Cal raised an eyebrow. “Isn't your dad the one who runs half the businesses in town?”
He does. But I want to earn my own way.
“Well, I'll be damned,” Cal said, exchanging a look with Mason. “A rich kid who wants to work for his money. There's something you don't see every day.”
Mason studied me with those steady eyes. “You ever done any real work?”
I shook my head honestly, then wrote:
No. But I'm not afraid of getting dirty. I need to learn.
Gideon picked up a shop rag and tossed it at me. I caught it automatically. “Problem is, we can't officially hire you. Labor laws and all that. But we might be able to work out an arrangement.”
“What kind of arrangement?” Cal asked, clearly curious about where this was going.
“Kid helps out around the shop, learns the basics, we teach him what we can about cars,” Gideon said, thinking out loud. “In exchange, he gets hands-on education and maybe we help him find a decent used car when he's saved up enough.”
Mason nodded approvingly. “Like an informal apprenticeship. I could use an extra set of hands with some of the bodywork projects.”
“And we all know that this place needs organizing,” Cal added, gesturing at the cluttered workbenches and scattered tools. “Kid could earn his keep just making sense of our filing system.”
I wrote quickly, excitement making my handwriting messier than usual.
That sounds perfect. When can I start?
Gideon's mouth twitched, might have been a smile. “Right now. Shop needs sweeping, and there's a parts delivery coming in an hour that needs sorting.”
Cal clapped his hands together. “Excellent. Evan, welcome to Ward's Garage, where dreams come to die and transmissions go to be reborn.”
“Ignore him,” Mason said, shooting Cal a look. “He's been inhaling too many paint fumes. This is actually a good place to learn.”
“Best garage in three counties,” Cal protested. “Ask anyone.”
“I did ask someone once,” Mason replied deadpan. “They laughed.”
“That was my ex-wife, and her opinion doesn't count.”
Gideon handed me a pair of work gloves. “Less talking, more working. Evan, grab that broom from the corner. Cal, stop traumatizing the new help with your life story. Mason, that fender isn't going to sand itself.”
The next few hours passed in a blur of motor oil and metal shavings, concrete floors that had absorbed decades of automotive fluids, and the kind of mindless physical labor that felt surprisingly satisfying. When the parts truck arrived, Gideon wordlessly pointed toward the loading dock, and Cal showed me how to check the delivery against the invoice.
“Organization is key,” Cal explained as we hauled boxes of brake pads into the shop. “Everything has its place, and when you need something in a hurry, you don't want to be digging through random piles.”
Mason appeared beside us carrying a case of motor oil. “What Cal means is, his system of organized chaos only makes sense to him, and the rest of us spend half our time looking for tools he's 'organized.'”
“My system works perfectly,” Cal protested. “It's interpretive organization.”
“It's a disaster,” Mason said, but he was grinning.
I found myself enjoying their easy banter, the way they teased each other but clearly respected one another's skills. It was different from the careful politeness I got from most adults in town, more genuine and relaxed.
This is good work,I wrote when we finished sorting the last box of spark plugs.
Gideon read the words and nodded once. “You're not afraid of work. That's more than I can say for most kids your age.”
He handed me a bottle of water from the mini-fridge in his office, then pulled out a hundred-dollar bill. “For today. Fair?”
I stared at the money, surprised. This wasn't officially employment, but he was paying me anyway.
