Page 131 of Revv

By the time we finish eating, her phone is still going off, and she’s bouncing between answering messages and packing. The excitement has finally won out over the nerves from yesterday, and every few minutes she’ll stop what she’s doing to tell me about another tag, another comment, another person asking when she’s playing next.

By eleven, most of our shit is packed.

Mine takes about five minutes.

Cece, meanwhile, has checked the bathroom twice, opened every drawer she swears she never used, looked under the bed, checked every outlet for chargers, and is currently standing in the middle of the room staring around like we’re evacuating a fucking crime scene.

We get everything downstairs and loaded into the Civic, and for once, leaving actually looks like it might be simple.

That should have been the warning.

Cece slides into the driver’s seat, pushes the key into the ignition, and turns it.

The car makes a horrible grinding cough, shudders once, then dies.

She freezes.

I slowly turn my head toward her.

She keeps staring straight ahead. “Whatever face you’re making, stop.”

“I’m not making a face.”

“You are. I can feel it.”

She tries again.

The Civic makes the same sound, only angrier this time.

I wince. “Yeah. That’s new.”

Her head snaps toward me. “Fix it.”

I laugh and climb out before she decides murder is easier.

The Florida heat hits hard the second I pop the hood. Cece is beside me almost immediately, arms folded, watching over my shoulder while I check everything I can without an actual set of tools.

It doesn’t take long to realize this isn’t another battery problem.

I straighten and wipe my hands on my shorts.

She sees my face and groans. “No. Absolutely not. You fixed it last time.”

“Last time it was a battery. This isn’t.”

“So what is it?”

“I don’t know yet. I need tools and somewhere I can actually get under it.”

She gestures vaguely toward the engine bay. “You know engines you said. This is an engine. Figure it out.”

I turn and stare at her. “That’s not how mechanics work, Mama. I’m standing in a hotel parking lot with sunglasses, a phone charger, and breakfast still digesting. I’m not rebuilding your Civic by hand because you’re glaring at it aggressively.”

Her mouth twitches even though she’s trying not to let it. “So you’re useless.”

“Currently under-equipped.”

“Same thing.”