Fastback Beach Read online

  Fastback Beach

  Shirlee Smith Matheson

  Orca soundings

  Copyright © 2003 Shirlee Smith Matheson

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system now known or to be invented, without permission in writing from the publisher.

  National Library of Canada Cataloguing in Publication Data

  Matheson, Shirlee Smith

  Fastback Beach / Shirlee Smith Matheson.

  (Orca soundings)

  1-55143-267-6

  I. Title. II. Series.

  PS8576.A823F37 2003 jC813’.54 C2003-910688-8

  PZ7.M42477Fa 2003

  First published in the United States, 2003

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2003105878

  Summary: When Miles is put on probation for stealing a car, he learns about hot rods and rebuilding cars. When the project is stolen, Miles has to face up to his friends.

  Orca Book Publishers gratefully acknowledges the support for its publishing programs provided by the following agencies: the Government of Canada through the Book Publishing Industry Development Program (BPIDP), the Canada Council for the Arts, and the British Columbia Arts Council.

  Cover design: Christine Toller

  Cover photography: Eyewire

  Printed and bound in Canada

  05 04 03 • 5 4 3 2 1

  IN CANADA:

  Orca Book Publishers

  1030 North Park Street

  Victoria, BC Canada

  V8T 1C6

  IN THE UNITED STATES:

  Orca Book Publishers

  PO Box 468

  Custer, WA USA

  98240-0468

  To Billy and Brooklyn

  Chapter One

  The Mustang convertible sits in the parking lot of the ten-story apartment building, nicely hidden from view by a huge leafy poplar tree.

  “Like it, Miles?” asks Larry the Lark.

  “Sweet,” I say.

  Black paint gleams in the moonlight, shiny and sleek. I look up at the apartment block. Blinds are closed on most windows. The others are in darkness. No one is sitting out on balconies. It’s 11:00 at night. All good people are in their beds.

  Spider throws down his smoke and grinds the butt with his heel. “Let’s move.”

  There’s no backing down. Larry is already checking the doors. “Locked,” he mutters.

  “No problem.” Spider pulls a tool from a duffel bag he’s carrying.

  “He’s got a Slim-Jim,” Larry whispers for my education.

  “Forget that!” Spider says. “It’s a ragtop, man!”

  He is holding something in his hand. I hear a click and a long thin blade flashes out. Spider leans over the roof and I hear the rip as he slashes the tight canvas top. He reaches in to pull up the lock and in a split second he’s yanking the door open.

  Larry spins around the front of the car and jumps into the passenger side.

  “It’s Clubbed!”

  “No sweat. Good scouts come prepared,” says Spider. He grins — the first time I have seen a smile crack his face. He yanks up his sleeve and rips off a hacksaw blade that is taped to his forearm. He starts sawing at the wheel. There must be only a thin circle of metal under the padding. After just a minute of intense work, Larry spreads the wheel apart and Spider removes the Club. They work like a team. They must have done this before.

  What am I doing here? I stand in the shadow of the tree. My mind is racing. My heart is pounding. It’s happening. And I’m in.

  Larry reaches over to the steering column with a screwdriver and breaks the ignition lock. Spider flings the Club into the backseat and slips the five-speed gearshift into neutral.

  “Push!” Spider hisses. I go around to the back. Together we roll the car out of the parking lot and into the darkened alley. “Get in!”

  I scramble into the backseat. Spider and Larry jump in the front. Before the doors are closed, Larry sticks the screwdriver into the ignition switch, the engine roars to life and we’re spewing gravel.

  When we’re a couple of blocks away, Spider screeches to a stop. “Let’s get some moonshine.” I think he means booze, but his plan is to lower the top. Moonlight suddenly washes over us in a silver glow.

  “Beauty!” Spider says as we hit the freeway. “No more second-rate junkers for us!”

  I sit forward and watch the speedometer climb. Then Spider floors it. I fall back onto the leather seat.

  “Hey, slow down!” I shout.

  “You like speed!” Larry yells back. “Your old man’s a racer.”

  “Yeah, but on a racetrack. This …” Another acceleration throws me back again.

  How did I get into this? How do I get out? Will I get out? Spider is screaming and yelling like some freak, which he is. Larry has been my friend since first grade, even though he’s gone a bit crazy since his parents split up. His mother moved off and took his little sister. He lives with his dad who lets him run wild.

  “Go, man!” Larry yells and taps a drum- beat on the dashboard with his fingers. It drives me crazy when he does that, as if he’s some kind of rock band drummer.

  At the turnoff to Fastback Beach, Spider stomps the brakes and the car fishtails. He straightens it but we’ve passed the turnoff, so he cuts a U-turn in the middle of the highway, laying rubber that smokes around us. Then we’re on the gravel trail leading down to the beach.

  Below us, white in the moonlight, stretch miles of sand. This is a perfect place for drag racing. Spider steps on it and the car jumps ahead. I put my hand down for balance and it touches something soft on the seat. I hold it up. A kid’s teddy bear. Aw, jeez, we’ve stolen some family guy’s car. I throw the bear onto the floor and brace as we hit a dune and become airborne.

  Spider yells and laughs as he spins another donut. Sand fills the air. “Hey, bro, your turn!” He and Larry fling open the doors and do a fast runaround to exchange seats. Larry floors it and misses the shift into second. The engine screams and the car lurches like it might fold double.

  I yell, “Stop!” Larry does. I’m thrown between the two front bucket seats, my head connects with the upper edge of the wind-shield and I’m out cold.

  A light shines in my face. My eyes water and my head pounds.

  “Kid’s hurt. Call an ambulance,” a deep voice growls. I hear someone talking on a radio. I try to sit up. Can’t.

  I’m sprawled across the front bucket seats of the Mustang with my legs hanging out the open driver’s door. I throw my hand over my eyes to shut out the light.

  “Well, kid, you got some ‘splainin’ to do!” Someone’s being funny, sounding like Desi talking to Lucy on those old reruns Mom watches. I try to sit up. My head, half-stuck under an armrest, threatens to explode so I lie back again. I hear sirens but I can’t move. The passenger door is thrown open and my head falls back. A guy stares down at me.

  “Careful here! Head injury. Could be vertebrae damage. Stretcher!” He snaps the command and my lights blink out.

  Chapter Two

  “Miles John Derkach, you are charged with theft over $5,000. How do you plead?”

  “Guilty.”

  Mom gasps from behind me. She wanted to hire a lawyer but I said no. The lawyer would discover I wasn’t alone, maybe that I wasn’t even driving.

  I glance back to see Mackenzie sitting beside Mom. She gives me a small encouraging smile. “Kenny” and I have been dating for four months. Great way to impress your girlfriend.

  The judge coughs. “Miles Derkach, I could revoke your driver’s license for a period of ninety days. However, as this is your first
offence and there is some suspicion that you were not alone in this caper, I will set a probationary period for that same amount of time. You will report weekly to a probation officer.”

  My feet itch inside my boots, but his next sentence stops any nervous reaction.

  “In addition, you will perform one hundred hours of community work.”

  What?

  “I recommend that you be assigned to work with a senior citizens’ organization. Hopefully, the experience will help you gain some respect for people and their property. If this group can’t help you, son, no one can. Next case.”

  I slowly get up and walk out of the courtroom past Mom and Kenny. I’m so relieved to be getting out of there that I fire up a smoke even before I’m out the door. A group of probation officer types give me dirty looks. One breaks away, strides towards me and plants herself solidly in my path. “Miles Derkach, I am Ms. Kirkpatrick, your probation officer. Just where do you think you’re going?”

  “Out,” I say, waving the cigarette.

  “Not so fast.” She points a sticklike finger at my smoke. “Put that out!”

  I turn around and jam the cigarette into an ashtray, even though I’ve only taken a couple of drags.

  “I have your community work assignment ready for you,” she snaps. “Come with me.”

  I glance over at Mom and Kenny and give them the high sign. Mom wipes her eyes and Kenny winks. She’s so beautiful! Brown curly hair that just doesn’t quit, big brown eyes and on top of all that she’s a great mechanic.

  I follow Miz Kirkpatrick. She takes me to her office and spreads out some papers. I lean against the doorframe. “Sit!” she commands. I do.

  “Miles Derkach, you have one hundred hours of community work to perform and I have the perfect spot for you. The Rossburn Community Association has offered to work with selected teenagers under court supervision.”

  She hands me a piece of paper. “Here’s the president’s name and address. Report to him Saturday morning at 9:00 sharp. He will phone me when you arrive, and you will phone me as you leave. You and I will become well acquainted.”

  Chapter Three

  “She’s hot!” Larry the Lark had whispered when Mackenzie Morash strolled into shop class the second week of school, twenty minutes late, wearing baby-blue coveralls and a wide smile. Normally Mr. Santonio would have sent a student packing if she came in even a minute late. But this time he took the note and paired her with Greg Summers.

  Greg groaned. He’s a keener, always wants top marks in everything, and having a girl as his partner was a drag. So he thought. Mackenzie looked over the tools and took that little Briggs and Stratton engine apart in minutes, with all the parts sorted for proper I.D. and reassembly. Greg’s grin nearly split his face.

  Turns out Mackenzie’s dad had just opened his tenth Master’s Transmission shop over on Vulcan Avenue. Turns out Mackenzie grew up in garages.

  I fell in love with Kenny that first day, but I waited for all the other guys to take their shot.

  Maybe it was my good looks and money — ha! — or maybe the fact that I didn’t come on strong, but she went for me. I’m pretty comfortable around girls but I’d never gone with anyone before, just the odd date. Until Mackenzie.

  One day Larry the Lark and I were leaving school in his ‘72 New Yorker — it’s the size of the Queen Mary and just about as old — when we spotted the cheerleaders having a practice. Larry slammed on the brakes. “Sweet!” The girls were finishing up for the day, gathering their pom poms and megaphones. We had a big game coming up on Friday against the hotshot Rutherford Rustlers.

  Larry pulled up to the curb. “Any of you fine ladies order limousine service?” Six girls jumped into the backseat, laughing, smelling of perfume and girl sweat and all things nice. Mackenzie was one of them. We drove up and down a few streets, gunning the engine at every green light, stereo blasting tunes, then pulled in to the A&W. I saw Mackenzie looking me over, so I sat back, stayed cool, not yapping like Larry, but sort of listening, keeping Mackenzie in my peripheral vision.

  We drove the girls home. Luckily for me, Mackenzie lived the farthest away in a suburb called Green Forest Acres. The transmission business must pay well.

  When she opened the car door I hopped out too. “You play on the team, don’t you?” she asked. I nodded. More on the bench, I could have said, but she’d find that out soon enough. “I’ll cheer for you extra loud,” she said.

  Feeling brave I asked, “Are you going to the dance after the game?” When she nodded I said quickly, before losing my nerve, “Could I come by for you?” She took the scrunch thing out of her hair and threw back her head. Her hair bounced and flew around her face. Then she looked at me with those brown eyes. “Sure!” she said.

  “Nice work,” Larry said when I got back into the car. “You never moved that quick on the field!”

  I laughed. “She’s cool.”

  “Naw!” Larry drawled. He threw the car into drive and punched the gas pedal, as always.

  Our team won, and I played well enough to not embarrass myself. I could hear Mackenzie’s voice cheering me on, even leading a special cheer for me. You know … “Give me an M! Give me an I! Give me an L! Give me an E! Give me an S! Miles Derkach, Miles Derkach …” and the cheering squad went into this locomotive cheer that they do. Felt great.

  After the game I went home to clean up.

  Mom watched me. “Is this a special night?”

  I nodded.

  “Got a date?”

  Nod again.

  “Who with? Anyone I know?”

  “Don’t think so. They just moved to this area. Mackenzie Morash.”

  “Oh, the transmission people.” Mom smiled.

  Of course she’d know the name. She works in the office at RPM Auto Parts.

  “I guess you’ll need some money, to take her out later for something to eat.” She handed me a fifty. She wouldn’t take it back.

  “This girl might be special, Miles,” she said. “Treat her right.”

  Is she clairvoyant or something?

  After court, Mom drives Kenny and me to our house, then goes off to work. We hang out, listen to tunes, play around a bit — but who can concentrate? We talk about court and my sentence. I tell her a bit more about how it happened. But before I blow it and tell her how I’m really innocent, Kenny cuts in.

  “That was cool, Miles, admitting your guilt. And you didn’t say a thing about anyone else.”

  So we forget about the court case and the day, and Larry and Spider, and everyone else but Kenny and Miles.

  Chapter Four

  I wake to the phone clanging like a fire alarm.

  “Yeah?” I groan into the receiver.

  “Good morning, Miles,” says a voice I can’t place. “Aren’t you supposed to be somewhere by now?”

  “Who’s this?”

  “This is Ms. Kirkpatrick, and I’m giving you fifteen minutes to be dressed and standing on your front steps.”

  “Huh?” My brain burns rubber getting up to speed.

  “Just be ready, Miles. I will be pulling into your driveway in exactly fifteen minutes — and I don’t like to be kept waiting!”

  She hangs up with a slam.

  I go over to the fridge, take out the milk and drink it half down right from the carton — a habit that sends Mom to red-line. I notice the lightbulb has burned out in the fridge. I’ll change it, later. I throw a couple of whole wheat slices into the toaster. When they’re ready, they shoot out like torpedoes. Gotta adjust the spring on that toaster. I’m good at fixing stuff, but I don’t have much time.

  I shower and throw on a plaid flannel shirt and jeans. My knees show through the holes the way I like ‘em. I hear a horn honk. I’m thinking up some words to express how I feel about being hassled when I see Ms. Kirkpatrick peering through the glass in the door. I should sue for invasion of privacy. I grab my jacket and yank open the door. She thrusts something at me.

  “Here. Read this new
spaper on the way over. Get current.”

  “What?”

  She’s thrown me off-track. I trot behind her like a dog, clutching the morning paper, and slide onto the front seat of her car. It takes a moment to realize what I’m sitting in. The rich smell of leather upholstery grabs me first, and I glance at the dash. Since when did social workers start driving Mercedes?

  I smile. “Let’s race!”

  Ms. Kirkpatrick laughs, and the car moves swiftly and silently down the street. I lean my head back and look through the sun-roof. I could get used to this! Quad speakers wrap around an old rock tune. I’m tapping my fingers on my bare knee, looking out the window of this great machine, when I see Larry the Lark waiting for the light to change. His eyes shine like Maglites when he spots me. I turn away from the window.

  “Where are we going?” I think to ask.

  “To your appointment, one hour late!” she states.

  “Oh, yeah.” I dig into my jacket pocket for the crumpled bit of paper. Ross-burn Community Association. Ned Barnier, President.

  We pull up in front of a house. The hedge is perfectly trimmed and there are flower beds everywhere. Worse, I spy lawn ornaments: a mother deer with Bambi fawns, Snow White’s dwarves holding birdbaths, even a wishing well! I look at the sign on the front door: Ned and Millie Barnier — Welcome, Friends!

  I groan and close my eyes.

  A man and woman appear at the door. I’ve seen their type before. Experts at baking banana bread, playing Scrabble and telling old war stories. They’ll call me Sonny. I slide down into the leather upholstery.

  “Sit up!” Ms. Kirkpatrick snaps. “Say good morning. And smile. Because, Miles, this is your lucky day.”

  Chapter Five

  “Miles, what do you like to do best?” Mr. Barnier pulls up a chair and sits down. I notice that he drags one leg a bit and his speech seems slow.

  What do I like to do best? Well, how about sleeping in, eating, watching TV, hanging out with Kenny and Lark, fixing old things that other people throw away? I tell him the last one.