I drop the hood and it clatters down.

“Hey, Willow!” The concerned voice drives nerves throughout my body. Oh my God, Garrison is sprinting over to me, his hoodie wadded up in one hand and his car keys jangling in the other.

“Hey,” I say, pressing my reddened arm to my chest, the sting lessening. I’m shifting so awkwardly that I probably look like I have to pee.

He wafts the smoke above the hood. “What happened?”

“I don’t know… it’s an old car.” I cough as another gust of smoke rushes out towards me.

Garrison motions with his head to the curb. I follow him, vehicles speeding by on the city street.

“Do you know anything about cars?” I ask hopefully.

He shakes his head. “Just computers.” He glances over at the corner street. “I can give you a ride to wherever you need to go. You can call a tow truck or get your cousin to come look at your car in the meantime.”

Cousin? It takes me a moment to register what he means. Loren Hale, my cousin. Which means that Garrison read the debut article about me and my tampons.

I immobilize. Don’t think about it.

“Willow?”

“Uh, yeah…yeah.” I shake my head like I’m trying to rid all the cobwebs. “Thanks. A ride would be great.” I’ll call the tow truck later. So I end up feeding the meter with a few more quarters and then grab my backpack.

“This way.” He nods towards the corner street. We walk a block until he stops by a black Mustang, black leather interior, and black custom rims. It has to be expensive. If it’s not, it does a great job pretending to be.

“This is your car?”

He opens the passenger door for me. “Yeah…I live in the same neighborhood as Loren.” An unspoken truth strains between us: my old car is dying and spurting out smoke one block away. After finding out that we share a few unique similarities, it’s this economic difference that creates the most tension, both of us uncomfortable for different reasons.

“Was that your house that night of the party?” I ask before climbing in. Everything is clean, no stray water bottles or takeout wrappers beneath the seat. My car is a mess of receipts and paper napkins from Wendy’s and Taco Bell.

I’m the slob, I realize. I sink further in the seat and hold my backpack on my lap, hugging it close to my chest.

He answers me when he’s buckled. “Not my house. I live one street over.” He turns to me. “Where do you live?”

“I should’ve told you that it’s kind of out of the way—”

“It’s fine. I have nowhere to be.”

I nod and then give him the address. He plugs it into his phone and docks it on a stand, the GPS alive with directions.

“I thought you’d live with your cousin,” he says, probably thinking I’d have Loren’s type of wealth too. I guess he’s learning differently today.