She takes care of her shit.
I stick the key in the ignition and try to start it. It doesn’t even try and turn over. Just makes a clicking sound. I try again, but nothing.
And I’ve got nothing either. Sure, this could be a simple run out of gas situation. But maybe it’s something else. Ellie bought the car the summer before her senior year for cheap. It already had over one hundred thousand miles on it. But it ran and she only paid around fifteen hundred bucks, which was a lot of money for her. I always worried about her driving around in this car. Figured it close to falling apart at any time.
I climb out of the car and make my way over to her, standing beneath the tree. It’s as hot as a bitch outside, and I see she’s sweating despite being in the shade.
“How old is the car again? 2005?”
“2003,” she admits.
I frown. “It’s eighteen years old.”
She nods.
“The same age as you,” I say, as if she needs the reminder.
I’m sure she doesn’t.
She rolls her eyes. “Ooookay.”
“Weren’t you born in ‘03?”
“Stop.” She shoves my shoulder, but I don’t really move. “Do you think it’s just out of gas? Or something worse?”
“Has it been acting up?”
“What do you mean?”
“I don’t know—engine stalling? Having trouble starting? Lights flickering? When was the last time you replaced your battery?” I’m throwing questions at her and she looks overwhelmed. And I don’t even know if I’m asking the right questions.
“I haven’t replaced the battery since I bought it,” she admits.
She’s only owned it a year, so that’s not too big an issue. I suppose I could look under the hood. Don’t batteries have a purchase date on them?
Feeling like a macho asshole who secretly doesn’t know what he’s doing, I pop the hood and check the battery, squinting at the faded letters and numbers engraved on top of it. Ellie watches me from her spot under the tree, her brows furrowed, as if she’s confused by what I’m doing.
I get it. I don’t know shit about cars. I’m not dressed for what I’m doing either, clad in black basketball shorts and a torn, faded Tame Impala T-shirt with Nike slides on my feet.
“It might be your battery,” I tell her once I slam the hood down. “Do you have an emergency tow service? Triple A?”
She slowly shakes her head.
I get pissed. Why wouldn’t her parents give her something like that? She’s all alone down here, driving a shitty car, working at a restaurant until late at night. She needs some extra protection.
“I have Triple A,” I tell her. “I could have them tow it to a mechanic.”
“I don’t know,” she says warily. “How about we test the gas theory first?”
We drive to a Pep Boys close by and I buy a gas tank for her. She insists on paying, but I won’t let her, which irritates her.
I don’t really care.
We go to a gas station next, and she literally pushes me out of the way at the pump, shoving her debit card into the reader before I can manage to pull out my credit card.
“You shouldn’t use a debit card at the pump,” I tell her as she punches in all her information.
“Why not?” She glances over her shoulder at me.