Speed of Life by J.M. Kelly Page B

It’s all cars. Sometimes he tells me about his girlfriend, Olivia, but I think it’s his way of making sure I don’t fall for him. Believe me, that’s so not going to happen. I could never see myself with someone who carries titanium chopsticks in his glove compartment so he doesn’t have to eat sushi with wooden ones at restaurants.
    Now that David’s not hovering all the time, it’s easier to tolerate him being around. Jimmy’s got him doing easy repair jobs, and I even show him how to change his brakes one afternoon. His car is so beautiful, it’s a joy to work on it. When it’s up on the lift and I’m standing under it looking at the immaculate undercarriage, I have to ask him, “How the hell do you keep it so clean?”
    â€œI don’t drive it in the rain.”
    I shouldn’t be surprised. That’s how most car guys treat their babies, but I guess I never noticed David driving anything else. “How do you get around eight months of the year?”
    â€œThat Mini Cooper in the lot’s mine,” he says. “Well, my mom’s.”
    â€œOh, right. I should have known. I’ve seen it taking up two spots too.”
    He laughs. “My mom’ll kill me if I ding it.”
    â€œIt’s, like, the size of a shoebox,” I say. “You could park it sideways and still only use one spot.”
    He laughs again. “Yeah, okay. Point taken.”
    Â 
    The Sunday before Christmas, me and David are cleaning up the break room because we’re having our holiday party in there later in the day. Usually, Jimmy takes us all out for Mexican food, but his wife’s laid down the law this year, saying it’s too expensive, so we’re having a potluck at work. Me and David are talking about McPherson, and he’s totally jealous I’m applying. His parents have flat-out refused to pay for school if he goes there.
    â€œThey say on their website that there’s a lot of financial aid,” I tell him.
    â€œYeah, well . . .”
    He lets his words hang there until I realize what he means: they don’t give financial aid to rich boys. I resist the urge to tell him that if it was me, I’d rather borrow the money than go to Stanford and study something I know I’ll hate. But I don’t want advice from him on how to run
my
life, so I keep my mouth shut.
    â€œI can work on cars on the side,” he says.
    â€œI guess.”
    Suggesting that David get financial aid reminds me that Natalie’s not the only thing keeping me awake at night. There’re all those forms. I know I could go ask Ms. Spellerman for help filling them out, but she never remembers who I am and . . . I don’t know. I guess I don’t want her to think I’m totally stupid.
    â€œYou know my sister, Amber?” I ask David, proving just how stupid I am. Of course he knows her. He met her at the library.
    â€œYeah?”
    â€œWell, I’m really good at fixing cars . . .” My face is heating up, not because I’m bragging but because I hate asking for help. I open the microwave and start scrubbing all the gunk off the insides so I don’t have to look at David. “And Amber . . . well, she’s really good at forms and stuff.”
    â€œRight . . .” Out of the corner of my eye I can see he’s stopped sweeping and is staring at me.
    â€œAnd I’m . . . not. I mean, I can do it if I have to, but the application for McPherson? And all the financial aid stuff? I don’t want to screw it up, you know?” My face is really hot now, and I practically stick my head in the oven to hide my blushing, like it’s a matter of life or death.
    â€œAmber won’t help you?” he asks.
    â€œI told you at the SAT class—​she doesn’t know I’m applying.”
    â€œI guess I thought you would’ve told her by now.”
    â€œNot