House of the Unwanted: A House of Frost Novel

Chapter 6

By Dabeagle

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I have no idea why I was so confident about Keaton, but that confidence was starting to piss itself. A lot could be riding on me picking out this Galaxie, and all I really knew about it was that he thought the nose was art. I followed him out into the side yard with all the cars, and he held a hand out to my chest to stop me.

“I'm not letting you go read all the nameplates, so you have to stand back and figure it out.”

“Not fair if you don't let me cheat,” I grumbled.

He snorted, but the corners of his mouth were tugging up in amusement.

“Well, I can't see them all from back here, not clearly. We can at least walk down the rows, right?”

He cocked his head and appeared to think for a moment. “Okay. You stay by me, though. No getting closer.”

“To you or the car?” I asked, grinning slyly and enjoying flirting.

“You're way too slick,” he said with an eye roll.

I sure wasn't feeling slick as we started to walk. All I could really base my opinion of what Keats likes on came down to his wagon. I glanced at a car that had no grille – not that it was missing, it just wasn't part of the design – and I thought to myself he likes chrome grilles, maybe, like on his wagon. With that as a template, I started to build out details and things he'd talked about as we slowly started to walk past the cars.

Some I discounted due to their body design. The newer, more aerodynamic cars didn't feel like Keats would be enamored with them. There was an old truck that I thought about for a moment, but I was under the impression the Galaxie would look like some kind of muscle car. In fact, I thought Keats had said something like that the day before; at the least, it wasn't a truck.

We came up to two cars, and I stopped to study them. They both had chrome grilles, but they also had some differences. One had a bit more curve to it, especially looking down the side. It had a chrome grille and two round headlights. The other car had a grille with a dogleg at either end with the headlights stacked vertically instead of side by side. I was leaning toward that, but then I spotted the next car down and couldn't help but notice it had some lines like the wagon, but they didn't run the length of the car, one from the front stopping after it reached the door in a taper that implied it just forgot where it was going, and one wing came from the back, but darted down to run low along the bottom of the doors as a misplaced chrome stripe. Where the lines had made the wagon look aesthetically pleasing, this looked like someone had just slapped them on because.

“Did it work?”

I was so focused I nearly jumped out of my skin as Andrew and Leonard came up behind us.

“Jesus, Dad,” Keats grumbled.

“Til, if he said yes, I'll buy you a coffee.”

Wryly, Leonard said, “He's got a pot in his office is what he means.”

“Well,” Andrew said, sounding exasperated. “I can't have him over for dinner. I have a daughter, and I just know he's going to get her pregnant.”

“Jesus, Dad!”

“Tell me your sister wouldn't just melt over him? She has terrible taste! No offense.”

Leonard walked past us and patted the hood of the car with the dogleg grille. “It's a nice one, that's for sure.”

I turned to Keats. “That's the one I was going to pick.”

He smiled a little. “Liar.”

“Oh.” Andrew looked at Leonard, then to me and then to Keats, then back to me. “No impregnating my son, either.”

“Jesus Fucking Christ, Dad,” Keats growled, staring at his dad.

“I'm not blind is all I'm sayin'! First, it's 'look at this cool car', then it's 'check out the back seat'!”

Keats shook his head, and a little smile played at the edges of his mouth. “You're such an asshole, Dad. You do realize I met him yesterday and you're already talking about hooking up? I mean Lewis hit him. His shoulder's screwed up.”

Andrew put a hand on Keats's shoulder. “Just be gentle, Son. You're eighteen, you think you need a trip to Bali before you-”

“Unless you want ex-lax in your coffee, don't finish that sentence,” Keats warned.

“That's just cruel, Keats,” Leonard said. “Well done, lad. Well done.”

“He doesn't need any help from you.” Andrew put his hands on his hips and turned his gaze back to Keats. “What's the situation with the frame on this freeloader's truck?”

Keats shifted right into a professional mode. “I scraped the surface where we saw those pock marks, but it doesn't look like they go far. The bed's on a pallet and ready to start getting sanded and stripped. It has rot on the wheel arches; you'll probably want to look, but I think they'll have to be rebuilt. The cab bolts are out, just need to remove the interior and such.”

“That's a good start,” his dad replied. “Always easier to get an interior out than get it back in. Let's get that bed on the rotisserie, then you can show Til how to strip.” He paused and started to smile. “Paint. I said paint, Son! Aw, come back!”

I started to follow Keats, but said over my shoulder, “Don't ruin my shot with him, or I'll find someone to impregnate your daughter.”

“You take that back!” he hollered, but Leonard was bent over laughing at him. I caught up to Keats and matched his stride. He walked to an awkward looking...thing. It had a wheeled apparatus on both ends and long rods with several bolts sticking out of it. Keats started to roll the unwieldy thing toward the truck bed, so I grabbed a spot and helped him steer.

“Grab that jack, would you?” he asked, pointing. I nodded and retrieved it. He had another one and slid it toward one end of the bed.

“What are you doing?” I asked.

“This truck bed needs to go on the rotisserie. That's this thing,” he said, patting the weird object. “We need the bed up high enough to find attachment points, so we'll put a two-by-four on top of the jack to spread the weight out a bit and lift one end, then do the same on the other side. Then we'll put jack stands under the wood and take the jacks out, since it's more stable. Then we can slide the rotisserie up – disconnect it in the middle – and slide it together. Then we bolt up the truck bed and it's ready to get stripped.”

That seemed like a lot of steps, but he sounded confident. “How does the rotisserie help with that?”

“Oh, see here? This spins. So, when you attach a car shell or something like this truck bed, you can spin it to get at all the places it needs attention.”

“Oh, I see. That's kind of neat.”

He sighed. “I'm sorry about my dad.”

“Don't be. I don't even know mine.”

He glanced toward me. “What do you mean?”

I waited a moment. Even in the Homestead orphans were lower than bastards. Everyone has a pecking order. “I'm a bastard. Or an orphan. Maybe both. Never met my parents.”

“I...I'm sorry. I wish I knew what to say.”

“Not much to say, I guess.” I paused. “I do want to say something, though, about the cars.”

He turned toward me and waited.

“I figure a car you like has to have character and style. Sometimes a car can have one, but not the other – like people. So, when we were out there, yeah, I admit I didn't know which one was the Galaxie – my mouth wrote a check I couldn't pay.” I grinned at him. ”I figured it's something only special if you take the time to look at it, kind of like your wagon. Until I tried to see what you saw in it, I didn't really understand.”

“Okay,” he said, his tone unsure. “So you actually think my wagon is fire. Like you changed your mind fast yesterday. Why?”

“I tried to look at it the way you saw it, not the way I see cars.” I shifted on my feet, feeling nervous around him. “So cars can be cool, but I didn't know much about them – still don't – I didn't see them like you do. So I tried to take a step back and look at the car closer.”

“And?”

“And...it has the wings down the sides, the target sights on the fenders, a tailgate that opens like a spaceship, and you're right – the dash has a lot of character. The whole car has character – metal and wood and chrome; not like the plastic cars we have now.”

He nodded, studying me. “Yeah, I think you got that right.”

Encouraged, I continued. “So, I was dismissing cars – one of the first ones had character, but no chrome grille, and I figured it wasn't stylish enough.”

He blinked. “That was a Corvair. It's a classic.”

I went to cross my arms and then felt dumb at my mistake, just looking awkward. “Tell me it's a favorite of yours.”

He rolled his eyes. “I mean it's sweet, but I don't know about favorite.”

“Okay,” I said. “So, I was using that along with style cues about your wagon to figure out which car out there would be the Galaxie you liked. When we got to the end, I thought the first car was too fat-assed and only had two headlights, even though it had a chrome grille.”

He snorted. “That's a Nova SS. My dad swears he's going to rebuild the blown motor.”

“Point is, not your favorite – and it wasn't the Galaxie.” He nodded at me, and I continued, “So I looked at the Galaxie, saw the nose and started thinking that was it – but then I saw the car next to it and was comparing the lines – that kind of wing that runs all the way down your car? It's stylish. The wing-like things on that car, one in the front that looks like it got lost and the other one that goes down and turns into a chrome stripe on the door? Completely breaks the aesthetic.”

He took a deep breath and pulled his beanie off with one hand and rubbed the top of his head, framing his face with his long hair. “Okay, I can see your point. And yes, a 1960 Plymouth Valiant...has character, but is fucking ugly.” He pushed his hair off his forehead, allowing it to frame his face. “Plus, it has no motor, no tranny, no interior – no floors! Dad still says he's going to save it before it caves in on itself from rusting to death.”

I tilted my head. “You don't think it's savable?”

“Anything is savable. But the amount of work and money that goes into it,” he trailed off, shaking his head. “There's a reason my car has a patina instead of a good paint job. Why it's still got points instead of an electronic ignition. Why it has rot in the passenger rear wheel arch. It takes time, money and a lot of work.”

I thought for a moment. “Could say the same about people.”

He pushed his hair back and reached up to put his beanie on, and I looked at his stomach as his sweatshirt rode up.

“Okay. Just going to get this on the rotisserie and wheel it down to the sandblasting pod.”

I was a little disappointed the conversation was over, but then I don't know what else I could have hoped for. I wasn't sure what I was hoping for just yet, outside of kissing him and reinforcing that I wasn't intentionally trying to play him.

I helped him get things in place but was soon standing aside as Andrew and Leonard arrived to help steady things and get the truck bed attached. Once that was done, I followed them down as they wheeled it to a structure with a curved roof at the far end of the building, something that looked like a long tent. Leonard helped me get into a set of paper-like coveralls and then explained how the sandblasting process worked to strip paint and loose rust to get the shell down to bare metal. Soon I was going back and forth, stripping paint and anything else attached to the metal as Leonard guided me.

After some time had passed and I'd gotten an entire side of the truck bed stripped, Leonard tapped on my shoulder and told me to stop.

“We should get cleaned up and head home – Dorothy will be wondering what happened to us.”

“Oh. What time is it?”

“Heading for six.” He tousled my hair, which was the first time anyone had ever done that to me. “Got lost having a good time, huh?”

I chuckled. “I actually did.”

He gave me a knowing look. “Doesn't hurt you hung out with Keats.”

I felt a little hot in the face, but smiled. “No. Didn't hurt at all.”

“Well, you have good taste,” he said as he peeled off his coveralls and threw them into a trash can. I worked to climb out of mine but needed a little help. “Keats is a good boy. Known him since he was tiny.” He put his hands on his hips. “I do want to say something about that, though.”

His shift in tone put me on guard, and I replied in a cautious tone. “Okay.”

“I know you weren't going to stay, at first. I wouldn't be a bit surprised if it's in the back of your head to move on, maybe once your shoulder is better. Maybe the idea of this Michael character being out there will get to be too much in your head and you'll disappear.” He placed a hand on my shoulder. “I hope that's not the case, but I'm going to ask you as one person to another that if you plan to leave, don't start something with Keats. He doesn't deserve that.”

I felt a sudden cold in my chest. “I...I did think about leaving, but...I'm...kind of liking having a place to be. I wasn't thinking about leaving...anymore.” Technically true as I hadn't thought about it today.

He took his hand off my shoulder. “Things are okay now. But maybe you get angry. Maybe you don't like that there are rules because it's our house. Maybe we disagree and you decide you don't have to put up with our shit.” He nodded. “That would be just as cruel to Keats. I'm just asking you to be the good person I believe you to be and not to hurt him.”

I shook my head. “I don't want to hurt him. I promise I'll do my best never to hurt him.”

“Atta boy,” he said quietly. “Let's go home. I'm hungry.”

“How are we getting home?” I asked as we walked toward the exit.

“Oh, I'm borrowing that diesel Mercedes. It smokes, but it'll do for now.”

*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^

The next few days were uneventful. I went to school and hung out with Lewis for the most part, though I did start to get to know his other friends – Gary, Gomez, Sid and Jas. Jas invited me to her house that Saturday; they were going to watch movies, play games and shoot pool in her basement. I told her I'd try – and thinking of Leonard talking about rules – I told her I'd have to ask. It wasn't that Leonard and Dorothy would say no but more that...in the Homestead you didn't do anything without asking. I was used to it, even if it rankled. In this case, I think it's more showing respect, and if they say no...maybe understanding why would be important.

While I had experience in the normal world, that didn't mean I was a complete expert. Going to hang out with them also felt a bit like trying to put roots down, which both felt right and made me nervous.

After school Lewis would drop me at the garage, and I'd hang out with Keats and work on the truck. I'd flirt a little, but I tried to tone it down a bit; after all, I didn't want to make him uncomfortable. Instead I tried to focus on just enjoying being around him, and I found that surprisingly easy.

Friday brought a new challenge, however. First thing happened in school. I was going down the hallway, trying to remember where the classroom was I was headed to, when I got slammed into the wall, my hurt shoulder screaming in sudden pain and my forehead banging off the locker.

“Ow! What the fuck?” I turned and tried to step back, but this time Moody was fast enough to grab my hoodie.

“Nah,” he said and pulled back his fist. I brought up my free hand and slapped him in the face as hard as I could while his fist glanced off my cheek. My slap had startled him, and I needed to take advantage of that. With my heart shuddering in my chest from fear and adrenaline, I brought my knee into his gut. He let out a 'whuff' sound, then pulled on my hoodie to drag me closer. I whipped my head forward into his face, and as I did, I forced the blood in his nasal cavity to expand, bursting the blood vessels open and opening a faucet of blood from his nose. Didn't exactly feel good on my forehead, either.

“My fuckin' nose!” he cried out as he shook his head, blood dribbling down onto his clothes and floor.

“Jesus Christ, you two again? Moody! Get to the nurse!” the teacher commanded.

“Fucking kill you,” Moody snarled and launched himself at me. This time, I was ready for him. I tried to sidestep him, but he still grabbed a handful of my hoodie. That was okay, as I was busy bringing my hand up to cup the side of his head, and with every bit of strength I could muster I slammed his head into the locker. His grip remained tight on me but he seemed unsteady, so I kicked his knee out and fell on top of him as his fingers seemed locked into a fist on my hoodie.

“Let go, you bastard!” I snarled and struggled to free myself.

“Moody! Let – damn it!” The teacher waded in and pushed us apart; in doing so, he pressed on my bad shoulder, and I howled in pain. “Oh, damn! Sorry, kid, sorry. Step back!”

Moody rolled to his side and started to get up. The teacher moved between us. He told me to go to the office, and I decided to obey – though when I had two arms, I was going to make Moody regret this bullshit.

“Going to kill you, motherfucker!” Moody called out from the floor.

“Nah. You had two chances. Next time it's my turn,” I snapped and headed down the hallway for the staircase that would bring me down to the level with the main office. I was furious. My shoulder throbbed, and I was damn close to just walking out of that school or going back up and making his brain fluid run out of his asshole.

Then my mind tripped over the walking out. That would lead to leaving. That made me think of Leonard and what he'd said about Keats. I paused outside the office door and took a few deep breaths. Staying here may have always been a questionable decision, but I needed to remember there were also good reasons – and I'd told Leonard I wasn't leaving. I don't know if Keats would be hurt if I left, but...if there was a chance he'd regret me not being around, I wasn't going to go anywhere.

^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^

“Jesus, Til. You're playing with fire. Those Moodys are a nasty bunch,” Keats said to me.

“I can handle him,” I said quietly.

He reached out and touched my cheek with his thumb, rubbing the pad gently along the abrasion from Moody's punch. The Jello in my chest wobbled like someone had put it on top of a huge speaker.

“But Til...man, there's more than just one.” He pulled his hand back and frowned. “Do your eyes change color? I mean they looked kind of pale before, kind of...unusual. But now they look a little darker. Is it the light in here?”

“I don't know.” I smiled a little. “Want to look into my eyes? Tell me what you see?”

“I see a boy headed for an ass kicking by the Moody gang, that's what I see,” he replied, blushing a little.

“I love making you blush,” I teased.

“Okay, I'm going back to work,” he said with a chuckle, standing up. I followed him as he did his various tasks, and we talked. We talked cars, we talked more cars, and we talked welding. Andrew had made some replacement pieces for the wheel arches in the truck bed, and he showed Keats and I how to measure and properly place them before tack welding them in place, then placing a more complete weld along the seam.

That night at dinner the McKinleys expressed some concern with the fighting, but admitted they knew about the Moody family and that they were bad news. They also gave permission for me to go to Jas's on Saturday, but they wanted to go get a phone for me first so I could call for a ride home and such.

“Lewis will probably drive me,” I told them. “But I'd appreciate the phone.”

“So,” Dorothy said in a sly tone. “When are you going to ask Keats out?”

I finished chewing and nodded my head. “I figured I'd wait until my shoulder was better so I can hug him properly first.”

She grinned. “That's a pretty good answer. You're kind of slippery, aren't you? I bet you had boys lined up before.”

I gave a one-armed shrug. “I've dated. One boyfriend. Finding someone isn't all that easy.”

“I know. Look what I ended up with,” she said, pointing the end of her fork at Leonard.

“Ignore her,” Leonard said with a wave of his hand. “She's ornery because she thinks I'm buying that Mercedes from Andrew.”

“He can't buy it,” I said. “Andrew says Zsa Zsa used to drive it.” I paused. “Is that like a parrot or something? Did he have a bird sit on the steering wheel? What was he talking about?”

Dorothy laughed hard and then said, “Andrew was just talking out of his ass. He does that a lot.”

“He's kind of funny,” I admitted. “Wish he was a little nicer to Keats, though.”

“Andrew...he tries. He means well. Loves his kids. But you'll remember I told you he sometimes only opens his mouth to change feet?” Leonard shook his head. “He just can't seem to help stepping in it, but most often with Keats.”

I thought about that throughout the evening, tuning out whatever they were watching on TV. I wondered what that was like, to love someone as Andrew did his son, and yet to continue to stumble. Maybe it was simply a personality problem in the end. Andrew clearly made connections through jokes, but a sense of humor is an awkward beast. Then there were his ideas of masculinity – but did he really believe that, or was he simply trying to connect through teasing again?

Tired of thinking about Andrew, I turned to Keaton. Keats. I liked the name overall, but the diminutive made me feel closer to him. I thought about him resettling his beanie, how his hair flowed down to frame or hide his face. How his sweatshirt pulled up when he lifted his arms to replace the beanie, momentarily revealing his flat stomach. How he smiled. How he blushed. How he makes me laugh. How he shares his enthusiasm over cars with me and teaches me.

I've been in town a week, and I have a home, and I'm really, really attached to Keats. What am I doing?

^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^

Saturday morning Dorothy took me out to get a phone. The Homestead had provided one if we went to public school, which I had at one point. Unfortunately, I hadn't been near it when the flames had started, and I have a healthy respect for crazy fire mages. Jas had written her address down for me, so once the phone was ready Dorothy drove me across town.

“I don't think you mentioned. Who is Jas?”

“Lewis's girlfriend.”

She chuckled. “It's so funny that this boy literally hit you with his truck, and you're friends.”

I hummed in agreement. “Lewis is a good guy. He puts out Golden Retriever energy.”

“I don't know what that is.”

“Mostly that he's happy. He doesn't seem to take the world that seriously. I think...Keats said Lewis usually likes most people, which is a mystery to me.”

“Oh, I'm on your side, there,” she agreed.

“But I think Lewis...for him a new person is just a friend he hasn't met yet. He's kind and engaging. I think most people couldn't help but to like Lewis.”

“I've met very few people like that, but I know what you mean, now.” She let out a little sigh. “We should probably talk a bit about these Moody people.”

“I can handle them,” I replied.

“Sweetheart,” she said slowly, then paused. “When you're a woman, you tend to perceive men as this...monolithic threat. They all have a penis and there is a portion of them that will try to use it on you whether you like it or not; and that number goes up if they think they won't get caught.”

I stayed quiet, wondering what she was trying to tell me.

“It has to do with a fundamental way of seeing the world, for people like that. So while a woman will take extra steps to protect herself because she can't know which men fall into which categories, sometimes you do know. The Moodys see the world as theirs to take when they feel the urge.”

I frowned. “Don't they get into trouble with the law?”

“There's been rumors for a few years about ways they seem to get out of most things. It didn't used to be as bad, but about five years ago it got worse. But yes, they do get caught up in the teeth of the legal system from time to time. But for the most part, they act like...well, like a hillbilly mafia. If they can't get a boy like you to cooperate, then they go after your friends or family.” She sighed. “I don't say this to make you think you shouldn't fight back, but to warn you that the fight might get bigger than you thought and people you care for might get hurt.” She cleared her throat. “You may consider trying to avoid them a bit more.”

“He's looking for me right now, for some reason.”

“Then...we'll have to do some thinking.”

Or maybe I need to do something preemptively, I thought.

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