“For future reference, my schedule will not revolve around your social life.” Her eyes dart to the clock on her dash before she slams her car into drive. I haven’t had a chance to buckle up. “Where were you the last block? I thought we had AP English together?”
“I swapped English out for another art class.” I roll down the window. It might be April and sixty degrees outside, but her car is a fucking sauna. What is it with girls claiming they’re freezing all the time?
“Don’t you need English to graduate?” Her words are fast and choppy, as if she is personally offended I dropped that class. That or she’s still mega-pissed about having to wait on me.
“Nope.” I take in a sharp breath of heated air that glazes my lungs with a soup-like coating. “Just needed chemistry. Everything else is elective. Plus, I took AP English last year.”
She snaps her gaze toward me and then returns to the road. I know what people see when they look at me. My outside and insides contrast. I throw people for a loop. I’m smart, and I’m a smartass. It works for me.
“Oh,” she says. She squints into the afternoon sun, then snaps the visor down and grips the steering wheel.
“You okay? You seem kind of…”
I don’t know what she seems like. I’ve known her for all of a couple of days. All I know is she walks around with a holier-than-though attitude, and when she’s not busy prancing around as Mark Miller’s golden child, she’s huffing and sighing and keeping her opinions to herself like she’s forbidden to speak them.
“It’s not good to keep things in.” I stretch my arm across her small car, hooking it behind the driver’s seat.
“I’m not keeping anything in. I’m dealing with everything in my own way. Thank you for your concern.”
It sounds like a canned response, and I don’t buy it. “You’re an angry girl.”
More like sexually frustrated.
“How would you know?” She spits her words with a wrinkled nose.
“Told you earlier. I’m smarter than everybody else.”
“Hate to break it to you, Jensen, but you’re not.”
“Ouch.” I clap my hand across my chest as if she’s just aimed and shot at me. “I doubt you’ll be calling me stupid when I’m tutoring you for your calculus final.”
“How do you know I’m taking calc?”
“I know everything about everything, kid. Tried to warn you. I’m all-knowing and all-powerful. Omnipotent. O-m-n-i-p—”
She jabs an elbow into my side and retrieves it just as quickly, which tells me she’s not a girl used to being physical with anybody. This girl has a shit ton of pent up anger and frustration. If she needs to take it out on me, I’ll gladly be her human punching bag. I don’t mind when it’s going toward a good cause.
“Saw you walk into your class on my way to Mixed Media. Our classrooms are down the hall from each other. Relax.” I rub the dull ache in my rib cage until it subsides. She’s got to do better than that next time. That was weak.
Waverly pulls up to a mechanic’s shop with gray cinderblock walls and five bays. A yellow sign with black and red lettering says, “A1 Auto Repair.” She slams on her brakes, which I’m guessing is her way of telling me to get the fuck out. God, I’d kill to hear her say “fuck” or “damn.” Or even “hell.”
For a second, I debate asking if she’ll come pick me up in a couple hours, but I don’t dare. If looks could kill…
“Thanks for the ride.” She peels out of the parking lot before I have a chance to shut the door behind me. “All right, then.”
I’m greeted by jingle bells on the door and a cashier with a nametag reading “Liberty” across her pinstriped button-down. It’s a mechanic’s shirt, but she has it open just enough to offer the world a shameless sneak-peak at her cleavage. Her hair is long, dark, and wild, and she has the same glass-blue eyes as Waverly.
“Can I help you?” She snaps her gum between cherry-red lips. She’s so busy working her Bubble Yum six ways from Sunday she doesn’t bother to smile.
“I’m Jensen. Mark Miller sent me here for a job.”
“Ah, yes. Uncle Mark,” she says, picking up the phone and pressing three buttons. The cuffs of her shirt are hiked up just enough to show she’s got a whole sleeve of tattoos going on. Judging by her smooth baby face, she’s barely old enough to drink. “Dad, that guy that Uncle Mark sent is here.” She hangs up. “You can have a seat. He’ll be out.”
I locate a dingy aluminum chair and grab a stale issue of Car and Driver, flipping to the middle and hoping to find a half-interesting article somewhere.
“So, you’re one of the Millers now.” Liberty’s mouth turns into a knowing half-smile.
“Not a Miller.” I clear my throat and flip the page. It’s not that I’m proud to be a Mackey, it’s just there’s no way in hell I’ll ever be a fucking Miller.
“Yeah, but you’re Uncle Mark’s third wife’s son from another marriage. Right? Did I get that right?”
“Something like that.”
“It’s okay. I know about their, uh, lifestyle,” she laughs. “My mom and Waverly’s dad are brother and sister. We’re not poly, or anything, but we know about them. Family’s family, right?”
I flip another page and mutter, “Forever and always.”
“Uncle Mark is fucking nuts.” She says it with a heavy connotation, as if I should know what she’s talking about by now.
“Only known him a couple days.”
“Well, you’re in for a real treat.” She slides her body against the counter and leans against her arm, yawning. She’s far too young to be this tired at three thirty in the afternoon. “Sorry. Out way too late last night.”
“That supposed to impress me?” I’m fucking with her, but it’s mostly because this Car and Driver magazine is old as hell. She should take it as a compliment.
“Look, I’m not trying to impress you. Just making a statement. Don’t flatter yourself. You’re too young for me. Plus, I’m taken.”
“Poor guy.”
She scoffs and flips me off with a shit-eating grin. I kind of like her. If I were looking for a friend, I might consider someone like her. Her sass isn’t unlike mine, and it’s a breath of fresh air in the boring land of Whispering Hills, Utah. I have a feeling we’re both treading the same dark water, in some way or another.
“Jensen?” A man appears from behind Liberty. His dark hair matches hers, though his eyes are black as coal. He wipes his oil-stained hand on a dirty shop rag and extends it. “I’m Rich. Mark said you needed a job?”
“Mark said you needed a… gofer.”
“I do.” He motions for me to follow him out to the shop. A team of young guys are rolling tires, hoisting cars up on lifts, and running hydraulic tools. We weave between a sea of vehicles until we reach a back room where all the parts are kept. “You familiar with car parts?”
I nod.
“Good.” He hooks his thumbs into the belt loops of his dirty gray pants and rocks back and forth on his heels. He may as well be chewing the end of a piece of straw. He takes me in from head to toe, sizing me up before he makes it official. “Pay is eight bucks an hour. You can work a couple hours after school during the week. Saturday mornings too, if you want to pick up extra hours.”
“I’ll have to look into transportation, but I think I can make that work.”
His brows furrow. “Got an old diesel Dodge in the back. Doesn’t run. Been meaning to fix it up myself and sell it. If you can get it running, it’s yours. You can work off the parts, if you need to. Just keep a running tab with Lib. Keys are in it.”
I’m not sure what I did to deserve such a karmic pay off, but I wholeheartedly accept.
I spend the next two hours running parts back and forth. The guys are friendly enough, but I’m not here to make friends. By seven, Rich says I can mess around with the Dodge for a bit, which is good because I have no other way to get home, and I’m not about to phone in any favors from Waverly.
I pop the hood and tinker around a bit, running back and forth from the shop floor and grabbing various tools and parts. Mostly new spark plugs and a battery get it running, but it sounds like a dying cow. It’s going to need a timing belt soon and a few other odds and ends, but it should get me back and forth for the next few days.