Page 33 of The Rebel of Raleigh High
It's a workshop. Not just a workshop; it’s a monstrous space, with two bays to work on vehicles, and countless metal shelving units, packed high with just about every tool and piece of equipment known to man. Everything is meticulously clean, organized and in its place. Wrenches, spanners, and screwdrivers hang from the walls, ascending in size. And along the right-hand side of the workshop, three motorcycles are parked one beside the other. All of them are classics—two Harleys and a Honda. They’re immaculate. The kind of bikes a guy dreams about. They must have cost a cool twenty grand a piece.
I whistle, shoving past Leon into the workshop. “Shit. You just have these sitting here? In a workshop behind your house? You don’t ride them?”
Leon shakes his head. “I put the Honda together. My father had one of his guys come in here and take it apart, down to the nuts and bolts. And then he told me, if I wanted to keep my trainer over the summer break, I had to figure out how to put it back together inside a week.”
“YouTube?” I ask.
“YouTube,” he confirms.
“Can I take a look?”
He holds his hand out, a rueful smile on his face. “Be my guest. You’ll be the first person besides me to lay eyes on them since Dad dumped them here.”
Closer, the bikes are fucking beautiful. I love my Indian—there was a time when I spent every single spare dime that came my way on hulking that thing out—but let’s face it. My bike is nowhere near as lovely as these machines. I run my hand over the Harley Roadster, imagining I can feel the purr of the engine beneath my palm. It would be so, so fucking sweet to put this baby through her paces. “You haven’t shown these to Jake and his friends, then?”
Leon’s expression warps; if I’m not mistaken, it’s anger that I see flaring in his eyes. “No way, dude. Jake thinks anything and everything is put in front of him for his own amusement. If he saw these, he’d have one of them wrapped around a fucking street sign in five minutes flat. And he’d probably walk away unscathed, of course. Jake and his friends seem to have nine lives.”
There’s a bitter edge to his voice that makes me look up at him. “I thought you were tight with Jake.”
“Jake thinks he’s tight with everyone. Truth is, he’s a fucking asshole, and no one’s brave enough to call him on his shit. Jake kind of stole my girlfriend from me, and yet here we are…” He throws his hands up, frustrated. “He shows up, ready to party. He makes himself at home without a second fucking thought. Right now, I’m pretty sure he’s upstairs with Kacey, for fuck’s sake, and I’m just supposed to…let it slide.Just like everyone else, I'm supposed to pat him on the back and tell him his shitty behavior is totally fine because he is the great Jacob Weaving, master of everything the light touches.”
I smirk. “Was that a Lion King reference?”
“Kinda,” he replies glumly.
I hold out my solo cup to him, and he takes it for me so I can throw my leg over the Roadster and push the bike upright. The shape of it's much like my Scout, but it's heavier, more substantial. The key's in the ignition. I point at it, asking a silent question, and Leon nods. When I start the engine, the bike explodes into life, and I get the same, familiar burst of adrenalin I always get when I start up any motorcycle. A smile spreads on my face, so broad and wide that my cheeks begin to hurt. “Fuck, man. This thing really sings.”
Leon folds his arms over his chest, nodding, but I can see it in his eyes—the sound of this engine doesn't light a match inside him the way it does with me. It goes without saying that Leon's not really a greaser; if he were, he'd be raving about these bikes right now, pointing out every small detail of their engines and their specifications, a fire burning in his eyes. The way he looks at them, they could be interesting ornaments on a mantlepiece.
I kill the engine, still grinning. “So, Jake stole that girl from you? Don’t take this the wrong way,” I tell him, “but honestly…I thought you were gay, man.”
Leon’s tenses up, his spine straightening, eyes widening a fraction. “What? I mean, why would you say that?”
“I don’t know. I just…” I shrug, patting the bike’s gas tank. “Sorry if I’m way off. It’s just what I figured when I met you earlier.”
His eyes narrow. He doesn't seem angry, though. Accuse some guys of being gay, and you'll earn yourself a split lip and a trip to the emergency room. Leon just seems confused. “Am I super effeminate or something?”
“No, man. You’re just…you’re a guy. You’re you. Whatever.”
Leon rocks on his heels. There really isn't any physical reason I would have thought he was into dudes. You meet some people and you know instantly, because of the way they speak or gesticulate, or because of the specific things they say. That didn't happen with Leon. It just seemed true. “No one's ever said that to me before,” he says tightly.
I begin to think I might have overstepped, which kinda sucks. I don’t want to fight him. He’s a big guy, but I’m more than capable of kicking his ass. Leon’s big and broad with a huge fucking reach on him, but he’s not a brawler. No fucking way. He shifts from one foot to the other, his eyes sharp, searching my face. “You don’t give a shit, do you?” he says, the statement an accusation.
“I’m sorry?”
“You wouldn't give a shit if I were gay, would you?”
I jerk my head back, my mouth turning down as I consider what he’s just said. “No. Of course not. Why would I?” I wait for him to say something back, but he doesn’t. He doesn’t move for a second. He just stands there, hands still in his pockets, eyes boring into me…and I realize that he’s holding his breath. Eventually, he shakes himself, as if he’s coming back to life, and scuffs the sole of his shoe against the buffed concrete floor.
“Well I’m notgaygay,” he says stiffly. “Obviously, otherwise I wouldn’t have been with Kacey. I like guys and girls. Anyway, let me know if you wanna use this place to work on your bike sometime,” he adds, changing the subject rather clunkily. “I’m never in here. Seems like a shame to let everything just…sit.”
I recognize that as our cue to leave. I climb off the back of the bike and take my drink from him, swallowing down half the liquor inside in one go. I finally feel the effects of the booze, my legs beginning to feel heavier and heavier as we walk back up the slope toward the house.
“You ask me, you’re better off without that Kacey chick, anyway,” I tell him. “She’s a piece of work. Probably would have bitten your dick off if you’d put a foot wrong.”
Leon glances at me out of the corner of his eye. “You’re more right than you know. Kacey’s beautiful. Popular. Fun. But Jesus fucking Christ, her teeth are sharp. Cross her or any of the other girls at your own peril.”
I laugh under my breath, draining the last dregs of the punishing drink. “Don’t worry. I’m not interested in any of those dumpster fire bitches.”
