The Ray Sullivan Technical Center opened at Oak Ridge High that September.

Six bays. New tools. Two donated cars to practice on. Big windows, so people walking past could see inside.

Uncle Ray cut the ribbon. He cried the whole time and pretended it was allergies. Twenty-four students signed up for the first class. Mr. Hanley said the waiting list was longer than for football.

I teach a class there every Friday afternoon, after my shift under a car.

On the first day, a skinny fifteen-year-old kid sat at the back with his hood up. His hands were black around the fingernails. He worked at his dad's tire shop after school, he said. He didn't say much. But he could listen to an engine and tell you what was wrong before anyone else in the room.

After class, I noticed some older boys hanging around outside, laughing at him through the window. One of them was pointing at his hands.

I went to the door.

“Hey,” I called out to the boys. “You want to see something cool?”

They stopped laughing.

“That kid in there,” I said, “is going to own your car one day. Be nice to him.”