“You can fix it, right?” Claire asked after I got out and popped the hood.
I let the smoke dissipate and got a better look. I answered, talking more to myself than anything. “It might be a corroded radiator sending rust into the cooling system. That would kill the water pump or possibly block the radiator. Neither means we’ll be driving away tonight, but it’s better than the alternative. If it’s a blown head gasket…”
I checked the spark plugs, and coolant was squirting out. I slammed the hood shut and bit my lip. Hard. “There’s nothing to fix. The engine is toast.”
There were a million details that Dad would have checked before letting me circle the parking lot. A million things that I lacked the experience and skill to do on my own. Tomorrow, he’d said. He’d check it and we’d see. But a couple weeks ago he’d said we could go to Oregon too. Anywhere I wanted to go. Today he wouldn’t even answer me.
“I’m so sorry, Jill. I know how much this car means to you.”
I nodded and reopened the hood to let the lingering smoke escape. It stung my eyes and scratched my throat, making me cough and sit back down in the front seat. I cared about this car only because Dad had built it up for me when I was little, saying that any mechanic worth their socket wrench had a dream car. When I’d told him this was mine, it was better than any straight A report card I could have brought home. We’d studied engine plans, he’d drilled me on specs, and we’d hunted auctions together. He’d told me sixteen was my year. For the Spitfire. For everything.
Everything.
And now I had less than nothing.
“I shouldn’t have been driving this yet.” When Claire tried to console me I shook her off. “I’m serious, Claire. I could have killed us. I didn’t even check the brakes. We could be wrapped around an orange tree right now if the engine hadn’t died.”
I saw Claire shrink back into her seat as my admission sank home.
“Aren’t you going to yell at me? What I did was really stupid.”
Claire didn’t say anything for a minute. Then, “I’m guessing your dad is going to yell at you plenty.”
The vein in Dad’s forehead that throbbed whenever he got mad was likely to rip right out when he found out about this. Or maybe not. He wasn’t acting at all like I’d thought he would, so what did I know?
I pulled the keys from the ignition and slid my forehead along the steering wheel, turning enough to watch the smoke thinning around the still propped-up hood. I shut my eyes and winced as though in physical pain. The engine. Dead. I’d killed my dream car, and I didn’t have any more time to fix it again, if that was even possible.
Because she could come back at any time. And Dad wasn’t going to fight for me.
“He told me today that it’s true. What she said.” I didn’t need to be any more specific. Claire understood.
“Oh,” she said. “Oh.”
“That’s why he sent me to the shop. I told him we should leave, move somewhere she couldn’t find us and instead he gave me his keys and sent me away.”
“Could she do that? Take you from him?”
“I don’t know. Maybe.”
“How do you feel?” she asked.
I fought not to roll my eyes. “I feel like my car, Claire. How do you think?”
“I mean about your dad. Does it matter to you?”
I wanted to be able to answer immediately, like a reflex, something I didn’t even have to think about. But the right words didn’t race out of my mouth, loud and confident. “I don’t want it to.”
Claire squeezed my hand. “Then it doesn’t have to.”
I looked at her and understood what she was telling me even as I was snapping at her.
“How is today different from yesterday?” she asked.
I shrugged and gestured at the thinning smoke still drifting from my car. “I’m not getting rid of my bike anytime soon.”
Claire pinched the skin on the back of my hand.
“Hey!” I yanked it back.
