Jesse's Girl
Page 42
“I guess I’m not ready for this… I don’t wanna get your hopes up. I’m sorry.”
First he gave me his number, then he kissed me, then he freaked. He’s all over the place. I hate that we’re losing what could’ve become a really good friendship for a kiss. Why did I let that happen? Just because today has changed me doesn’t mean stuff would change for him too.
“I had a great day,” I whisper as tears burn my eyes.
“I did too, darlin’.”
I pinch my nose and sniffle.
“Bye, Maya Henry.”
“Bye.”
He walks backward to his Harley, staring at me, and climbs on. Turns the ignition. His engine roars to a start. The wheels crunch gravel on the way out of the driveway.
I hate that today is ending like this. Hate it. I dart toward the road, waving my arms to get him to stop, but he’s too far gone.
I bring my phone to my lips and watch the Harley’s lights disappear in the distance.
Side B
Bad Day
Saturday, 5:45 a.m.
It’s hard to believe that yesterday I played an electric Les Paul in the Gibson store and sang a solo on the Belle Carol Riverboat, and now I’m up to my elbows in grease at Caldwell’s. I hope working at the garage will keep my mind off how the best day ever crashed and burned like Axl Rose smashing a guitar.
I shut the back of the Volkswagen bus Dad and I are taking a look at. It’s such an old model that the engine is tucked beneath the trunk.
“Want the good news or the bad news first?” Dad asks.
“Bad,” Garrett Wainwright replies, pacing back and forth in the shop like it’s a hospital waiting room. Garrett is a guy I know from school. I need a new geometry tutor now that Nate and I are no more, and Garrett agreed to tutor me if we’d fix his orange bus. Hence Dad and I are up at the ass crack of dawn, before Caldwell’s officially opens.
Some people describe Garrett’s orange bus as “the setting of a bad 1970s porn movie.” Wooden beads hang over the side windows, and instead of standard bench seats, he installed jump seats on the side. A tie-dyed beanbag sits atop a faux bearskin rug stretching across the floor.
Normally something this heinously amazing would cheer me right up, but not today.
Yawning, I wipe the grease off my hands with a rag. “The bad news is your transmission slipped out of gear.”
Garrett stares at his bus like it’s an injured puppy. “And?”
“When a transmission slips out of gear, it has to be replaced,” Dad starts, “but since your VW is so old, they don’t make transmissions for them anymore, so you have to rebuild them.”
“The whole thing?” Garrett exclaims.
“Yup.”
He rubs his eyes and looks at me. “Expensive?”
“Six hundred dollars or so, parts and labor included,” I say.
“Crap. What’s the good news?”
Dad gives me a smile. “Since we’re fixing it, you only have to pay for the parts. Probably about two hundred dollars.”
“I’ll have to see if I can come up with it.”
Garrett and I make plans to meet after school on Monday—after I’ve served detention—to talk about where we can buy the parts for cheap. I feel his pain. To some people, the kind of cash he needs is pocket change, which sucks, but it is what it is.
My coworkers who always open on Saturday mornings appear in the garage carrying cups of coffee and a box of doughnuts. Nick and Evan graduated from Hundred Oaks a couple of years ago, and both are really cute and funny. They always make the workday go by more quickly.
“If it isn’t the famous Maya Henry!” Nick holds out the box of doughnuts and a napkin. My greasy hands are gross, but I don’t really care at the moment. I’m starving and cranky, and I want a doughnut. I take a napkin and choose a strawberry glazed one from the box. If Jesse were here, he’d complain about how unhealthy it is. I sigh and take a huge bite.
I didn’t cry over him last night, but my body feels like it did. I was up half the night thinking about what went wrong.
“Check it out,” Evan says, passing me a rolled-up newspaper.
“Will you sign it for me, My?” Nick jokes.
“What is it?” Dad asks me.
With a shaky, grease-covered hand, I take the newspaper from Evan and unfold it. A picture of Jesse and me singing together fills the front page. It’s from the Belle Carol. In the photo, he and I are hovering above a microphone, our noses an inch apart, smiling as we stare at each other.
The headline reads “Jesse Scott Retakes Nashville.”
First he gave me his number, then he kissed me, then he freaked. He’s all over the place. I hate that we’re losing what could’ve become a really good friendship for a kiss. Why did I let that happen? Just because today has changed me doesn’t mean stuff would change for him too.
“I had a great day,” I whisper as tears burn my eyes.
“I did too, darlin’.”
I pinch my nose and sniffle.
“Bye, Maya Henry.”
“Bye.”
He walks backward to his Harley, staring at me, and climbs on. Turns the ignition. His engine roars to a start. The wheels crunch gravel on the way out of the driveway.
I hate that today is ending like this. Hate it. I dart toward the road, waving my arms to get him to stop, but he’s too far gone.
I bring my phone to my lips and watch the Harley’s lights disappear in the distance.
Side B
Bad Day
Saturday, 5:45 a.m.
It’s hard to believe that yesterday I played an electric Les Paul in the Gibson store and sang a solo on the Belle Carol Riverboat, and now I’m up to my elbows in grease at Caldwell’s. I hope working at the garage will keep my mind off how the best day ever crashed and burned like Axl Rose smashing a guitar.
I shut the back of the Volkswagen bus Dad and I are taking a look at. It’s such an old model that the engine is tucked beneath the trunk.
“Want the good news or the bad news first?” Dad asks.
“Bad,” Garrett Wainwright replies, pacing back and forth in the shop like it’s a hospital waiting room. Garrett is a guy I know from school. I need a new geometry tutor now that Nate and I are no more, and Garrett agreed to tutor me if we’d fix his orange bus. Hence Dad and I are up at the ass crack of dawn, before Caldwell’s officially opens.
Some people describe Garrett’s orange bus as “the setting of a bad 1970s porn movie.” Wooden beads hang over the side windows, and instead of standard bench seats, he installed jump seats on the side. A tie-dyed beanbag sits atop a faux bearskin rug stretching across the floor.
Normally something this heinously amazing would cheer me right up, but not today.
Yawning, I wipe the grease off my hands with a rag. “The bad news is your transmission slipped out of gear.”
Garrett stares at his bus like it’s an injured puppy. “And?”
“When a transmission slips out of gear, it has to be replaced,” Dad starts, “but since your VW is so old, they don’t make transmissions for them anymore, so you have to rebuild them.”
“The whole thing?” Garrett exclaims.
“Yup.”
He rubs his eyes and looks at me. “Expensive?”
“Six hundred dollars or so, parts and labor included,” I say.
“Crap. What’s the good news?”
Dad gives me a smile. “Since we’re fixing it, you only have to pay for the parts. Probably about two hundred dollars.”
“I’ll have to see if I can come up with it.”
Garrett and I make plans to meet after school on Monday—after I’ve served detention—to talk about where we can buy the parts for cheap. I feel his pain. To some people, the kind of cash he needs is pocket change, which sucks, but it is what it is.
My coworkers who always open on Saturday mornings appear in the garage carrying cups of coffee and a box of doughnuts. Nick and Evan graduated from Hundred Oaks a couple of years ago, and both are really cute and funny. They always make the workday go by more quickly.
“If it isn’t the famous Maya Henry!” Nick holds out the box of doughnuts and a napkin. My greasy hands are gross, but I don’t really care at the moment. I’m starving and cranky, and I want a doughnut. I take a napkin and choose a strawberry glazed one from the box. If Jesse were here, he’d complain about how unhealthy it is. I sigh and take a huge bite.
I didn’t cry over him last night, but my body feels like it did. I was up half the night thinking about what went wrong.
“Check it out,” Evan says, passing me a rolled-up newspaper.
“Will you sign it for me, My?” Nick jokes.
“What is it?” Dad asks me.
With a shaky, grease-covered hand, I take the newspaper from Evan and unfold it. A picture of Jesse and me singing together fills the front page. It’s from the Belle Carol. In the photo, he and I are hovering above a microphone, our noses an inch apart, smiling as we stare at each other.
The headline reads “Jesse Scott Retakes Nashville.”
