Angel Burn Read Free

grime — which is black and gross, in case you’re wondering.
    “Would you hand me that wrench? The one with the yellow handle?”
    Nina grumbled to herself as she crouched down to rummage through my tools. “I can’t believe you actually have a
toolbox
. I can’t believe you brought it to
school
with you.” She shoved the wrench into my hand.
    “Fine — should I stop? Just say the word.” I’d already removed her air filter by then and disconnected the fuel line and vacuum hoses. We were in the school parking lot because I had figured it would be easier doing it there than in my garage at home, which is stuffed to the gills with old boxes and bicycles and crap that my aunt keeps meaning to throw out but hasn’t gotten around to yet. I had clearly reckoned without the embarrassment factor, though. Story of my life.
    “Willow! Don’t you dare,” hissed Nina, pulling at her brown bangs. “Look, don’t get all sensitive. Yes, I want it fixed; I just didn’t know that you were going to do it
here —
 that’s all.”
    She glanced furtively over her shoulder at the playing field, obviously keeping an eye out for Scott Mason and his gang of swaggering football heroes. The school day was long over with, but football practice was still going strong. Meanwhile, the student parking lot was like an empty gray ocean around us, with only a few stray cars dotted about here and there.
    “Just be thankful I didn’t do it at lunchtime,” I told her. “I do have some sense of decorum, you know. Oh, come
on,
you —” I gritted my teeth as I struggled to turn the wrench, putting all of my weight on it. All at once the nut gave way. “
Ha!
Success.” I spun it free, then pulled the old carburetor out and checked it against the new one. Perfect match. Which was sort of a miracle, given that Nina’s Corvette practically belonged in the Smithsonian.
    Nina wrinkled her nose. “Decorum? You? Don’t make me laugh. Like, what are you
wearing
?”
    “Clothes?”
    “Willow. You look like  . . .  I don’t know; I don’t think there’s even a word for it.”
    “Really? Cool.” I grinned as I wiped my hands off on a piece of wadding. “That means I’m unique, right?” Despite the chill in the air, I was wearing a short-sleeved 1950s brocade blouse with my favorite pair of battered jeans. My black velvet jacket was draped over Nina’s open hood, out of harm’s way. I’d bought most of it at Tammy’s Attic, which has to be my favorite store ever.
    Nina closed her eyes and groaned. “Unique. Yes, you could say that. Oh, my God, Pawtucket is
so
not ready for you.”
    This was so true that it wasn’t even worth debating. Instead I took a screwdriver and started to scrape clean the area where the old carburetor had been, getting rid of all the old dirt and gasket material. Beyond gross. Picture a coal pit that’s fallen into an oil slick.
    Nina opened her eyes and peered under the hood. “What are you doing now?” she asked warily.
    “Getting rid all of your disgusting grime.” I showed her the wrench, which was now thick with black goo. “Want to help?”
    “Eww, no.” She sighed and leaned against the side of the car again, twiddling a piece of hair around her finger. “Anyway, what do you have to clean it for? Can’t you just shove the new one in?”
    A strand of my long blond hair fell down as I was working, and I tucked it back behind my ear without looking up. “Good idea. Then it wouldn’t have a perfect seal, so it would start sucking in air like a dying vacuum cleaner, and —”
    Nina straightened up again with a jolt. “Oh, my God! Here comes Beth Hartley!”
    Beth Hartley was one of the stars of Pawtucket High — slim, beautiful, good grades, et cetera. She was a year older than us, almost eighteen, and a senior. Even apart from that, we didn’t exactly move in the same circles. She was on every club and committee there was and basically lived at school. In fact, I think they’d shut