Dead Ends by Erin Jade Lange Page B

cares?”
    A few steps later, almost to the corner, the woman spotted us. She threw her arms up in a hallelujah gesture.
    â€œOh, thank goodness! Can you help me?”
    â€œHelp you what?” I asked.
    She flung an arm backward toward her car. “This piece of sh—this piece of junk broke down. It just
stopped
. I’m driving, and it sputters and chugs and then just
stops
!” She planted her hands on her hips, waiting for us to look as shocked by this news as she was.
    â€œAnd?” I said.
    â€œAnd—well, could you look at it maybe? See what’s wrong?”
    I sighed. This happened to me a lot. Maybe it was the stubble or the fact that I lived in work boots and jeans, but for some reason, people—especially female people—always assumed I knew something about cars.
    One of Mom’s boyfriends tried to teach me about cranks and gear shafts and whatnot once, but I shut him down same as I did every guy who pretended to be my dad. I wouldn’t have minded learning from an uncle or a grandpa or something, butI didn’t have any of those, and Mom assured me if I knew them, I wouldn’t want them anyway.
    Normally I would have told the cougar with the car I couldn’t help her, but Billy was standing right there, watching me like he expected me to fix it—like he expected me to be able to do anything. So I tried to look confident as I stepped over and opened the hood.
    I peeked in and immediately backed up, coughing. Something in the mess of engine parts was smoking slightly.
    â€œOh yeah.” I hacked. “You’ve got a problem.”
    â€œOh no! What is it?” The woman leaned away from the car as though it might explode at any second.
    â€œIt’s—um—” I moved back to the engine and reached for a part, stalling for time. The bit of metal I touched seared my fingers. “Shit!”
    I stuffed my hand in my pocket, wincing. I didn’t want Billy or the woman to see I’d burned myself.
    â€œOh, God. It’s really bad, isn’t it?” The woman moaned.
    I nodded. “Yeah, yeah, I can’t fix this without … y’know, without my tools. You should call a tow truck.”
    â€œWhat a crock of shit!” a husky voice chimed in.
    I whipped around at the sound of wood skidding against concrete. A skinny boy with shocking white hair hopped off a skateboard behind me.
No wait—not a boy—a girl
.
    Her flat chest, deep voice, and supershort crop of bleached hair had thrown me off, but as she grabbed her board and joined me at the front of the car, I could see everything about her face screamed
girl
. It was all soft skin, long eyelashes, and bright red lips.
    I felt my hand fly up to flatten my cowlick. “Excuse me?”
    She leaned over the engine, ignoring the smoke. “Looks like you just overheated,” she said to the woman in the tight skirt. “When’s the last time you changed your oil?”
    The woman waved a hand. “Oh geez, who knows?”
    The white-haired girl rolled her eyes. “Well, the smoke is clearing out. When this cools off, it should start up again, but I’d drive it straight to a mechanic.” She pointed down the road, past the baseball diamonds. “You know where Ray’s Auto Repair is? On Oakland? Just down there to the right.”
    The woman nodded. She seemed encouraged by the confidence in the girl’s voice.
    â€œYou might need to flush your coolant system.” The girl lowered the hood and dropped her skateboard to the street. “Ray’ll give you a good deal. Tell him Seely said to hook you up.”
    The woman thanked the girl over and over while I stood to the side feeling like a jackass.
    With one foot on her board, the girl waved good-bye to the woman and turned to us. “A tow truck?” She sneered.
    â€œWhat makes you think her car will restart?” I snapped back.
    The sound of the engine coming alive