Seeing Double

Chapter 29 - Boyfriend, Girlfriend, ... WHAT?!

             “Whitley!” a deep, muffled voice yelled from somewhere under the dark blue Mustang convertible next to me, causing me to jump in surprise. I cast a swift glance at the floor, and sure enough, a pair of scruffy leather work boots and a pair of legs covered in a oily and grubby navy blue jumpsuit could be seen portruding from under the vintage car. This must be Ian’s work station then.

            “Pass me a ¼ inch ratchet,” the voice commanded gruffly, never realising over the metallic racket filling the auto-repair garage, that Ian never heard him, or even responded to him. In fact, I haven’t seen Ian myself.

            “Emm,” I hesitated, not sure how to address this faceless man.

            “Hurry up will you?” he snapped, causing me to recoil in surprise.

Afraid of infuriating him even further, I  abandoned my previous plan of telling him about Ian’s absence, and quickly scanned the tools scattered on the cement floor. Picking out the ratchet was easy – a result of being the only girl and spending long hours with Dad and the boys in the garage – and I wordlessly slipped it under the car. When he accepted it without complaint, I straightened up with a relieved sigh and was about to distance myself far, far away from this grump when he called out for Ian again.

“A six inch socket set,” he ordered flatly, and I resignedly rolled a set under the car.

“And a universal joint,” he added with the same detached tone.

Again, wordlessly I passed him one. In fact, I recklessly decided to make myself comfortable on the small, grubby stool. I have more hope of finding Ian anyway if I sit here at his station until he returns from his obviously unofficial break. It was almost comforting, surrounded by the familiar metallic knick-knacks and auto-repair tools I’ve grown up with – remembering that as Ian no longer gets along with my Dad, there have been no more long, late-night sessions in the garage. Sitting on the greasy floor, I take in my surroundings with earnest curiosity. I’ve never been to the garage where Ian works before – well, I’ve never gone in, just outside – and its shocking to find out that Ian would actually deign to spend his time receiving orders from this rude guy under the car. I mean, the Ian I know would have beaten him to pulp for talking to him like that.

“Hey, Whitley,” came the deep voice again, only this time it was less authoritative and more friendly. Maybe he got past a difficult part? “I could use a fresh set of brakes. These are completely fucked,” he grunted.

When I didn’t reply – well, how am I supposed to reply without him noticing I’m not Ian? – he let out an impatient click of his tongue.

“Well? Get me a plier!” he snapped, and I almost jumped out of my seat in fear. It was all I could do not to let out a squeak as I scrambled to pass him the plier. “What’s wrong with you today?” he grumbled, mostly to himself.

After that, he was quiet for a long time. So quiet that I allowed myself to relax and put my head on my knees as I wait for his next command.

“Hey, Whitley!” This time another male voice rang over the garage. Jerking around in shock, I turned around in my stool in time to see a guy in dressed in the garage’s uniform blue jumpsuit jogging over to me. With a sinking sensation, I recognised him as a senior from school.

 “I need to borrow a spanner- Whoa!” he exclaimed upon seeing me, stopping short few feet away. “Who are you?!”

Crap. I bit my lip and merely shrugged resignedly as he continued to gawk at me disbeliefingly.

“Where’s Whitley?” he finally managed to ask, quickly recovering from his shock as I noticed the flicker of familiarity in his eyes. He must have recognised me from school too.