I look down at my jeans, black T-shirt, and black work boots.
“Winchester,” Carlos drawls, in the same voice he used to greet me with “Twilight” a few minutes before. “Yeah, that’s got a ring to it.”
“Uh, like the rifle?” I say.
“Supernatural,” DeShawn says when no one else answers me, too caught up in talking about… whatever the hell they’re talking about.
“Huh?”
“It’s a TV show about two brothers, Sam and Dean Winchester, who drive all around the country fighting supernatural forces.”
“Oh. Well, one of my brothers is named Sam,” I offer.
Mikal and Mischa look like they might die of excitement.
“Oh. My. God,” Mischa whispers. “This is the best thing.”
“Hey,” says Carlos, nudging Mischa. “Tell him the car.”
“It’s a 1967 Chevy Impala.”
“You know cars?” I ask Mischa. She rolls her eyes.
“No, duh. On the show.”
“The car Sam and Dean drive is a Chevy Impala,” DeShawn explains, bless him.
“Oh yeah. Cool car,” I say, picturing it. “Triple tail lights. Sixty-seven, you said? Nice. The X-frame gets replaced by a full perimeter frame, angled windshield, full-coil suspension, Coke-bottle styling….”
Ricky, who hasn’t said anything during this conversation about Twilight and whatever the hell show they’re talking about, perks up when I start describing the ’67 Impala, but everyone else looks dazed and I trail off.
“So, um, you think I look like this dude who drives an Impala and fights supernatural forces? That’s pretty cool, I guess. Way better than some sparkly vampire.”
Mikal fits himself to my side and holds up his phone for me to see. On the cracked screen is the guy they’ve been looking at. He’s wearing jeans, black work boots, and a black T-shirt, and is standing in front of a sweet four-door hardtop Impala. He has my coloring, though his hair’s darker than mine. And I guess I can see the resemblance. Honestly, though, this guy is way better-looking than me. I give the phone back to Mikal. They’re all looking at me expectantly, except Ricky, who’s staring off into space.
“Uh, okay?” I say. Mischa grins and Mikal winks at me. Even Dorothy’s smile looks satisfied, and Carlos is nodding like order has been restored.
“Okay,” he says. “Twilight’s out and Winchester’s in.”
Rafe mumbles something I can’t make out.
“What’s that, Conan?” Carlos says.
“I said his nickname’s better than mine.” Rafe looks like one of the kids, slouching with his hands in his pockets.
“Aw, Conan, don’t pout,” Carlos teases, and Rafe straightens up, back in control.
“So,” I say, “we gonna actually look at the car or just talk about them?”
Ricky starts walking toward the car before I’m even done with the question, and we follow her.
We’re talking through how to do an oil change when Rafe puts a hand on my upper arm, causing me to break out in goose bumps despite the warm weather.
“Hey, I need to go deal with something,” he says, low, nodding to the doorway where someone is looking toward us expectantly. “Will you be okay by yourself for a bit?”
“Yeah, course.” I try to focus on the car instead of the line of Rafe’s back as he walks away, but before I can get back to what I was saying, the kids clump in around me. At first I think it’s to see better, but only Ricky is still focused on what’s going on under the hood.
“Okay, Winchester,” Carlos says. “Spill.”
“Huh?” I look down to the oil pan to see if I spilled, but I haven’t started to drain it yet.
“Are you dating Rafe or what?”
“What?” I say, my heart starting to pound and a coil of sick fear unfurling in my gut. “No!” DeShawn is shaking his head at the group, but the rest of them are still waiting like I haven’t said anything. I start to cross my arms and catch myself just before I get oil from my hands all over myself. “Why do you think that? Why do you even think I’m…? I mean, I thought you had plenty of straight volunteers.”
“We have a few,” Mikal says, looking confused as to why I’d bring this up.
“So, why do you think, like… um.”
“Why do we think you’re gay?” Carlos chimes in.
The word hits like a fist.
“Not cool, man,” DeShawn says softly, shaking his head again.
“What—I’m just asking,” Carlos says. “Winchester ain’t gotta answer if he doesn’t want. Right, Winchester?”
I don’t know what to say. The kids are looking at me and now it’s like what they need from me has nothing to do with cars and everything to do with me. With something that I don’t know how to give them. Anders, who hasn’t said anything all day, is looking at me expectantly. Dorothy, arms crossed over her chest, has her eyes narrowed at me like I’m disappointing her. Like I’m pathetic and a liar. And I guess she’s right. These kids are all here to be honest about who they are. And they’re kids. I’m a grown man and I can’t even say it out loud to a bunch of teenagers. Pathetic.