Roadside Assistance by Amy Clipston

glanced up and smiled. “Hey yourself.” He placed the book on a workbench littered with tools. “What can I do for you?”
    “I’m sorry to bother you, but do you have a distributor wrench and a timing light my dad can use real quick?” I jerked a thumb in the direction of the fence. “He can’t get to his tools right now.”
    “Sure thing. It’s no bother at all.” He hopped down from his stool and began searching through drawers. “What’s he working on?”
    “The Suburban.”
    He faced me, the tools in his hands. His eyes were full of laughter, a grin turning up the corners of his mouth. “Really?” I swallowed a groan. “Yes.”
    “You mean the Chevy Suburban, right?” He stepped over to me and I noticed that he towered over me by at least five inches, standing close to six feet like my dad.
    “That’s the one.” My cheeks felt as if they would spontaneously combust. “It’s having a hard time starting and the plugs look good.”
    “Impressive. Someone taught you well.” He gripped the tools and smiled, and I noticed for the first time that he had a dimple in his right cheek. “Let’s go see what’s wrong with that troublesome Chevy.”
    We walked together through the gate and over to the truck, where my dad stood gazing under the hood and rubbing the stubble on his chin, a stance I’d seen often when he was debating fixing or kicking a vehicle. I hoped he’d choose fixing it since he’d once broken his big toe while repeatedly kicking an offending Pontiac Grand Prix.
    My dad turned to us and grinned. “Help has arrived!” He stuck his hand out. “I’m Brad Curtis. I see you’ve met Emily.”
    Zander placed the timing light on the ground and shook his hand. “Nice to meet you, Mr. Curtis. I’m Zander Stewart.”
    “Oh, call me Brad. There’s no need for formality.” My dad pointed to the tools. “Thanks for helping out. I don’t know if Emily told you, but I can’t get into my toolbox. We unloaded it last week, but the garage is so packed I can’t get the drawer open. And I can always use an extra hand for stuff like this.” He rubbed his hands together. “Okay, let’s get this show on the road.” My dad pointed to the timing light. “Em, you grab that. You can do this stuff in your sleep.”
    Zander looked at me, his eyebrows arching. He was clearly impressed — again.
    I hesitated, embarrassed by the spectacle Dad was making over my mechanical abilities.
    “What are you waiting for?” Dad asked, jingling the keys. “I need to get this truck running or I’ll never find a job.”
    Zander leaned over and snatched the timing light. As he stood, his gold chain flipped from beneath his T-shirt, and a cross glinted in the sun.
    So he was a Christian outside of church too.
    Definitely out of my league.
    Zander handed me the light, and I uttered a thank you.
    “You know the drill,” my dad said. “I’ll start it and keep my foot on the gas. You guys make the adjustment.” He hopped into the driver’s seat and, after I attached the timing light’s terminals to the car battery and a spark plug wire, he started the truck. “I’m going to hold it at two thousand rpms,” he yelled.
    “I’ll turn the distributor,” Zander called, gripping the wrench. “What do you want it set at?”
    “Put it on eight degrees before top dead center,” Dad hollered back.
    I held the light on the timing mark to see where the notch was. “What’s the timing mark at now?” Zander asked me as he loosened the distributor bolt two turns. “It’s at two degrees,” I said.
    As he slowly turned the distributor counterclockwise, the motor chugged, wheezing for air and nearly dying.
    “Wrong way, Mr. Mopar,” I said with a smirk.
    He grinned, shook his head, and then turned it clockwise.
    I watched the mark move in the flashing light and counted it down. “Two, four, six, eight,” I called. “Stop!”
    Zander tightened the bolt back down. “Done,” he said.
    My dad killed the