The Car Wash

Julia Poole

Had Troy known Billy worked at the Ride the Tide Car Wash, he would have kept driving and told Mom he had forgotten to wash the car. At first, Troy didn’t recognize Billy. Rail thin, his eyes dull, a knit hat emblazoned with Prayer Warrior concealed his curls—maybe his hair was short now—and his shoulders slouched inward as if to protect himself from the world’s harshness. He sported soaked sneakers and jeans wet up to his knees. He looked like shit. Was he sick? Taking drugs?

“Hi,” said Troy, handing Billy seven dollars for the basic wash.

Billy blinked. A look of surprise? Recognition? He took the cash and placed it in a nearby register.

“How’s it going?” said Troy, turning down the radio.

“Fucking swell.” Billy averted his eyes, turned on the sprayer, and began rinsing the windshield. Troy rolled up his window. He wanted to say more, but a line of vehicles trailed him. When Billy finished spraying the back window and tire walls, he pressed a lever, and the car lurched forward. Blue suds plopped on the windshield, and Troy lost sight of Billy.

Steady beats of water pounded on the rooftop. Troy closed his eyes and filed through memories. Going to Billy’s birthday party when they were in the same kindergarten class. Drinking hot chocolate with Billy in his family’s kitchen after sledding in the backyard. Shooting hoops in the driveway, and Billy, so tall, almost dunking the ball.

And then, early at the start of eighth grade, Troy paired with Billy for the leaf science project. Troy wanted that A+ and Billy had, too, and they always agreed about the important things, which may be why they got along. Together, they searched local parks and woods for leaves. On a Saturday, Troy’s parents took the boys to the campus of Michigan State University. While his parents attended the football game, the boys hunted for leaves they hadn’t been able to find in Grand Rapids. On campus grounds, trees were labeled with metal signs, making it easy to locate interesting, less common species like White Cedar, Hazelnut, and Wild Black Cherry.

“I wonder how old these trees are?” said Billy, staring at the canopy above their heads.

Sunlight streamed through branches as the breeze caused the leaves to quiver, and the sound was like the wind blowing through a thousand pieces of paper. And there was Billy, in the middle of it all, shielding his eyes with his forearm sprinkled with freckles, the same honeycolored spots that dotted his cheeks. Troy remembered now as the water pounded against the car from all angles that it was the first time he had listened to the wind move leaves like that. Since that day, when alone in the treehouse or walking in the neighborhood, he paid attention to the movement of leaves.

As they stood together, Billy remained silent, his feet shifting. He couldn’t tolerate being still, or maybe he couldn’t stand the silence. Maybe it was Billy’s smile and the gap between his front teeth that caused an explosion in Troy’s chest that day, happiness spreading everywhere, his body tingling. Or maybe the explosion happened because he stood next to Billy and breathed in the tang of Billy’s sweat which was an odor he liked but could not explain why. Troy lifted his head as if he, too, was wondering about the age of the enormous tree, but what Troy was studying were Billy’s freckles. He ached to touch each one.

Troy tapped the steering wheel in the car wash while his eyes remained closed. He pretended he was standing next to fourteen-year-old Billy when he was not quite fourteen, not yet shaving. He remembered touching the bark of a tree, fingertips following the curve of a deep groove. He remembered how Billy’s eyes were the color of a tropical lagoon Troy had once seen on television.

“Guessing this one is two-hundred years old. There’s an older tree on campus. I read about it online. Fell during a summer storm. The horticulture department counted the rings. 347. The stump still stands.”

“Can we find it?” said Billy.

Troy nodded and pulled a campus map from his back pocket. They crossed the Red Cedar River on Farm Lane and walked west along the river. A few people lounged on the lawn and tailgaters sat in collapsible lawn chairs holding beers, chatting. Leaves crunched beneath Troy’s shoes as they cut across the grass and parking lots.

“There’s the Museum,” said Troy, pointing to the old brick building. “The White Oak is between the Museum and Linton Hall.” Sidewalks crisscrossed over a sloping park-like area called the West Circle. Oaks and pines towered like ancient guardians.

“Let’s go,” said Billy.

The boys ran like eight-year-olds toward a ten-foot stub near the edge of a sidewalk. Part of the inside trunk was hollow, the interior rotting. Wood shavings littered the grassy area around what remained of the tree, evidence of chainsaws dismantling the limbs and fallen trunk. Troy placed his hand on the rust-colored peeling bark. Billy stroked the trunk’s interior, causing brittle chunks of wood to separate and fall.

“Ouch. Shit,” said Billy.

A splinter embedded in Billy’s finger, his skin translucent against the dead pulp stuck in his flesh.

“Let me see,” said Troy, “Sit.”

Taking Billy’s hand, Troy anchored it on his knee. “This might hurt,” said Troy. Using his free hand, he pulled the splinter in one clean move. Blood oozed from the wound, and without thinking, Troy placed the injured finger in his mouth and licked off the blood.

Billy didn’t flinch.

A wave of heat rushed through Troy’s face and body. He removed his lips from Billy’s finger and said, “This tree was here when the only people living here were Native Americans.”

Billy looked at his finger. The wind gusted, and blond curls swirled around his eyes. Fine hairs tangled in Billy’s eyelashes, and Troy, with one stroke, moved them aside. Billy’s marineblue eyes drifted, and Troy wanted to know what he thought as he inspected his injured finger.

“I’ve read the oldest trees in Michigan are up north on South Manitou Island. Old-growth cedars. Maybe 500-years-old. Can you imagine listening to the sound of Lake Michigan waves hitting the beach for so many years?” Billy’s feet shuffled through the wood shavings, and he stared at Troy.

Troy couldn’t imagine it. Instead, he imagined sitting next to Billy by the dead tree for as long as possible. He imagined their lips touching. A roar erupted from Spartan Stadium. A touchdown, probably, and Troy thought a moment so perfect might never come again.

But a few days later, in Billy’s bedroom, the two boys sat side-by-side at a desk to finish the leaf project. They compiled the leaves into a binder and took turns typing the accompanying report, adding commentary about trees’ importance to the planet’s ecological health.

All the while, Troy wanted to reach out and touch Billy, wanted Billy to touch him. With the last footnote

typed, they high-fived. Then Billy held fast to Troy’s hand, pulled him close, and brushed Troy’s lips with his, a quick peck. Troy couldn’t believe this happened, that maybe he had willed Billy to act. Troy had to make sure this wasn’t a dream, so his fingers touched Billy’s curls, and caressed Billy’s cheeks, eager to touch those freckles. Billy’s lips were dry and tentative, but Troy didn’t care because it was fantastic. Right. Perfect. Troy imagined someday he and Billy would talk about what this moment meant and what may come next.

Billy’s mom walked in and said, “Oh, Lord.”

Billy pulled away, and he stayed away for all the days that came after.

Those first weeks were a blur. After Billy’s mom called Troy’s parents, accusing them of leading her precious boy astray, Billy’s parents enrolled him in Northpointe Christian. Billy left all social media. There would be no contact between the boys. Every day, rain or shine, Troy rode his bike past Billy’s house, hoping for a glimpse of his blond curls, the flash of his smile, a wave. But there was only a sign taped to the inside of the front living room window: PRAY FOR REVIVAL.

After a month of riding past Billy’s house, Troy decided there wasn’t room in his mind for rejection and anger. He wanted to breathe without the suffocating sadness. It was a confusing time. Troy was grateful his family hadn’t freaked out and hadn’t treated him like a sinner or a monster. Mom and Dad listened and were open, genuine. Even Libby, his friend, was chill about it. Most kids weren’t so lucky to have parents who cared more about their kids than about what other people thought. So much had changed in the three years since he last spoke with Billy. His parents’ divorce. His deepened friendship with Libby. The urge to act on his sexual fantasies of her.

The final rinse pelted the car in sheets. The deafening sound of dryers kicked in from both sides and blew rivulets of water from the windows and car’s body. Troy inhaled a whiff of detergent. The vehicle was clean, like new. As the car wash finished, a sign lit up: Have a nice day! Come again! Troy shifted into drive and emerged from the car wash. The blinding sun caused him to squint. He swung around the back of the building, saw Billy, and rolled down the window.

“What time do you get off work?” said Troy.

“Six,” said Billy.

“Want to meet? I can pick you up?”