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With the help of Sergei and Maeve, I made the decision to leave behind the controlling manipulations and stifling expectations of my old life. I was made to think I had one purpose on this earth: to be another trophy in Mother’s high-class society. Like any trophy, I was expected to look expensive and be quiet.
Sergei never put up with that shit.
The second I turned eighteen, neither did I. Although it’s only been a handful of months since the move, it feels like I entered an entirely different world.
A world in which my opinion matters, but my place is uncertain.
Dropping my bags after an especially shitty day at the new school, I look out my window to check on the detached garage that serves as Maeve’s auto workshop. The four-car structure is a state-of-the-art facility with its own mechanical lift and all the tools a professional garage would have. Maeve is the co-owner of two auto repair locations and treats this place like a third site, reserved for her more intricate or complicated rebuilds. Two of the four garage doors are open, which means she’s inside.
Quickly, I get out of my dress and put on a shirt and shorts under coveralls that Maeve insists I wear when I work with her. It’s dark blue and rough against my skin, but I love it because we match.
Am I fan-girling over my brother’s girlfriend? A little. You would too if you met Maeve.
She’s hilarious and tough and kind and pretty, but in the most unassuming way. You might not notice her walking down the street—mostly because she’s so short—but once you see her up close, you’ll remember the warmth of her hazel eyes.
While tying my long hair back, I rush down the stairs and run out the door. It took some convincing for Sergei to agree to my car purchase, but Maeve assured him an iconic 1995 Dodge Viper was a normal dream car for an eighteen-year-old girl.
Maeve is under my red race car, legs sticking out. “That you, Ana?”
“Yup. Just got back from school. You weren’t supposed to start without me,” I say peevishly.
“I’m cleaning things so you’ve got a clearer view. Boring stuff.”
“What are we working on today?” I ask, running my hands over the sleek lines from the trunk to the door.
The Viper was conceived as a pared-down version of a speed machine. None of the bells and whistles—not even doorhandles—but with all the speed of a V10 400-horsepower engine. The hood is open, revealing the bright-red engine in all its massive glory. The engine is disproportionally huge in relation to the frame and one of the many reasons the Viper is a freaking work of art.
Maeve is restoring it with me. Along with the usual repairs, we’re changing the exhaust system and upgrading safety measures, like reinforcing the roll bar and installing new brakes.
“The ABS control module goes in today,” Maeve says as she slips out from under the car. She grabs the new module ready to fit into the space vacated by the one we detached last weekend.
“See these five brake lines? We need to spray it with metal protectors. Go ahead and do that while I grab the correct wrench size.”
I spray the wires with protectant and wait as Maeve chooses the right tool.
“Now that this is out, lubricate it with a penetrating oil,” she orders.
“Did you ever notice how car repair instructions sound so pervy?” I ask with a snicker.
“I work in a garage full of guys who never grew out of their teenage sense of humor,” she says, rolling her eyes. “Yeah, I noticed. Now get your head out of the gutter and work on the dust boots so we can clean the contact points.” Her words are gruff, but she remains patient. Focused.
We lower the unit into the vacated space, ensuring the mounting bolts, brake lines, and wiring harness are secured in that order.
With Pearl Jam playing in the background and Maeve giving concise instructions, I’m immersed in the job. My mind empties except for the focused movement of my fingers in a small space, securing the bolts and wiring.
“That’s great, Ana,” Maeve praises. Her words are a serum of warmth in my veins. “Now, the last thing we have to do is remove the air that was introduced into the system when we opened the brake lines. I’ll do the first one and you can do the rest.”
When we finish, she inspects the work again and gives me an appreciative wink. “We’ll do the rest tomorrow.”
“Why? I don’t have any homework. Let’s stay out a little longer,” I whine.
The truth is, I’ve got nothing better to do.
In Connecticut, my days were filled with tennis tournaments and dance lessons and party planning. I barely had time for clubs at school. Now? Even the one club I enjoy doesn’t want me around.
“Your brother is grabbing takeout from Meadowlark. We should get cleaned up for dinner.”
“Fine,” I say, putting tools away while Maeve reorganizes her workstation.
