Salvation Read Online Free Page B

white, very short shorts.
    His father greeted her with a huge smile and a joke in Spanish that she didn’t seem to get. Char’s mastery of Spanish was worse than her English. Then
Papá
gave her a hand upinto the pickup. “You two go,” he said. “I can walk home from here.” Then he squeezed his son’s shoulder and admonished, “Be a gentleman.”
    Battle lost, Salva accepted the keys and climbed up next to Char. She had seated herself in the middle, instead of sliding over to the window, despite the fact that the rip in the center section of the seat must have scratched her bare thighs.
    He turned the key, pushed the gas pedal, and felt the engine die.
Oh, this was going to be great.
“Sorry,” he said as he revved the engine for the second time and felt the pedal catch. “Hope this doesn’t mess with your plans.”
    She didn’t reply.
    Of course not. This was Char.
Nothing to say to each other.
It had been like this their whole dating experience. Why would she want to relive that?
    “So…how was your day?” he asked in a pathetic attempt at conversation.
    She just shrugged, her hand dropping to the seat. Alongside his thigh.
    They headed through town, her body inching closer to his every time the pickup chose to stop and jerk.
    He tried again. “What classes are you taking?”
    “Study hall.” Then the volume of her voice sank. “R. English, R. writing, R. math.” The
R
stood for remedial. There were no options on the remedial track. The topic died.
    Silence. He tried to focus on the road. Houses faded in therearview mirror, and the fields engulfed him, the strong scent of dust and sweet onions assailing his nostrils. Then memory invaded—his mother at the head of the harvest crew: her long black braid swinging, her straw hat shading her face, her laughter chiming with the voices of the other workers, her shouts of command to the truck drivers, her strong grip as she showed Salva how to top onions, her complete and total exhaustion after a day in these same fields.
    The pickup stopped again, jerking him out of his memories. He’d missed a turn. Salva swerved up on the bank and brought the vehicle around.
    Char clutched the dash. “Is something wrong?”
    Now she talks.
He backtracked a hundred yards, then curved the vehicle onto a straight stretch of emptiness. The gravel beneath the wheels was thin, and the dirt blew up like powder.
    Salva pulled over to the side of the road. “Okay, this is the clutch. This is the gear shift. The gears go in a pattern, but the picture has rubbed off so you’ll have to remember the locations.” He rattled on for about a minute before he realized he was talking for himself. Char had never learned well by listening.
    Get a grip.
He ran his hand through his hair, then swung open the door and hopped out of the pickup. “So we’d better switch places.”
    She slid into the driver’s seat, not getting out, which meant he had to climb back in over her.
Be a gentleman,
his father’s advice rang in his mind.
    Sí, Papá, but what do you do when she’s not a lady?
    Salva talked Char through the use of the mirrors, only one of which was still adjustable, then explained how to start the pickup. “Don’t worry if the engine doesn’t catch the first time. It doesn’t a lot. Just listen and feel the vibration beneath your foot; the feel should change when it works. Then you can let up on the clutch.”
    She tried.
    Nothing happened.
    She tried five more times. Each time, the engine revved, then died when she lifted her foot.
    On her seventh try, the whole pickup shook like Mount St. Helens, then died again.
    Her eyes had widened, and the color had drained from her face, the same look she had always had right before fleeing the homework table.
    “Look.” Salva lowered his voice. “You don’t have to do this. We could just drive around and tell them I gave you a lesson.”
    “No,” she said, soft but serious. “I won’t end up like my mother.”
    He wrinkled his