Today was a Sunday, and the second my alarm went off at five in the morning, I was up. I ate the same pre-workout meal I always did, a banana, a handful of dates, and a glass of milk, then laced up my shoes and headed out for what was going to be a lighter session today, just a little calisthenics with some yoga worked in on top of it.
I'd only picked up yoga fairly recently, after getting through a book on the subject that made a pretty convincing case for how much it could help with flexibility over time. I'd come a long way since the days when my entire routine consisted of nothing but running laps around the block.
These days I actually broke my training up by the day, rotating through different kinds of work depending on what my body seemed to need. The whole trick, as far as I understood it, was never letting your body settle into anything too predictable, since it stopped adapting the moment it got comfortable.
So I made a point of mixing things up constantly, strength one day, flexibility the next, endurance sometime after that. Between all the books I'd read on the subject by now, I figured I probably knew enough to pass for a professional nutritionist and trainer both, if anyone had ever bothered to ask me directly.
Anyway, today I had a lot on my plate. Yesterday, after a thorough scrubbing of the car and a fair amount of analysis, I'd finally managed to put together a complete list of everything we still needed to get before real work on the Maverick could begin.
By the time breakfast rolled around, the whole family was up and gathered at the table. I spent most of it walking Georgie through what we'd need to look for at the scrap yard and how much of our budget we could afford to spend on each component, though he was only half listening, still fighting off sleep.
"Do you really think you're gonna get that piece of crap running?" Missy asked, poking at her eggs.
"Yeah, I'm sure," I told her.
"You better drive me around once it's done, then," she said, coy about it in that way only Missy could manage.
"Sure," I said.
"Nobody's driving anybody anywhere until they've got a license," Dad said, without so much as looking up from his newspaper. He was looking a little less heavy these days, still carrying some extra weight, sure, but I was glad to see the change regardless.
"We turn fifteen in two weeks. I cannot wait to get my license," Georgie said, suddenly wide awake at the mention of it.
"I'm honestly surprised you remembered that," I said, since Georgie forgot just about everything that didn't involve food or football.
"Of course I remember it," Georgie said, mildly offended.
Missy perked right up at that, practically glowing. She had a soft spot for anything that touched on my milestones, birthdays especially, and I could never get enough of the cards she made me every year, all glitter and crayon and more color than any card really needed.
"Georgie, eat fast, then go get changed. We're heading to the scrap yard," I said, since he'd slept in later than usual, being a Sunday and all.
"Charlie, don't forget our plan," Sheldon said, reminding me for what had to be the third time that morning that I still owed him a trip over to my girlfriend's house to use her father's computer. He'd already agreed to my terms on co-authoring the thesis, which meant this particular favor was really just me holding up my end of the bargain.
Luckily, her dad wouldn't even be around today, off running errands somewhere across town, which made the whole arrangement a lot easier to manage.
Helen's mom, by contrast, is more chill than her dad.
"Yeah, yeah," I said flatly, since this was already the third time he'd brought it up before breakfast had even properly ended. He could barely sit still in his chair, practically buzzing at the thought of finally getting his hands on a real computer and pushing our research further along. I'd have to look into patenting the whole thing eventually too, which meant more work stacked onto my own plate. I sighed just thinking about it.
"How come he gets to meet your girlfriend before I do?" Missy complained, though I already knew there was no version of today where I brought both of them along at once. That was a recipe for disaster if I'd ever seen one.
"I'm not interested in meeting her. This is work related," Sheldon said to her, though I knew perfectly well that reason alone wouldn't stop Missy from sulking about it anyway.
"I'm sorry. How about next time I take you along to a movie with her? Just the three of us," I offered.
"Really? Pinky promise?" Missy said, tears vanishing the instant the offer landed, replaced by a satisfied little smirk. She was manipulative, no question about it, but I couldn't help smiling at her antics regardless.
After a mostly peaceful breakfast, Georgie, Dad, and I climbed into Dad's truck and headed out toward the nearest car scrap yard, somewhere just outside the city limits. Dad had promised to come along and lend a hand the night before, and he'd already cleared it with Mom that morning so there'd be no argument waiting for him later. The man was thoroughly whipped, though Mom, for her part, actually seemed pleased that he was getting involved and helping us out.
It was supposed to be a short twenty-minute drive, nothing more than that. Georgie, unfortunately, decided to ruin it almost immediately by letting out a fart loud enough to rattle the windows, turning what should have been a quick trip into something closer to a gas chamber on wheels.
He was riding shotgun, which meant I got to enjoy the full effect of it crammed into the back seat with nowhere to escape. I leaned forward and kicked the back of his seat in protest, though he seemed strangely proud of himself rather than embarrassed, smirking the whole rest of the ride like he'd accomplished something worth bragging about.
Dad, for his part, spent most of the drive with his head halfway out the window, muttering something under his breath about raising boys with absolutely no shame whatsoever.
Ennis Scrap Yard, the sign read, hand-painted letters peeling at the edges, nailed slightly crooked to a chain-link fence that ran the length of the property.
Rows of dead cars stretched out behind it in every direction, stacked two and three high in places. My eyes practically lit up at the sight of it all. This place was a goldmine, and I knew it the second we pulled through the gate.
Dad parked near the entrance, and the three of us climbed out, Georgie still grinning like an idiot over his earlier performance in the truck.
A heavyset man in a stained coverall ambled out from a small shed near the gate, wiping his hands on a rag that looked like it hadn't actually cleaned anything in years.
"Y'all need some help findin' somethin'?" he drawled, squinting against the morning sun.
"We're looking for parts for a seventy-one Maverick," I said. "Head gasket, brake components, starter motor, fuel line. And whatever else you've got."
He raised an eyebrow, glancing between the three of us like he was trying to work out which of us was actually in charge here. "Might have all that layin' around somewhere. Y'all sound like you know exactly what you're after, at least."
"We know what we're doing," I said, keeping my voice level.
"Sure you do," he said, more amused than doubtful. "Name's Wade. Row six and seven's mostly Fords, if you want to start there. Holler if you need a hand liftin' anything heavy."
We thanked him and headed down the row he'd pointed toward, gravel crunching underfoot, the smell of old motor oil and rust hanging thick in the morning air. Dad hung back near the truck, chatting with Wade about something unrelated, which left Georgie and me free to actually dig through the wrecks ourselves. That suited me just fine. I didn't need an audience for what I was about to do.
I moved down the row slowly, letting my hand brush across hood after hood, engine bay after engine bay, Appraisal quietly cataloging everything within reach. Most of it was garbage, cars stripped so thoroughly by earlier scavengers that nothing worthwhile remained. Every so often, though, something genuinely useful turned up.
"Here," I said, stopping beside a rusted-out Torino with a mostly intact engine bay. "Starter motor's still good."
We pulled it free with a socket wrench Dad had tossed us from the truck bed, setting it carefully into the empty milk crate we'd brought along for exactly this purpose. Two rows over, we found a fuel line in decent shape, still flexible instead of cracked and brittle the way most of the others had turned out to be.
After we'd finished loading what we'd found into the truck, Wade waved us over to show off a brand new brake kit and a head gasket which was good on the surface.
"These'll run you more than scavenging," Wade said, "but they're new, not pulled off somebody's wreck. Your call."
I ran the numbers in my head, weighing them against what Appraisal told me about the actual value sitting in front of us. It came out close to a fair price once I accounted for the fact that Wade needed his own margin same as anybody. The head gasket kit, though, had clearly sat in damp storage a little too long, the packaging swollen slightly at one corner.
"We'll take the brake kit," I said. "Head gasket's compromised. Moisture got into that box somewhere."
Wade looked genuinely impressed at that, cracking the box open to check for himself. Sure enough, a faint ring of water damage showed along the inside seal. "Well, I'll be damned. Alright, I'll knock ten percent off the brake kit for catching that, and you can find your gasket set somewhere else on the lot."
It looked like the head gasket would have to wait a little longer. We hadn't managed to search the whole yard by then, but between what we already had loaded up, I figured we had more than enough to actually get started on the car.
Wade also had sandpaper, filler, and primer stocked on a shelf near the front office, and once everything was tallied up, the total came out to two hundred and eighty dollars, a little under what I'd budgeted, which felt like its own small victory worth savoring.
Georgie counted out the cash from the envelope we'd brought, slow and careful, clearly proud of himself for handling the actual transaction.
"You boys did alright," Wade said, handing over a crumpled receipt. "Most kids your age wander in here wantin' parts for some bike they saw in a magazine. Y'all actually know what a fuel line looks like."
"Appreciate it. You'll be seeing me around here a lot more. Name's Charlie," I said, shaking his offered hand. I fully intended to be a regular here, so it seemed worth being polite about it from the start.
Dad checked over everything one last time to make sure it was loaded properly, then looked at the two of us with a proud sort of grin.
"Not bad. Guess you two didn't need my help after all," he said, sounding genuinely surprised. "You actually know what you are doing"
"Charlie does," Georgie said. "I just carry things."
"I'll make a mechanic out of you," I said.
The drive home was mercifully fart-free, Georgie having apparently exhausted his supply for the day. We got back a little past noon, unloaded everything straight into the garage, and I spent a few minutes organizing the parts along the workbench in the order the repairs would actually need to happen.
"Thanks, Dad," Georgie said once we'd finished, clapping him on the shoulder.
After a quick lunch, it was time to make good on the other half of the day's plans. Sheldon was waiting by the front door before I'd even finished my sandwich, notebook already tucked under one arm, practically buzzing out of his skin with impatience.
"Are we leaving now?" he asked, for what felt like the tenth time that hour.
Helen's house sat about fifteen minutes away on foot, so the three of us, or rather the two of us plus Sheldon trailing a step behind, walked over together. I rang the bell, and Helen's mom answered a moment later.
"Good afternoon, Mrs. Davis," I said.
"Charlie, come on in. And this must be your little brother. I've heard about you," she said to Sheldon, smiling.
"All good things, I hope," Sheldon said, straightening up.
"Yes," Mrs. Davis said, a small laugh slipping out despite herself. Sheldon and good things in the same sentence was something worth smiling about, though she was kind enough not to say so outright.
"Charlie, you're here. Come on, let's go," Helen said, appearing almost instantly and tugging me by the hand toward the stairs before her mother could get another word in. She always seemed a little more on edge about what her mom might say whenever I came around.
"Hello, Helen. Where is the computer, so that I may use it?" Sheldon asked, clearing his throat like some kind of distinguished old professor. The kid had absolutely no sense of timing.
"It's in my dad's study. Use it however you need to," Helen told him.
"Hey, Sheldon, I'm going to help Helen with some algebra in her room. Think you can manage it on your own?" I asked, mostly because I had better things to do with my afternoon than hover over my little brother's shoulder.
"Of course I can manage," Sheldon said, puffing up with the kind of confidence that made it clear he'd already forgotten we existed.
"I'll be in her room if you need anything," I told him, and he was already halfway down the hall toward the study before I'd even finished the sentence.
Helen's room was not girly as I expected, but packed with personality, band posters covering one whole wall and a modest drum kit tucked into the corner by the window.
"Play me something" I asked, nodding toward the kit.
"Sure" she said, though the grin that followed told me she was underselling it. She sat down behind it and ran through a quick rock beat, nothing fancy, but tight and confident, the kind of thing that came from actual practice rather than just messing around.
“Okay, that's insanely hot," I said before he could stop himself.
Helen laughed, cheeks going pink, and set the sticks down. "Insanely hot, huh?"
"I mean it." I crossed the room and crouched in front of the stool so they were eye level. "I did not know that side of you existed."
"There's a lot you don't know about me, Charlie."
"Clearly." I leaned in and kissed her, slow at first, and she kissed me back immediately, hands sliding into my hair. I rose enough to close the gap fully, and she pulled me down with her, the kiss deepening, unhurried, the drum kit forgotten behind them.
"Helen, sweetie, I brought—" Mrs. Davis's voice cut through the room a beat before she did, a tray of juice and cookies in her hands.
Helen shot backward like she'd been electrocuted, nearly toppling off the stool.
"Mom!"
Mrs. Davis stood frozen in the doorway, eyebrows raised, clearly biting back a smile. "Well. Kids these days." She set the tray down on the dresser, unbothered, humming to herself. "I'll just leave this here."
"Mom, it's not—"
"Mm-hmm." She was already halfway out the door, though she paused to glance back at me, amusement dancing in her eyes. "I wouldn't let her father catch you two like that, Charlie. He'll kill you."
She disappeared down the hall, laughing quietly to herself, leaving Helen buried in her hands and me turning a spectacular shade of red. What did you expect leaving two teenagers in a room?
After that we spent a while after that just talking, about nothing in particular, school, her drum lessons, the car sitting half taken apart in my driveway.
Close to two hours later, Sheldon finally emerged from the study looking thoroughly pleased with himself, a fresh stack of printouts tucked under one arm. The whole walk home, he talked my ear off about every calculation he'd run, barely pausing for breath between sentences, and I found myself smiling the entire way, only half listening, mostly just glad the day had gone as well as it had.