Young Writers Society

“There should be a spare key in the ignition of that car,” Tony said, pointing to a crimson Studebaker to the right of Ya. The trunk of the car was completely crushed and the windows were either missing or broken. Ya turned around and walked to the car. She reached her hand through the passenger door window, grabbed the keys out of the ignition, and returned to Tony.

“How’d you know that?” Ya asked as she tried each key in the lock. There had to be at least twenty keys dangling from the one ring.

“Mr. McGill told me that if I’m ever stuck in here and can’t crawl out, the keys were there. Probably thinks I’m fat or something.” Tony said leaning on the gate. Ya opened it and Tony fell forward on the ground. Both of them shared a laugh and then Tony stood up and handed Ya her bag and spare books.

“You’re not fat,” Ya said. They began walking forward to their favorite spot. In the back, Northeast corner of the scrapyard was several planes. Some were old and rusty, and some had crashed and were brought to the scrapyard. The corner faced the dirt runway that Mr. McGill used to bring the planes that still worked to the scrapyard.

“10,000 were sold of that piece of crap?” Ya said, motioning to the plane, “Who’d want to use that?”

“Many people. It’s actually a pretty cool machine, if you think about it.”

“It’s a pretty cool machine to you, Tony, not me. All I see is metal.”

“That’s too bad, Queenie,” Tony said. He was looking forward, his eyes glued to the plane incoming. The plane kept lowering in the sky until it’s wheels touched the ground, at which Tony yelled, “Touchdown!” And held his fists up in the air. Ya rolled her eyes for what seemed like the thousandth time today.

Ya and Mr. McGill watched him maneuver the metal bird down the runway and take off.

“That was nice of you, Mr. McGill,” Ya said, “But you didn’t have to do that.”

“Tony doesn’t have many good deeds done onto him, Miss. Liu, so I do my best to be kind to him whenever I can.” Mr. McGill was staring out at the runway. The plane had completely disappeared over the horizon.

“Do you think he’ll ever escape?” Ya asked. It was a topic she thought about nearly every day.

“I’m aware of that. But I have a feeling that very soon he’ll be able to escape his situation. If he doesn’t, well, I’ll have to help him leave myself.”

Tony came bounding out of the plane, “That was awesome!”

“I’m glad you liked it, Mr. Bryson,” Mr. McGill said, “I’m glad you take an interest in these sort of things.”

“Me too,” Tony smiled and walked up to the two of them.

There was a brief moment before Ya spoke, “Well, we better be off.”

“What?” the smile quickly faded from Tony’s face once more. He didn’t want to go home.

The smell of the house hit Ya like a rock. It smelled of alcohol, rotting food, and something else Ya couldn’t identify. There were bottles of beer everywhere: on the couch, the table, the counters. Everywhere. Tony was at the only clear counter space, madly digging through a drawer.

“Need something?” Ya asked.

“Scissors.” Tony replied. Ya turned around and looked around the house. Finally, she laid eyes on a pair of rusty scissors on the TV set. She grabbed them and returned to Tony.

“Here you are,” Tony took the scissors from her without hesitation. Ya looked over his shoulder, “What’s in the package?”

Ya looked at the computer screen. The top circle was titled “father,” but didn’t have Mr. Bryson’s name. Instead, it was Lauro Marchetti, and under it was a boy by the name of Franco Marchetti. Both shared at least 50% DNA with Tony.

“Holy shit,” Tony was holding his hands on his head, “I have a brother. A brother, Ya!”

“Wow, a brother!” Ya said sarcastically, “I get that you’re excited, Tony, but you need to think about this.”

“I need to think about this?!” Tony exclaimed, “Ya, this is the best damn thing that’s ever happened to me. Just let me be happy.”

“I would if I could, Tony, but first we need to figure out how this happened to you before you can be happy. Why is your real father Italian, why have you never met him? There are a lot of ‘whys’ that need to be answered!”

“Do you think Mr. McGill is here?” Ya asked as they walked through the front gate of the scrapyard. The walk there had been silent.

“Probably. The building’s lights are on.” Tony pointed to the small cinder block building in the corner of the scrapyard. It held Mr. McGill’s office, a bathroom, and a small garage that held the car Mr. McGill was currently fixing.

Ya and Tony walked to their usual spot near the Piper Cadet and sat down under its wing. Ya pulled her notebook and pencils out of the plane and flipped to a blank page.

“So,” she said, scribbling the little information they had, “What’s the plan?”

“I don’t know,” Tony’s head was resting on his hands and he was staring forward towards a giant pile of scrap, “Do you have any ideas?”