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“I don’t know… it’s an old car.” I cough as another gust of smoke rushes out towards me.
Garrison motions with his head to the curb. I follow him, vehicles speeding by on the city street.
“Do you know anything about cars?” I ask hopefully.
He shakes his head. “Just computers.” He glances over at the corner street. “I can give you a ride to wherever you need to go. You can call a tow truck or get your cousin to come look at your car in the meantime.”
Cousin? It takes me a moment to register what he means. Loren Hale, my cousin. Which means that Garrison read the debut article about me and my tampons.
I immobilize. Don’t think about it.
“Willow?”
“Uh, yeah…yeah.” I shake my head like I’m trying to rid all the cobwebs. “Thanks. A ride would be great.” I’ll call the tow truck later. So I end up feeding the meter with a few more quarters and then grab my backpack.
“This way.” He nods towards the corner street. We walk a block until he stops by a black Mustang, black leather interior, and black custom rims. It has to be expensive. If it’s not, it does a great job pretending to be.
“This is your car?”
He opens the passenger door for me. “Yeah…I live in the same neighborhood as Loren.” An unspoken truth strains between us: my old car is dying and spurting out smoke one block away. After finding out that we share a few unique similarities, it’s this economic difference that creates the most tension, both of us uncomfortable for different reasons.
“Was that your house that night of the party?” I ask before climbing in. Everything is clean, no stray water bottles or takeout wrappers beneath the seat. My car is a mess of receipts and paper napkins from Wendy’s and Taco Bell.
I’m the slob, I realize. I sink further in the seat and hold my backpack on my lap, hugging it close to my chest.
He answers me when he’s buckled. “Not my house. I live one street over.” He turns to me. “Where do you live?”
“I should’ve told you that it’s kind of out of the way—”
“It’s fine. I have nowhere to be.”
I nod and then give him the address. He plugs it into his phone and docks it on a stand, the GPS alive with directions.
“I thought you’d live with your cousin,” he says, probably thinking I’d have Loren’s type of wealth too. I guess he’s learning differently today.
And I don’t know why he keeps saying that—your cousin. He knows who Loren is. Maybe he doesn’t like bringing up his name, not after the break-in.
“I didn’t want to impose on him,” I explain. “He has a baby.”
“Yeah, I saw Maximoff’s first baby picture along with the rest of the world.” His voice is dry, not at all impressed with their celebrity status.
“You don’t like Princesses of Philly, I take it.” The reality show didn’t make them famous or last long for a huge impact, not beyond some cool gifs, but it’s easier mentioning PoPhilly than Lily’s sex addiction.
He fixes the air vents, keeping the really cold air off me. Am I shaking?
“I’ve watched it, but it’s not the show that bugs me.” Garrison stops at a red light. “Every time I leave my neighborhood, paparazzi start shouting at my car like I might have a Calloway sister in my backseat. And the questions they ask are fucked up.” He taps the steering wheel and then sets his aqua-blue eyes on me, a mixture of blue and light green—one of the most unique colors I’ve ever seen. “If you need a ride on Monday, let me know.” He must note the surprise on my face because he adds, “I wake up early.”
“It’s out of your way,” I remind him, though going to a new school with someone sounds a lot less anxiety-ridden than going alone.
But Garrison?
What if it’s some joke? What if this is like Never Been Kissed and it’ll end with him driving by and chucking eggs at me?
He says he’s not popular, but he has all the makings of a popular high schooler: toned biceps that indicate his athleticism (i.e. he plays a sport), a face that’d be the lead in any CW show—or at least the little brother to the star (i.e. like Jeremy from The Vampire Diaries), and messy brown hair that sometimes touches his eyelashes—hair that says I could be in a boy band, but I’m too cool for that shit.
Not to mention his tattoo.
And his confident yet dark scowl…
I suddenly draw this conclusion: I don’t know Garrison Abbey. Not enough to say whether or not he’d chuck eggs at me.
If I really believed he’d do that though, I would’ve never climbed in his car.
“I know it’s out of the way,” he says as the light turns green. “I also don’t care. I usually try to waste three hours in the morning anyway.”
