The Cusp of 30 (Working Title)

Chapter 7: "A Horrible Request."

I didn't text Antonella back. I figured I'd walk by her trailer on my way home and run into her anyway, which I did.

"Sup, girl?" she said, sliding from underneath a car. She used a towel to wipe sweat off her forehead, smearing across a nice streak of black grease.

I decided best not to mention it. "Hey, I got your text."

"Yeah," she said. "I almost went into the store today, but I didn't want to seem pushy."

I was relieved she hadn't. "Let's wait for next week, maybe when the bruising goes down a bit," I said, using my finger to trace a circle around my nose.

"Oh, I get it." She crossed her arms. "You don't want everyone knowing you're a big bully, right?"

"No," I said, "they're all already totally aware."

I was caught off guard by her sudden burst of laughter, making me feel a bit insulted—she knew I was kidding, right?— but also surprisingly happy. I even started to chuckle a little bit too, and I realized it had been a long time since I genuinely laughed with someone.

She took a deep breath before pointing to the car she'd been working on.

"I'm actually really glad you stopped by," she said.

"Yeah, well, I was walking by and—"

"This is for you," she said, softly kicking the side of a very beat up Toyota.

"What are you talking about?" I asked. I wasn't laughing anymore.

She smiled. "It's mine, but I can't drive it for another twelve months, and it's just fucking taking up space." She wiped her nose, smearing around a little more grease.

"Why are you trying to give me your car?" I said.

Her smile dropped, and I could see that she felt my mistrust.

"I remember you saying you're still making payments on the whip your mom crashed, and I just figured that—"

"That you'd give me a car and I would, what, fuck you or something?" If the car hadn't already been covered in dents, I would have kicked it.

"Christ," she said, bringing her fingers up to her temples, "you are so fucking cocky for a blind bitch with an eyepatch."

I was disappointed that she couldn't come up with anything besides another eyepatch insult—as if my height or weight weren't just staring her in the face.

"Well, sorry this 'blind bitch' knows how to see through fake ass, manipulative people. No one just gives anyone anything without expecting something in return." This was something I had learned the hard way after my first junior high boyfriend paid for my movie ticket, then walked out of the theater when I refused to stick my hand down his pants, saying something along the lines of, Why did I even bring you here?

"Look," she said, "all I was trying to do was thank you for giving me a job..." She rolled her eyes and began to rub her elbows. "...and, yes, maybe I thought you could give me a lift home here and there if our shifts lined up, or if I really needed a ride once in a while."

There was the stipulation I had been waiting for. I didn't want to make this promise to her, but I also didn't want to turn down a perfectly functioning car when I desperately could use one, and I knew that with the time I saved waiting around for the bus, I could work a second job and maybe finally get out of debt.

"What about your brothers? Jimmy's old enough to drive, so shouldn't this be his?"

She laughed. "My brother wouldn't be caught in this piece of shit."