Taking Off by Jenny Moss Page A

couldn’t resist. I rolled up my jeans and walked into the icy, clear green sea before me. The emerald color of this water was very different from the brown of the Galveston Gulf, muddied by river water flowing out of the Mississippi.
    My feet were like ice. After a few long seconds, I splashed my way back out, rolled down my jeans, and ran back to the car. I fell into the backseat, with one door open, and shook the sand out of my shoes. I threw a blanket over me and read some of Hilda Doolittle’s Imagist poems, loving the famous one about the sea, and let my cold feet dry. I didn’t like the gritty feeling of sandy feet in tennis shoes.
    Some of the poems I whispered as I read. I liked to hear the words out loud, especially with the sound of the surf in the background.
    I was cold, so I shut myself in the backseat. I pulled out my notebook and started writing: A wave crests / ponders the fall.
    I felt I was in that stillness, that point before movement, like the space shuttle on the pad. Was my future a fall from the crest or a rising from the earth? Too dramatic , I thought, and scratched out the line.
    Dad and Tommy piled in the car. They were in dry clothes, and their hair was almost dry. I closed my notebook and put it away.
    “Hey, start it up, son,” said Dad. “Let’s get ourselves to Cocoa Beach!”
    Son? I stared at Dad. When had he ever called anyone son? I knew he didn’t have a son, but still he had never called Mark son. He’d known Mark for years. He’d gone fishing with Mark.
    “Sure,” said Tommy, turning the ignition. Suddenly, a loud noise filled the car, sounding like a very, very gone-wrong engine.
    “What is that?” I asked.
    “Kill it, Tommy!” shouted Dad.
    “What is that smell? Awful!”
    We all got out, and Dad put his hands on his hips and stared at the Beatmobile. “We have a problem.”
    “Shouldn’t you look at the engine, Dad?”
    “I’m afraid I know what it is.” He looked at Tommy. “I had an exhaust manifold leak, so I used J-B Weld on it as a temporary fix.”
    “Oh,” said Tommy. “I guess it didn’t hold.”
    Dad grinned and shrugged. “Worth a try.”
    “This isn’t funny, Dad. Will it take long to fix?” The Beatmobile was temperamental, but I knew Dad could get any car running.
    “We have plenty of time, Annie. The launch isn’t until Saturday. Two days. No problem.”
    “Two days? What are you talking about?” I looked at Tommy, and on his face, I saw that this indeed wasn’t an easy fix. I couldn’t believe this. Mom had been right. Dad messed up everything. “I told you not to take this car, Dad!”
    “Don’t get your panties in a wad,” he said.
    “So what are we going to do now?”
    “Well, we have to get the car to a mechanic. I can’t fix it.”
    “You can fix anything.”
    “Well, thank you, honey, but no, I can’t fix this.”
    “What’s wrong with it?” I asked, not really caring. I just wanted it to work. I knew my dad, though. Things rarely went smoothly with him.
    “There’s a leak in the exhaust manifold.”
    “Get another manifold then,” I said.
    “No, Annie,” he said patiently, like I was being hysterical, which I wasn’t. “Anyway, the part I need they don’t have for this car.”
    “Dad!”
    “What are you getting so riled for?” Dad asked.
    “Only that I skipped school to see this launch and now it looks like it was all for nothing.” But it wasn’t that. I didn’t care about missing school. It was the launch. I couldn’t miss it. I couldn’t. “How could they not have the part?”
    “Annie,” he said, pointing at the car, “the Beatmobile is a 1963 AMC Rambler Ambassador, 990 Cross Country Station Wagon.” I closed my eyes, knowing he was off on one of his car spiels. “It was the first year for the 327 small-block V-8.”
    “Mm-hmm,” I said, trying to hold my temper.
    “AMC doesn’t make an aftermarket version of this manifold, and GM swears theirs won’t work.”
    “Okay, Dad,” I