“So,” Robyn said, turning back to the laptop, clearlyenjoying this now, “what exactly am I looking for? You didn’t get your car towed, did you?”
“I bought a Fox Body Mustang, then lost it,” I admitted, quieter than I intended.
Robyn made a sound—half snort, half choke—as he tried, and failed, to contain his reaction. “You bought a Fox Body?” He repeated, voice cracking with barely suppressed laughter.
I placed my hand on his shoulder, squeezing just enough to remind him of his mortality. “Go on,” I said pleasantly. “Tell me exactly what you think of Fox Body Mustangs.”
He clamped a hand over his mouth, shoulders shaking.
I smiled. It felt strained. “You are extremely lucky that the worst thing happening to you right now is a failing grade. Your father voiced that same thought and almost got run the fuck over.”
To his credit, Robyn recovered quickly. “Right,” he said, straightening his shoulders, still grinning like an idiot. “Noted.”
I glared at him, offended on Fox’s behalf.
“Look.” Robyn sobered just a fraction. “You’re planning on breaking the law, and you’re gonna be away from the school, right? Well, I’ll cover for you two. I’ll tell everyone there was some kind of emergency, run your classes even. But,” his smile crept back, slower this time. “You owe me.”
I closed my eyes and exhaled.
Never mind; he was exactly like Lai after all.
“I know,” I said, already regretting whatever future favor I had just agreed to.
Chapter Twelve
Fox
One day came and went.
At first, I tracked it, watching the slow crawl of light across the lot, measuring time in shadows. Then the hours stretched, blurred, lost their edges. One whole day, hour by agonizing hour. Time didn’t move forward so much as it sank, dragging me down with it.
I withdrew deeper into myself, into my body.
1992 Ford Mustang Fox Body GT. 1992 Ford Mustang Fox Body GT.
I repeated it like a mantra, something solid to cling to while everything else slipped. Identity mattered in places like this. Here, you were either something worth saving or something waiting to be stripped. I would not allow myself to be broken down.
Broken cars didn’t get saved.
I heard a noise beside me, gravel shifting, a low mechanical groan. Something inside me sparked with hope; was it you? Late, maybe, but I could forgive late. I could forgiveanything, really, as long as it ended with you settling back into my driver’s seat. I peeked out through the passenger window, anticipation tightening every bolt in my frame.
It wasn’t you.
The feeling of hope didn’t shatter all at once; it sagged, like a poorly supported chassis, as I spotted two men standing near the front gate, next to the tow-truck they’d driven in with.
The truck was old and tired, her parts groaning as her truck-bed lowered to the ground. I felt terror run through my circuits as she drew closer to me, close enough that I could read the faded slogan painted on her side.
“Sam’s scrap–We collect! Cash for Cars!”
She was so close I could smell the grease heating up on the pulley mechanism.
Please, no. No. I’m not scrap. I might not be a Saleen, sure; I don’t have the badge of a famous designer, or the prestige and collector’s value attached to my name, but I am still a Fox Body Mustang. That still means something. It has to mean something. I am desirable.
I am not scrap.
The men and their truck pause in front of me. I stay perfectly still as the hooks come closer, metal clinking softly against metal as they drag across the ground.
Then they pass me.
