“Because it is.”
I looked at Mr. Alvarez.
“Can somebody please explain this?”
The diner owner leaned against the register.
“How much do you think Evan has saved toward the bike?”
The question caught me off guard.
“I don’t know.”
I glanced at my son.
“He keeps saying he’s almost there.”
Mr. Alvarez nodded.
“That’s what he tells us too.”
Evan’s face changed.
“Don’t.”
Mr. Alvarez ignored him.
“You know how many paychecks he’s actually kept in six months?”
I waited.
“One.”
I thought I’d misheard.
“One?”
“The first.”
I turned slowly toward Evan.
“Where did the rest go?”
“Mom.”
“Where?”
He looked away.
That silence frightened me more than the broken dishes.
Evan had wanted that bike for almost a year.
I could still remember him showing me the listing.
I had offered to help buy it.
He had refused.
“I want to earn it.”
Now I realized he had earned enough for it long ago.
Probably several times over.
Yet he had no bike.
And apparently almost no money.
I stepped closer.
“Tell me.”
“It is my money.”
“Yes.”
“And I can do what I want with it.”
“You are thirteen.”
“That doesn’t mean you get to know everything.”
Normally, I would have agreed that he deserved some privacy.
Not now.
“When your employer calls me because you’re fighting an adult over your entire paycheck, the privacy rules change.”
Then I noticed his backpack.
It had fallen open when the bus tub overturned.
Several envelopes had spilled out.
So had a folded city bus map.
I bent down.
Evan moved instantly.
“Mom, don’t.”
I looked at him.
That response guaranteed I was going to.
I unfolded the map across a table.
Red circles covered it.
Six.
Maybe seven.
Beside the circles were handwritten notes.
TIRES.
MR T.
HAIRCUT.
STORE LADY.
One address had been crossed out several times and rewritten farther down the street.
Beside two locations were dollar amounts.
$180.
$65.
I stared at the map.
Then at Evan.
“What is this?”
“Nothing.”
Cal made an irritated noise.
“There’s that word again.”
I pointed toward the first circle.
“TIRES?”
Evan said nothing.
Cal answered.
“The tire shop on Mason.”
I turned toward him.
“How do you know?”
“Because I followed him there.”
Evan snapped around.
“You what?”
Cal shrugged.
“You’d already tried giving me money twice.”
“You followed me?”
“I walked behind you.”
“That’s following!”
“I got tired after three blocks and took the bus.”
Despite everything, Mr. Alvarez rubbed a hand over his face like he was trying not to laugh.
I wasn’t.
I folded the map.
“Get your backpack.”
Evan’s eyes widened.
“Why?”
“We’re going to the tire shop.”
“No.”
“Evan.”
“Mom, please.”
The word sounded different this time.
Not defiant.
Scared.
I looked at him.
“What am I going to find?”
His face tightened.
“Nothing.”
Cal groaned.
I handed the paycheck to Mr. Alvarez.
“Hold this for me.”
He nodded.
“I’ve been trying to make him keep it anyway.”
Evan yanked his backpack from the floor.
“I hate all of you.”
Cal pointed at him.
“There. That’s normal thirteen-year-old behavior. Keep that part.”
Evan sat stiffly beside me the entire drive to Mason Tire.
I knew the place.
I hadn’t been there in years.
But I remembered one particular afternoon perfectly.
Jeremy had been dead four months.
It was February.
Cold.
Rainy.
Our old sedan got a flat.
I drove to Mason Tire thinking I needed a patch.
Twenty minutes later, the owner told me the tire was ruined.
Then he looked at the opposite side.
The second tire was nearly bald.
I could afford one.
Not two.
I remember standing at the counter trying not to cry.
Ten-year-old Evan sat nearby drinking hot chocolate someone had given him.
I asked:
“Can the second tire wait two weeks?”
The owner looked at me.
Then at Evan.
Then said:
“Probably shouldn’t.”
I swallowed.
“I only have enough for one.”
