asphalt took up. The next, he came up Happy Valley Road. The third day, he walked us all the way to the mouth of Gram and Poppy’s driveway, my mother’s hand swinging high in his. For a moment, I wondered if he was planning to escort us right up Orchard Hill, and my insides knotted. How would we explain him to Gram? But he stopped abruptly at the bottom of the hill, as if he’d smacked into an invisible wall. Then he blew us all kisses before turning and jogging back into the dust.
When we got back to the house that afternoon, I found Nick in Poppy’s garage, as usual, stretched out on the cool concrete, working on his dirt bike. I sat down on an orange crate to watch.
“Gotten hold of any illegal fireworks?” I asked.
“No, why? You got a connection or something?” He lay on his side, choosing lovingly from a metal box of tools.
“Maybe.”
“That’d be cool, baby face.”
I smiled at his bare brown strip of belly, the sandy blond hair falling over one eye. Ever since I’d been old enough to say his name, I’d adored Nick. I loved his grease-blackened fingernails and naughty smile, loved playing war with him in the forbidden bomb shelter. Most of all, I loved riding on Nick’s dirt bike. Speeding up the fire roads—my cheek pressed to my cousin’s back, head full of hot rumble and exhaust, the dry grasses ruffling by like water—was the closest I’d yet come to any of my dreams.
The summer I turned seven, Gram had broken it to me that girls didn’t own dirt bikes, that it wasn’t a proper pastime for young ladies. I wasn’t too distressed by this news because, that summer, I secretly believed I was turning into a boy. It had started in the car, during our trip back from Chicago; staring at my bare, sunburned feet, I’d noticed golden hairs sprouting on the knuckles of my big toes. I took this as a sign—proof that Jesus was answering my prayer and making me a boy like Nick. Soon I’d have freckled boy cheeks, dirty boy toenails, a shock of blond boy hair falling over one eye. Then I’d be able to come and go as I pleased, riding a horse or a dirt bike along the miles of fire roads surrounding my grandparents’ house, without anyone telling me to come in, wash up, set the table for dinner. I imagined the transformation would happen slowly, perhaps over months; this way it would be less of a shock for my mother. My father, on the other hand, would be pleased as punch. We all knew that his daughters were sore disappointments. Especially me, since after me there were no more chances. During the last month of my mother’s pregnancy, she suffered a uterine prolapse that required a C-section and hysterectomy. When my metamorphosis was complete, my father would throw his arm around my sinewy boy shoulders, ruffle my sandy boy hair and peer into my face like I mattered.
“Can you hand me that wrench in the corner, baby face?” Nick said, bringing me back. He rarely spoke during these sessions, but seemed to make room for me. There was a mute appreciation between us as he worked, as I handed him the right tool, or brought him a fresh Dr. Pepper from the fridge. It was like being in church—Nick’s greasy, lovely church full of squeaky song, tin angels, gasoline that could go up in a breath if you struck a match just so. The air was thick with reverence.
Two days earlier, I’d been at another kind of church with Mom, Gram and Alison. We’d fanned our faces with the yellow bulletins in the stifling sanctuary, hearing about the New Earth that God would prepare for the righteous, once the old, sinful one had been burned to stubble and ash—scorched by wrathful fire for a thousand years. I wondered how God could have gotten angry enough to destroy every single thing He’d made—even the California hills that shimmered gold across the valley.
I asked my mother and grandmother about this on the way home from church that morning. I asked them if God would destroy even the dearest
When we got back to the house that afternoon, I found Nick in Poppy’s garage, as usual, stretched out on the cool concrete, working on his dirt bike. I sat down on an orange crate to watch.
“Gotten hold of any illegal fireworks?” I asked.
“No, why? You got a connection or something?” He lay on his side, choosing lovingly from a metal box of tools.
“Maybe.”
“That’d be cool, baby face.”
I smiled at his bare brown strip of belly, the sandy blond hair falling over one eye. Ever since I’d been old enough to say his name, I’d adored Nick. I loved his grease-blackened fingernails and naughty smile, loved playing war with him in the forbidden bomb shelter. Most of all, I loved riding on Nick’s dirt bike. Speeding up the fire roads—my cheek pressed to my cousin’s back, head full of hot rumble and exhaust, the dry grasses ruffling by like water—was the closest I’d yet come to any of my dreams.
The summer I turned seven, Gram had broken it to me that girls didn’t own dirt bikes, that it wasn’t a proper pastime for young ladies. I wasn’t too distressed by this news because, that summer, I secretly believed I was turning into a boy. It had started in the car, during our trip back from Chicago; staring at my bare, sunburned feet, I’d noticed golden hairs sprouting on the knuckles of my big toes. I took this as a sign—proof that Jesus was answering my prayer and making me a boy like Nick. Soon I’d have freckled boy cheeks, dirty boy toenails, a shock of blond boy hair falling over one eye. Then I’d be able to come and go as I pleased, riding a horse or a dirt bike along the miles of fire roads surrounding my grandparents’ house, without anyone telling me to come in, wash up, set the table for dinner. I imagined the transformation would happen slowly, perhaps over months; this way it would be less of a shock for my mother. My father, on the other hand, would be pleased as punch. We all knew that his daughters were sore disappointments. Especially me, since after me there were no more chances. During the last month of my mother’s pregnancy, she suffered a uterine prolapse that required a C-section and hysterectomy. When my metamorphosis was complete, my father would throw his arm around my sinewy boy shoulders, ruffle my sandy boy hair and peer into my face like I mattered.
“Can you hand me that wrench in the corner, baby face?” Nick said, bringing me back. He rarely spoke during these sessions, but seemed to make room for me. There was a mute appreciation between us as he worked, as I handed him the right tool, or brought him a fresh Dr. Pepper from the fridge. It was like being in church—Nick’s greasy, lovely church full of squeaky song, tin angels, gasoline that could go up in a breath if you struck a match just so. The air was thick with reverence.
Two days earlier, I’d been at another kind of church with Mom, Gram and Alison. We’d fanned our faces with the yellow bulletins in the stifling sanctuary, hearing about the New Earth that God would prepare for the righteous, once the old, sinful one had been burned to stubble and ash—scorched by wrathful fire for a thousand years. I wondered how God could have gotten angry enough to destroy every single thing He’d made—even the California hills that shimmered gold across the valley.
I asked my mother and grandmother about this on the way home from church that morning. I asked them if God would destroy even the dearest
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