Page 141 of Faking It With the Small-Town Bad Boy

“I can pay for this, Mike.”

“I know you can, kid. But I’m not going to let you. So, I’ll carry the

battery, and you take the box, okay?”

I smile slightly and finally surrender. “Sounds good.”

I get the door, box in hand, and Mike trudges the battery forward in

one arm that hangs lower than the other. He fights to lift it into the

front seat of my old truck, the new one I fixed up off in New York

with my sister, and I miss them both dearly.

“I’ll see you soon, kid,” Mike breathes, patting me on the back before

heading inside.

I move to get into the truck, happy the AC works before it sputters

out and dies. The wires are all messed up on the inside of the dash,

and while it’s normally cold in the fall this time of year, the humidity

hasn’t let up yet. I pant and roll the window down manually, hating

how I fix other people’s cars for a living, and I can’t even get my truck

to work sometimes.

A loud shouting noise catches my attention, and I hiccup slightly at

the sight of Farrah Wellsburg. She is a princess by all measurable

offenses, and I watch her strut out of the bridal shop downtown.

She’s not carrying a dress, though. Instead, her fists are balled at her

sides while she storms away from a pandering, pampered entourage

who flies to the sidewalk after her.

“Where are you going?” one of them calls. “Come on, let’s get back to

your fitting, Farrah. We can fix this!”

I admire the bravery of the women in her bridal party.

I would rather swim in old car oil than be subjected to her peasant of

a bridesmaid any day.

Farrah’s tantrum seems to pause long enough for her to come back

down the sidewalk to her awaiting group, and while I feel a bit

awkward watching on like I am, I don’t move.

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