WRECKED: CHOSEN FEW MC - BOOK TWO: OUTLAW BIKER/ALPHA ROMANCE Page 4

She hoped it was the same with Brian’s father, but the boy’s reluctance to talk worried her.

  “What’s going on, Brian? All this week I’ve been expecting you to loan me a book to read, so we could discuss it. I was looking forward to learning some new things.”

  “That’s what I told my dad.”

  “And?”

  “He got mad. He said you had no right to know what books I read.”

  “Did he?”

  “I told him I needed to explain to you, and he said I was supposed to tell you that if you keep spying on our family, he’ll report you and that what we read is none of your business.”

  “I see.”

  Brian looked scared. “I didn’t mean to get you in trouble. I really didn’t, Ms. Wilford. I just wanted to understand.”

  She gave him a big smile. “You didn’t do anything wrong, Brian, and I don’t think you’ve gotten me into any trouble. It’s okay to ask about what you are reading. In fact, part of my job is to know what students read, not because they shouldn’t read anything they want, but because some books are inappropriate for school. There isn’t anything wrong with the ones you’ve been reading though. And I didn’t tell you not to read them, did I?”

  “No. He says you’ll collect the information, the titles, and put it in his file.”

  “His file? I don’t have a file on your father.”

  “Maybe you don’t, but when you collect information on me, that tells them about him, doesn’t it?”

  “I suppose. But why would they care?”

  He shrugged. “I guess it would be for the same reasons the FBI records the books we check out from the library. I saw that on the news, that they forced the librarians to give them the information and said they’d go to jail if they told anyone. Maybe they did the same to you.”

  She blanched. That was the kind of thing that fed the paranoia of people worried about government control and there was just enough truth in the story to make his claim a little nerve wracking. And once she turned in her reports, they were out of her control. For all she knew, all the records she kept on her students were passed along to the government. Some certainly were. She could understand why a twelve-year-old might mistrust a system that did that.

  “The only file I have on you records nothing but your attendance and grades on your work, and a few notes that I make for times when you might have a substitute teacher.”

  “What kind of notes?” His dark look told her that her answer would be reported to his father.

  “I write notes about the students that might be helpful to a teacher. They list things such as the fact that you are a good reader, and like to read; that you can need extra help with new math ideas, but once you get them, you are fine. For some students it might say that they pass notes or talk in class if they aren’t cautioned. Things like that.”

  “Can I see my file?” The question was soft, but it sounded important.

  “Not right now. It’s kept in the office. I can get it tomorrow if you are that interested.”

  “So other people can see it?”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “My dad says that you teachers, all the government people collect information on us, even the little things that seem unimportant, and put in computer databases.”

  “Of course some of it is. The state needs to have information to do their job. They need to know how many students we have and if they are attending classes. They want to check their grades to see if we are teaching them properly. They need to know who you are and what your grades are. The system uses the information to improve things. There are reasons for giving them the information.”

  Brian’s face wrinkled into a scowl. “That’s exactly what he said. My dad.”

  “Which part?”

  “The last part—that there are always reasons that sound good, even logical. But they keep wanting to know new things about us and sometimes they aren’t things we want them to know, even if we have nothing to hide. Why would they bully us, force us to give them information if it wasn’t to control people?”

  “I don’t know about controlling people, but sometimes the reasons really are very good ones. Think about this, as an example: In a few years you’ll want to get a driver’s license. You’ll have to show a birth certificate to do that, because the state has a law that says you must be a certain age to get one and that’s how they make sure we don’t have ten-year-olds driving cars. Things like that.”

  “That’s what they say, but what if they only insist you get a license so they can collect more information?”

  “I suppose that is one reason, but collecting information isn’t always for bad reasons. And there are good reasons to license people—for one thing they need to make sure you know the rules; everyone needs to know the rules.”

  “So they give you a test?”

  “Sure.”

  He laughed. “So if you can pass the test, why do they need to know anything else about you? You could walk in, take the test, and if you pass they hand you a license.”

  She laughed. “That’s a good question, but I’m not a lawyer, Brian. I don’t really know. What I do know is that something has you upset. What is it your father said or did to change your mind about talking to me?”

  “Nothing.” He looked at his book bag. “I should go. He said I could explain to you, tell you that we wouldn’t be discussing the books or ideas, but then I was to go home.”

  “He really said not to talk about his theories or ideas with me?”

  Brian nodded. “Yes.”

  “Did he say why?”

  “Yes. I can’t tell you why, though.” He grabbed up his bag and headed for the door, then stopped. “I’d tell you, but I promised I wouldn’t say.”

  “I understand. You need to do what your father tells you.”

  He smiled his relief and then went out the door.

  As he left, she hoped she wasn’t losing him. The boy had potential, but he needed to interact with her for her to stand a chance of exciting him about learning. Even if his father had the best of intentions, his paranoia, his concern that she was controlling Brian, that school was poisoning his mind, made it impossible for him to succeed in the world. She wondered what she could do to work around that seemingly insurmountable barrier. There had to be some way.

  * * *

  With her clever plan in shambles, Melanie continued to worry about Brian, about keeping him connected with the class. If he stayed clammed up and not participating, it was only a matter of time before his school work suffered, not to mention that he was approaching his teen years, when social pressures could be immense. He needed to learn to interact with the others.

  Finally she went to Donna and told her about the situation.

  Donna listened primly, her hands folded on the desk. “I understand your concerns,” she said. “But as long as Brian appears to be well treated and does his school work, all we can do is appeal to his father’s better nature. There aren’t any grounds for an intervention of any sort.”

  “I don’t see any sign that he is mistreated, but he’s unhappy. I felt he was starting to blossom. Now he sits through class quietly, stands alone during breaks, and at the end of the day, he gathers up his things and disappears from the schoolyard the moment the bell rings.”

  “He walks home, correct?”

  “Yes.”

  “Does he seem frightened to go home?”

  “No. The biggest problem is that he won’t look at me, and won’t say a word except when I address him in class. He’s stopped raising his hand or volunteering any ideas or thoughts. He was doing so well, and this is a giant step backwards.”

  “I could order him to have counseling,” Donna said, “but from what you say, he doesn’t have a problem at all.”

  “No, his father does.”

  “His father is the problem, and there’s not much we can, or even should do about that—as teachers. Right now Brian is not disrupting class, he’s not a disciplinary proble
m… as far as both you and Mr. Affir are concerned, he’s just unresponsive and sad.”

  “So Mr. Affir talked to you about him, too?”

  She nodded. “I think he misunderstands the challenging questions Brian was asking.”

  “But he sent him to stand in the hall for asking them.”

  Donna smiled. “People are inconsistent and contrary, Melanie. I think he might have seen Brian as uppity, and only now misses what he brought to the class. He said that now, when he asks Brian anything remotely political, he says his father forbids him to talk politics at school, and there isn’t a thing we can do about that.”

  There wasn’t. Melanie knew and hated the fact that that there was no way to force Brian to talk openly with her. Worse, she saw clearly that trying would only chase him deeper into his rabbit hole. Despite his own concerns about his father’s ideas and attitudes, it was clear that he loved his father. That love commanded some loyalty. Trying to make him go against his father’s wishes would be unfair, and probably wouldn’t work anyway. Most likely all it would do is put additional stress on the boy, whether he wanted to talk or not. And the situation called for less stress, not more.

  After talking to Donna, Melanie kept coming back to one thought. ‘His father is the problem.’ If she wanted to talk to Brian, she had to remove the only serious obstacle and that was Mr. Innes’s reluctance to the idea. She went to her desk and wrote a note.

  “Dear Mr. Innes:

  Brian is a student with an amazing potential for academic work. I understand that you have concerns about the information we ask you to provide about him, and even yourself. I would like it very much if you would give me a chance to discuss those concerns with you face-to-face so that together we can find a way to help Brian realize his potential. I can meet with you almost anytime outside of school hours, at a place of your choosing.”

  She added her name, email address, and phone number.

  It wasn’t much, but she had to do something.

  During the last period, she handed Brian this note. “Please give this to your father for me,” she said.

  His face blanched white. “Am I in trouble?”

  “Not as far as I know. You’re welcome to read the note. There’s nothing secret in it—I’m just asking your father if he will give me a chance to talk with him.”

  Brian clutched the note. “He won’t.”

  “Maybe not, but I want to try.”

  The boy nodded. “I don’t know if he’ll read it. It depends on how he’s feeling. I don’t think he’ll answer it.”

  She left it at that, hoping Brian was mistaken, and that his father would read the note. Why would he refuse to even meet her?

  The whole thing made her heart ache; it was sad to see him withdraw from class, from her, and most of all from Carly.

  “Does he say anything to you at all?” she asked Carly one day as they waited for Greg to arrive.

  “He said that he decided it’s better, easier, if he doesn’t talk to anyone about anything. That way he couldn’t make a mistake” She winked. “I asked him if it was okay to talk about motorcycles and he said it would be if he knew anything about them.”

  The clever ploy amused her. “Shame that he doesn’t then.”

  The girl grinned. “He will. I gave him a book about motorcycle mechanics. It’s a bit advanced and I know that when he gets stuck he’ll need to ask me questions. Bikes are sophisticated creatures. Even Mr. Laughlin who teaches shop doesn’t know shit about them.”

  “Carly!’

  “Well, he doesn’t know anything about bikes, but sometimes he acts like he does and when he does he gets stuff wrong.”

  “Do you tell him about his mistakes?”

  She shook her head. “Not me.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because he might not know about bikes, but I think Mr. Laughlin knows a lot of cool stuff, and he’s a good teacher. He can’t help it if he doesn’t know that bikes aren’t just little cars. So I don’t say a word.” She grinned. “But when I get to the garage I tell Uncle Greg and we laugh about it.”

  “So you spare his feelings out of kindness?”

  She giggled. “I spare his feelings because he’s the only shop teacher we’ve got and I want to take his diesel mechanics class.”

  “I didn’t know we had one.”

  “Some of us are pushing for one next semester.”

  “I think I have a good idea who is doing the pushing.”

  Carly feigned shock. “You don’t think I would try to trick anyone into changing the classes just for me, do you?”

  “Of course you would. You are far too clever for your age.”

  Carly took her hand. “Uncle Greg is pretty clever too—he likes you.”

  The girl’s comment made her flush. “It really isn’t appropriate for you to talk about other people that way.”

  “Appropriate?” She laughed. “I thought the truth was always supposed to be appropriate. But okay.” And then she gave Melanie a smile that made her look about eight, and skipped out.

  The amazing thing about these kids was how they could be children one minute and suddenly shift to being wise old heads in the next and then back again. It didn’t even seem to take any effort, or perhaps without even noticing.

  Even more interesting was what Greg Jones might’ve said to make Carly think he liked her. The girl might misunderstand when he was talking to someone else, she could get it wrong, but she wouldn’t make up something like that.

  She pictured Greg and got that warm, pleasant feeling again. Just thinking the man might like her made her feel pretty damn good. If it was true, that could complicate her life, but also made it a little more pleasant to think about what might unfold.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  The next morning Greg found himself with one hand inside the cylinder of a Harley flathead, fishing around for whatever was left of its piston rings. They’d disintegrated while Tiny was roaring down I-5 with the predictable result of the mighty roar of his bike fading rapidly to a gasping whimper, accompanied by the clatter of metal on metal.

  Tiny was not pleased. The big man watched Greg with a sullen expression, then he lit a cigarette, inhaled and let out a long puff of smoke. “Fucker stopped dead on me.” He looked sullen.

  “You might consider changing the oil sometimes, Tiny,” he grumbled. “I think the only oil changes your engine gets are when you blow the fucker up and I rebuild it.”

  Tiny stood up, rising to his full seven foot two, and glared. “I change the oil, Wrench. Sometimes.”

  “With what? Peanut oil?”

  “Whatever the guy sold me. Shit, I don’t read labels. I tell the guy I need oil for my scooter and he hands me the bottle.”

  “Whatever you used, it was either the wrong thing or you didn’t use enough.”

  “How much should I use?”

  Greg groaned. “Forget it. You’ve screwed up the cylinder wall this time. I might have to put a sleeve in it.”

  “You almost got your sleeve in it now.”

  “Tiny, I’m talking about having to grind out the cylinder and then put in a metal sleeve so the piston can actually compress the gas and air.”

  “Oh. Whatever. Can you do it this afternoon? I wanted to take a run to San Diego.”

  “No. I cannot do it this fucking afternoon. If you don’t piss me off, I’ll spend the rest of the afternoon grinding it out. I should also break the entire engine down into a zillion tiny components to make sure nothing else is screwed. Then I’ll make a parts list I can give you so you can go buy them. Then and only then will I put it back together, and that’s gonna take a few days. I got a bunch of badly maintained bikes to fix besides yours.”

  “Ah Wrench, I need that beast.”

  “We all need our bikes, and yours needed fresh oil but you couldn’t be bothered to take care of it, so it let you down. Learn from it, Tiny. I’ll bring you the parts list when it’s ready. Now go away. I’ll work faster without you staring
at me like I’m holding your only child hostage.”

  “Yeah.”

  Wearing an oddly crestfallen expression, the big man wandered off, heading for the clubhouse with sadness in his heart and beer on his mind. Tiny was a gentle giant and his impressive size kept most people from ever finding that out. He wasn’t the brightest bulb in the club, but Greg liked him. He’d get his bike back soon with another reminder about basic maintenance. Most of the guys managed to lavish great attention on their bikes, but all too often, they spent their time and money on superficial things—having parts chromed or putting on fancier handlebars—not on the things near and dear to Greg’s heart.

  “You aren’t gonna get anywhere nagging Tiny like that, Wrench.”

  Greg smiled at Dirk. He and Audra were watching him. Greg thought about how long he’d known the younger man. He’d liked Dirk even before he got known as Cutter—long before he’d earned his reputation for ruthlessness that got him the job of club Enforcer. Dirk did what it took to do his job. He was a complex man. Not cruel or mean—just incredibly dangerous and when he needed to act, he didn’t hesitate for a second. When Greg had gotten shot, Dirk had been the club brother who’d managed to grab the man who did it. He’d taken on a rich man’s hired muscle. Of course there had been a girl at risk too—Audra. The fact that saving Audra had been more important to Dirk than avenging Greg didn’t make his exploits less impressive.

  But Dirk could be impulsive at times, and he sure was no hand with a wrench. His speciality was knives. Greg thought it odd that a man so adept with the blade he always carried in his boot, a man who could slice an enemy with almost surgical precision, fumbled a wrench.

  Now Greg answered his question. “Considering how little money I make for my efforts in constantly repairing Tiny’s beautiful but neglected machine, I need to get some pleasure out of it.”

  “You love working on that bike.”

  “Yeah, but that doesn’t mean I like seeing it abused, or that I don’t get to give the big guy shit.”

  “Guess not.” Dirk smiled that weird smile he got when he had something up his sleeve. “How’s Willow holding up?”

  “Hard to say. You know it’s hard to read her. People like Willow and Jake act like they could chew bullets up and survive it, until suddenly they can’t. So far, she’s hanging in there.”