“I’m sorry,” I repeated. “I forgot your chipotle ranch dressing.”
Eddie’s scowl remained, but Andrea sighed, as if relieved I wasn’t going to try to recruit them into some obscure religion or solicit funds for a questionable charity.
“Don’t worry about it,” she said. “We never use that stuff, anyway.”
“That’s not the point,” Eddie mumbled, then gave me one last glare before closing the door in my face.
Well, then.
This evening had quickly turned into a parade of my failures, from my unfinished degree to my inability to remember a damn condiment. Moments like these made me wish I had a personal development coach, or a spiritual guru. Someone—anyone—who could just tell me how to live my life.
Of course, coaches and gurus were luxuries I couldn’t afford. Not on my meager GrubGetter income, and certainly not if I kept standing here, blinking back tears on Professor Trammel’s doorstep. So I took a deep, shaky breath and headed back down the puddle-strewn walkway toward my car. Which looked so out of place on this pristine cul-de-sac.
For over a decade, I’d been driving a little Honda Civic. It was painted an awful shade of teal, except for the passenger-side door, which was black, for some reason. The clear coat was peeling and there was a spiderweb crack in the windshield that had been there ever since my senior year of high school, when I’d bought it off some shady dude on Craigslist with money I’d saved up by tutoring neighborhood kids. It was far from glamorous, but it ran just fine, and it’s not like I was in a position to be picky.
Despite my spotty maintenance record, this car had served me well. But as I slipped into the driver’s seat, a sudden thought filled me with shame. Maybe if I’d stuck it out in college, I’d be driving something better by now.
Whatever. No sense dwelling on the woulda, coulda, shoulda. Natasha always said, Don’t look back, because that’s not where you’re going. Or something. She was always spouting off these aphorisms, I couldn’t keep them straight. They were annoying. And, usually, annoyingly accurate.
I pulled up the GrubGetter app and tapped the “Available for Pickup” button to find my next assignment. You might think delivering food is a rather brainless endeavor, but believe it or not, there’s a strategy involved. Like hanging out in busy areas with lots of restaurants nearby, working peak mealtimes, and choosing the most expensive restaurants to increase the likelihood of bigger tips. That’s why I loved working The Chicken Coop. Those forty-dollar ten pieces of fried chicken often yielded nice profits at the end of my shift.
Fortunately, there was a fried chicken order awaiting delivery. Before I could claim it, though, my phone buzzed in my hand and the screen flashed with an incoming call from Natasha. My sister was the only person in my contacts list—possibly, the only person in the entire world—who still made unsolicited phone calls. She probably wanted to talk about her latest professional organizing project, which would undoubtedly lead into some passive-aggressive remark about the cluttered state of my own apartment.
No thanks.
With one swipe, I declined the call. If it was really important, she’d text me, like normal people did.
By the time I returned to the GrubGetter screen, my coveted Chicken Coop job had been claimed by another driver. Dammit. Competition was fierce in this neighborhood during dinnertime. I settled for a delivery from the less desirable Burger Bar, because a job was a job, and the more time I spent parked in Professor Trammel’s driveway, the less money I had in my pocket.
After tapping the “Claim” button, I slid my key into the ignition and turned, expecting to hear the satisfying and slightly humiliating rumble of my ancient engine. But there was only a hollow click, followed by a sad staccato whine. And then, nothing.
No.
I cranked it again. Still no juice.
No, no, no, no, no.
Panic swelled beneath my ribs. This could not be happening. Driving for GrubGetter was my only source of income; obviously, I needed a functioning car to get the job done. I turned the key again and again, pumping the gas, then the brake, as if that would make any difference.
It didn’t, of course. My car was dead.
The worst part was, I knew this was coming. The check engine light blinked on two weeks ago and never went off. I should’ve driven it to the mechanic immediately for an inspection, but that would’ve required cash, which was in eternal short supply. So, I told myself it probably wasn’t that serious and proceeded to ignore those two angry yellow words screaming at me from the dashboard.
Now I was stuck blocking Professor Trammel’s driveway, with the seconds ticking down on a Burger Bar pickup that I was going to have to cancel. I had never canceled a pickup before. My immaculate GrubGetter record was being tarnished in all sorts of new and horrible ways today.
As I considered the ramifications of abandoning my car on this cul-de-sac, my phone buzzed with another call from Natasha. Two calls in five minutes was unheard of, even for her. Maybe there was an actual emergency.
With a racing heart, I answered. “Hey, everything okay?”
“Can you babysit Izzy next Friday?”
“Oh.” I exhaled, partly relieved, partly annoyed. “Maybe, I’m not sure.”
“Well, I need to know now. If you can’t, I have to book a sitter. The last one just canceled on me.”
Normally, I’d have jumped at the chance to hang out with my six-year-old niece, but then I glanced down at the keys dangling uselessly from my ignition. “I don’t know. You’d have to come pick me up or something. My car just died.” My voice caught on the last word, but I swallowed the sob.
Natasha clucked her tongue. “You never started that car maintenance log, did you?”
I clenched my teeth to keep from screaming.
“What’s wrong with it?” she asked.
“I have no idea. It literally just died right this second. I’m stalled out in the driveway of some house...” I trailed off, not wanting her to know where I was.
“Have you called AAA?”
As if I could spare the funds for a AAA membership. “I don’t have it.”
Another cluck of the tongue, followed by a sigh. To Natasha, my whole life was exasperating. “You can use mine.”
This was the thing about my sister: even though she often made me feel like the biggest screwup on the planet, she never left me out in the cold.
“Thanks.”
“No problem. I’ll call for you right now. Where are you?”
“Um...” I looked around the cul-de-sac. A man across the street was rolling a large gray trash can out of his garage. As he plopped it in the gutter with a loud thunk, he paused and narrowed his eyes in my direction. People in this neighborhood didn’t appreciate stragglers, especially those in beat-up cars. I quickly looked away. “I can just call myself.”