Miss Mechanic

“I’m good enough, damn it!” I slammed my fist against the table and instantly regretted it. Wasn’t that what she was talking about?

“I know that.” Mom’s voice was still soft, even as she began the process of mashing the potatoes. “But others don’t, and I don’t want anyone to dim your passion, baby girl.”

“My passion doesn’t depend upon the acceptance of other people. It never has, and it never will. I won’t stop wanting to be the best I can be just because someone else decides I’m not good enough.”

“I’m so thankful you have such a positive outlook.” She pulled plates from the cupboard. “But one day, it might happen. Someone might make you believe you aren’t good enough, and I worry you aren’t prepared for that.”

“Mom.” I met her eyes. “I’ve spent the last several months being rejected for jobs in a field I’m more than qualified in because I’m a woman. I’m twenty-six-years-old and can’t date because I can fit a spare tire quicker than my date. I’ve loved what I do longer than I can remember. Someone’s opinion will not change that.”

The front door slammed before she could reply.

“What’s for dinner?” Dad asked, strolling into the kitchen in a waft of motor oil and fresh air. The strangest mix known to man, but oddly comforting.

“Chicken, mashed potatoes, and veggies,” Mom replied.

“What are we talking about?” He dragged his two-hundred-and-fifty-pound frame over to the sink and squirted bright purple soap into his palms.

“Assholes writing me off,” I cut right to the chase.

He snorted.

Mom sighed. “Not at all. I’m simply worried that someone, somewhere, will make her question her worth.”

Dad shut off the tap and pulled the towel off her shoulder. “Jamie? Question her worth? As what? A person or a mechanic?”

“Right now…Mechanic.”

Dad blinked at her, then turned his salt-and-pepper stubble-dotted face toward me. “Sunshine, if they do, throw your wrench in their face. I’ll pay your bail.”

I grinned. “While you’re in such a good mood, I applied for a job at the old garage.”

He pulled a beer from the fridge. Without blinking, he replied, “Well, he’s a fucking idiot if he doesn’t hire you, sunshine.”

I couldn’t agree more.

Chapter Two – Jamie

To:

From:

Subject: RE: Job Application

Jamie,

Apologies for the late reply. If you’re free, I can see you at 11.30 today for an interview.

Please bring ID, a hard copy of your resume, and a certification of your qualifications.

Best,

Dexter Ryne

To:

From:

Subject: RE: Job Application

Mr. Ryne,

Thank you for your response. I’ll be at your garage just before 11.30 today with your requested materials.

Many thanks,

Jamie

***

I pulled into the courtyard of Ryne Garages. Shivers crept down my spine as goosebumps trickled over my skin. It just felt wrong—all of it.

It shouldn’t have a sign that read Ryne Garages. It should have been Bell Garages. The walls should have been white and not yellow. The plant outside the front door should have been a cactus and not…whatever the hell that mess was.

It was easy to pick.

It was everything that was wrong with my family’s name not being in lights over this garage.

Whatever.

I’d look past it, walk in, and get this interview over and done with. I had to. Even if my mom’s words constantly rang in my mind.

What if my passion was killed?

I was so sure it wouldn’t be. Some things were so deeply embedded in one’s soul there was no pulling them out—like a staple gun to the butt—and I knew cars were that for me.

They were fucking everything. Life and soul and oxygen. I loved them more than I knew how to love anything. It was so natural to me.

But what if someone possessed the power to break that?

It was a deep and irrational fear, but a legitimate one all the same.

And now, I was faced with it. It was right in front of me. A big-ass threat I didn’t know if I was mentally equipped to deal with.

I pulled my keys from the ignition.

No, I was equipped. I was ready. I’d lived my life with a refusal to make anyone make me feel like I was worth less than I knew I was, and I wasn’t going to change that now.

I was Jamie Fucking Bell. I was a mechanic’s daughter. I’d once painted a car with motor oil on an order form at the age of three, and I’d once written an English essay while cross-legged on the hood of a ’69 Mustang that was being restored for my uncle.

There wasn’t a damn thing anyone could teach me about a car that I didn’t already know.

I bled motor oil. I breathed the rancid air of gas. And I fought every day against the discrimination of that.

And I was tired of people putting me down because I had a pair of boobs.

I got out of my car and slammed the door behind me. Something that would make my father cringe—two years restoring the aforementioned ’69 Mustang was a proud moment of his, and although the teal-blue car had always been destined for me, it didn’t mean he liked when I “hurt that baby.”