement?

One of the actors running lines nearby, a young kid with a cool sword on his belt, pointed toward the front of the stage where an old red toolbox sat.

“Thanks,” I said, hurrying toward it.

Thatcher’s toolbox would make Granddad break out in hives. His Allen wrenches and random-sized nails sat sprinkled throughout the top compartment. Wing nuts were mixed up with hex nuts, and scrap pieces of paper littered the entire container.

How does he find anything in here?

More voices entered the auditorium, so I crouched lower and kept rummaging through the toolbox till I finally found the drill bit. I hurried back across the stage and gave it to Thatcher, who smiled in approval.

“Now, hold up this frame here for me while I mark a couple of spots,” he said. We both grunted as we lifted the piece. “Ah, darn,” he muttered. “Should’ve had you get the brad-point bit. Wood’s too thick for this kind. Don’t go anywhere. Be right back.”

He hobbled away toward his toolbox and left me alone with the frame. If I tried to lower this beast, it’d slip out from under me and bash me in the freakin’ head.

Sweat beaded up on my eyebrows, and my elbows began to twitch.

Hurry up, Thatch. Hurry your ass up.

I swallowed over a dry rock in my throat and cursed under my breath. If I hurt myself doing this, Coaches Monaco and Roeper would kill me.

The wood made a funny, squeaky sound as the bottom started sliding away from me. “Oh shit,” I yelled, not caring anymore if I gave myself away.

But then another set of hands appeared and pulled the wood upright again. “Too heavy for you, Fulton?” Eliza now stood smirking next to me. Her hands gripped the other side of the frame. She had several colored pens stuck into her ponytail, and she wore a gray shirt with big block letters that said “Though she be but little, she is fierce.” I hadn’t heard that quote before.

But I liked it.

“I’m surprised you didn’t let it fall on me, Crowley.” I winced as something pricked my palm. Splinter?

“Well, you did help me change a flat tire last night.”

“Nah.” I chuckled. “You had it covered.”

Her cheeks turned pink.

Oh. Did I embarrass her?

Definitely wasn’t my goal.

She grinned, and the scar above her eyebrow wrinkled. I remembered the time she got that very scar. We were nine or maybe ten years old. TJ and I had dared each other to jump off one of the railcars, and Eliza had tagged along. TJ and I had leaped at the same time, and we both rolled when we landed. Eliza laughed, and then TJ had challenged her to do better. I remembered shouting “No!” when she jumped—but it was too late.

She had landed harder than we did and instead of rolling to the side, she rolled forward and smacked her head on the gravel. TJ tried blaming me, but Eliza stepped in and asked him to take her home. The next day when I saw her outside Scoops, she told me it was her first battle wound. I was proud of her, but I never told her so.

I should’ve told her so.