Page 93 of Prove You Wrong

The message is previewed on my lock screen.

That’s got to be a good sign. Goodnight messages are girlfriend-y behaviour, right?

Why do I feel so nervous about this?

I want to write back but second guess myself. Should I just saynight? Should I ask her to be my girlfriend over a text?Nope.That’s aterribleidea.

One glance at Scott and I decide to cut my losses. I down my drink and leave some cash on the bar. Scott isn’t going to be any help in this situation. This needs Chunk’s advice.

Chapter 27

Ella

‘Ican’t guarantee she’ll be fixed tomorrow, either. You’ll have to get the bus again.’ I’m struggling to keep the contempt out of my voice as I speak to my ungrateful little sister.

Swiping the toast that had just popped up, she groans, ‘Gah, you’re the worst sister ever.’

‘Thought you wanted more freedom?’ I place more bread in the toaster, seeing as how she stole my first batch.

‘Urgh! When are you going to fix your stupid car?’

‘Hopefully today.’ I cross my arms. ‘And Helena isnotstupid.’

‘Even giving her anameis stupid.’ Her eyes bulge with contempt.

‘If she’s so stupid, I suppose — when she’s fixed — you won’t be wanting a lift then, will you?’

She turns on her heel and storms to her bedroom. I’m relieved to get some distance from the teen drama. With Mum on a stint of double shifts again, it’s down to me to sort Chloe.

Besides, taking the bus won’t kill Chloe, no matter how much she complains.

I look at my phone, unable to stop my mouth curving into the hugest grin. My stomach flip flops into a thousand butterflies. Now who’s acting like a teenager?

Nate: Sweet dreams. I’ll come and find you tomorrow, but I’m sorry it won’t be early. Will you be OK? Xx

The message had been waiting for me when I woke up this morning. I don’t care that he can’t give us a lift. I’m just glad he’s ok.

To make the most of my leave, I’ve taken today off, too, needing space from work as well as wanting to fix Helena. I’m so done with being taken advantage of in the office, but I can’t simply quit and leap into a brand-new career.

Heading out to the garage in my overalls, I raise the door to get some daylight into the space. The light catches the glass, magnifying how filthy Helena has become, inside and out. Doubling back, I grab the little handheld vacuum cleaner to give her a thorough clean on the inside before I get filthy and oily.

As I push the nozzle back and forth, my mind drifts. I need to decide what I want to do, work out how to achieve it. It’s frustrating that there are no good evening courses for me at the local college. Not much good for anyone, really, unless you want to learn Spanish, flower arranging, or beginners IT. Nothing that would help me in my life, nothing that’s going to help my career or ease my burden of responsibilities.

The noise of the hoover revs as I pause in one spot, thinking over Josie’s comment from the other day about missing out on adulting classes. God, I don’t feel anything like an adult. I’m just winging most of my life, even if I do understand accounting.

But maybe we’re not the only ones who need help with this kind ofstuff.Was this the answer? Could I offer a course in basic accountancy? A thrill runs through me; this definitely needs more consideration.

I finish cleaning Helena and murmur, ‘Now, let’s see what’s getting you all hot and bothered,’ as I unclip the bonnet.

Luckily, I was only a hundred metres from home when she first broke down and I managed to limp her back. Over the last few days I’d researched overheating –– checking the coolant, thermostat, head gasket, and fan belt to no avail. It had been a false victory when I’d found the kinked radiator hose. Now I’m just left with spark plugs before I have to admit defeat and take her to a garage for a financially crippling diagnosis.

The old tool kit my biological father had left always leaves me with mixed feelings. It wasn’t only tools he’d left behind, it was my fragile mother and me, just a toddler. But I also take empowerment from the tarnished old box. I can be self-sufficient with these tools; I don’t need him. Spanners and screwdrivers, on the other hand, now they are handy.

Grabbing my torque wrench, I set it to the right tension and release a spark plug. A singed end is revealed and I feel relieved the problem may now be solved. I keep a box of spare parts, and soon I’ve switched out the old spark plugs for new ones and I’m confident I’ve finally solved the curious case of Helena’s hot flushes.

The bonnet shuts with a satisfactory clunk, and after wiping my hands off on a cloth, I cross my fingers and start the engine. Helena roars into life and her temperature gauge stays blissfully in the ‘normal’ zone. After a minute or so, I turn the ignition off and reach into my pocket for my phone. I need to share my success.

It vibrates in my hand as I pull it out.

---