Page 108 of Ice Mechanic

“Why is Rebel at the garage? We don’t open until nine.”

A sheepish look crosses her face. “The thing is, I made a mistake with the schedule. Customers brought their cars at five thirty this morning?—”

Sitting straight up, I stare at May. “Did you say… customersactuallybrought their cars in?”

“Yes!”

“This early?”

“Mmhm!”

“This isn’t like all the other times when we got tons of new followers but no actual clients?” My fingers scrunch in my dark blue comforters. “People actually showed up?”

“Yes! Now get up! I’m serious. Rebel called me in a panic when she wasn’t getting through to you. It sounds like it’s chaos out there.”

I launch out of bed, take a quick shower and see May following me through the door.

“I can’t give you a ride to the bus stop, May. I need to go straight to the garage.”

“I know. I’m coming with you.”

I check my watch. “Don’t you have a class in twenty minutes?”

“I’ll skip it.”

“Absolutely not.” I shake my head.

“But this is partly my fault. I should at least go help.” My sister’s mournful eyes hit me right between my chest.

“You know what dad would have said. Education comes first.”

“But—”

“You’re going to be late as it is. Here.” I reach into my pocket and drop some bills into her palm. “Take a taxi. It’ll be faster than your bike.”

“At least eat something before you go.”

I gratefully accept the banana May flings at me on my way out the door.

“Have a good day!” she yells, waving at my back. “I’ll come help after my morning class.”

“Thanks!” I yell back.

On the way to the garage, I call Rebel.

She answers with a harried, “Finally! I thought my brain was going to explode.”

“Why didn’t you call May sooner?”

“I thought I could handle it. Plus, I figured you’d be tired from your date with Chance, which I’m totally getting all the details for later. If I survive till later, I mean.”

“I promise. I’ll leave nothing out.” I eye the road carefully as I remove one of my hands from the steering wheel to peel the banana.

Main Street is stirring to life. The florist’s shop, manned by Ms. Shirley and her wheel-chair bound son, Sterling, is already open. So is the bakery run by three generations of Canoughays. And as I pass by, the smell of fresh sourdough bread fills my nostrils.

“How many cars are in the shop right now?” I ask, taking a bite of the banana.

“Twelve.”

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