My phone alarm eventually convinces me to sit up. Shit, I slept in my greasy work overalls - again. The fucking transmission, that fuck head father promised that fucker, took forever to fix last night.

I rub my eyes with the heel of my hand, trying to remove the sleep without getting slick transmission fluid in them. The sweet smell reminds me of working on my first transmission with Dad. I pulled the wrong bolt and transmission fluid gushed across my school clothes. Mom yelled while Dad laughed. Although Dad didn’t have to wash my clothes, nor did Mom. I washed them.

I pull my greasy right hand through my tangled, mud-brown hair. Fuck it, no time for a shower. Deodorant will have to do. I find my least dirty school shirt and skirt. I need to fix the fucking useless washer so I can do laundry.

I pull into Steve’s Gas’n’Go for my usual breakfast: a bag of salt and vinegar chips, a caramel dark chocolate bar, and black coffee.

The truck engine makes banging noises when I turn it off. I need to figure out what my baby needs. This weekend, after the washer. I park in front of the same piss yellow house I do every school day. I love that I can park my beat-up classic truck anywhere. The homeowner waits for me with arms crossed and scowling. He has left notes for the past week under my wipers, which I have bunched up and thrown in his stupid roses.

“Hey, don’t park there. My mother needs to park there,” the wrinkled, bald guy steps closer, holding a piece of yellow paper.

I salute him with my middle finger and pull out my aluminum Louisville slugger bat.

“Hey, I mean it,” he steps closer and raises his fists.

“Really? Because this says, I can. Do you want to talk to it?” I smack the bat in my hand and step closer, slamming the truck door.

“You wouldn’t dare,” Baldy steps backward and opens his fists.

“The bat’s easy to clean,” I step closer and spin the bat.

His body softens and shuffles backward, “I’ll call the police.”

“Sure, do that, fat, old guy. I’m a sweet catholic girl. Fuck, I’ll crack your head open and claim rape,” I step closer. His eyes widen while he shuffles backward, bumping his heels on his steps, “You wouldn’t dare.”

I toss the bat between my hands, take a practice swing, and step closer. Fuck head stumbles backward up his stairs, backing into his front aluminum screen door, and the bang makes him jump. I smack the bat into my palm, “I fucking love that sound.”

He retreats into his house. I breathe in the rose smell with a faint shit taint.

He needs to stop harassing me, or I may need to smash a window or two, starting with the truck-sized front window he hides behind. A large rock, like one from his shit garden, might do the trick. When in doubt, smash it. I give him the finger and turn away in control of my anger.

The bat clangs in the back of the truck, perfect toss, and I stride to school.

Cute girls fill the hallway with smiling faces and perky breasts under crisp white shirts with long-toned legs standing, shifting, and walking under plaid skirts. I love this school, as this morning view makes getting up worth it. I inhale the tangy strawberry scents overlayed with rose oil and a slight metallic musk.

A cute, younger girl backs into me, stepping on my steel-toed boots, and says, “Sorry, Samantha.” Twin braids, glasses, braces, and little pointy breasts greet me. A rose smell, smelling like the bush Mom planted under my bedroom window, wafts from her shiny brown hair.

I hate people calling me what Mom does, Samantha, “Fucking, Bitch.” I grab the front of her shirt instead of her breasts like I want, but this will have to do. I push her back against the metal locker, making a loud, grating twang.

Principal ‘No Fun’ emerges from her office door and saves Cutie, “Samatha, stop!”

God must love this girl. I love this girl. I want to love this girl. Unfortunately, girls like her do not like girls like me.

I wave at the principal and walk away, pushing between a small group of girls. Two start to say something before the other two stop them, pointing at me. Little girls need to respect their elders.

Mrs. Annoying stands in the hallway and hands out flyers. I politely take one. I see no point in making enemies with the old dragon. Besides, Dad hates her, and Mom fears her.

She stares at something on my shoulder. Possibly grease. “It will consume you,” her scowl tells me everything. She must see the bags under my eyes and smell my rushed morning, “Don’t give in.”

Her frail, veined hand reaches for my hand, but I slip away, “I won’t.”

Someone understands and cares. I wish my useless parents cared. I could talk more with ‘Dragon Lady.’ She does care. But I better not because caring and crazy do not make a great combo.

I stand taller and walk to class while squeaky girl voices grate on my poor, tired ears.

Mrs. Barrett stands and scowls at the class. She claims to care, but if she did, she wouldn’t teach such crap. The other girls ask such stupid questions. Why do we waste our time with this stuff? Useless worksheets in a fucking, useless class.

The whole thing about sinning when a person has sex seems stupid. I mean, what if Jesus wanted to fuck me, he can’t sin, so would we sin having sex or not? Hey, great question - Is sex with Jesus a sin? That will blow Mrs. Barrett’s, and the whole class’s, minds.

Yeah, when she reads it, then boom, blood spurts out of her head like a hot radiator getting unscrewed. Then the other girls will cry. Hell, Sarah, the girl who doesn’t even know what the word sex means, would curl up in a ball and die. Mary, the little goth girl, might survive.

I yawn while waiting for class to start. I need to get some more magic pills from Morgan. The last ones kept me up for four fucking days. I got so much work done. Although, it sucked to sleep for two straight days after. I hope she works out the kinks soon.

Another yawn, I need something.

I write the question and stay awake for the first part of the class. I miss the questions and answers, waking up for the worksheet on “Why God Loves You and How to Find That Love in the Perfect Man.” So useless.

Vivian stops in the doorway and I bump into her, “Sorry, Sam, I didn’t see you.”

I think she’s part Canadian because she apologizes so much.

“No problem,” I growl, then soften, “I bumped you.”

“But I stopped.”

“Don’t fucking apologize for everything that happens. You didn’t do shit.”

“Ok, sorry,” Vivian offers her arms to hug. I roll my eyes and push past as she says again, “Sorry.”

I clench my jaw. Reminding myself, if you can’t say anything pleasant, shut the fuck up.

Morgan stands talking with Taylor. I sneak up and grab her under the armpits.

“What the hell,” Morgan jumps and turns with a raised hand, “I hate that.”

She turns back to Taylor. She can never take a joke. “What do you want?” Morgan asks me but stays facing Taylor.

I glance at Taylor, “Go do a handstand or something.”

Taylor rolls her eyes at me and walks away to talk with Vivian.

Fuck, I didn’t mean to growl. I wanted to sound funny.

Morgan turns to me, “What?”

“Nothing,” I mumble, annoyed and flustered.

Morgan turns and joins Vivian and Taylor. All three turn away from me, laughing extra loud, showing they want nothing to do with me - stupid teenage girls.

The cutie girl from earlier once again walks into me, her much smaller frame ricocheting off me and into the lockers. Her phone flies from her hand and lands on the floor.

“I’m so sorry, Samatha,” she dives for her phone.

“Sam,” I growl under my breath.

I want to smash her cute face, with its pale rosy lips, bright red, rosy cheeks, and blue rose eyes, what the fuck? Why do I gush over a stupid, vapid girl?

She picks up her phone. Her eyes glisten as she stares at a small crack in the upper corner. Fingers trembling, she touches the screen, it flickers, and the phone and her face brighten.

“You need a new phone,” I try to act polite and make small talk.

“But it’s new,” she says, and I chuckle at her joke. The model came out over five years ago, and scratches cover the white back. She peeks under the top eyelids, “Dad bought it for my birthday,” her smile shatters my response. I grunt and walk away for Math class.

Useful math. I wish we learned real things instead of the junk Mrs. Water-For-Brains teaches us.

I whisper to Amara, who sits behind me, “What do I care what X means?”

“It’s three,” she never gets the joke.

I close my eyes, shake my head, and whisper so only I can hear, “I know it’s three. The fucking world knows it’s three.”

How can teenagers act so fucking dense? I start to say to Amara, “I meant...”

Mrs. Why-Can’t-She-Teach-Something-Useful yells at the class, “No talking, Samatha!”

I growl, peer at her crisp, bland pants, and say under my breath, “I’m Sam.”

I don’t dare correct the teacher. I remain focused on nothing in class.

The bell rings, and I avoid my classmates, sneak into the washroom, pretend to use it, but instead remove the bits of grease and tranny fluid from my cheeks and neck.

As I exit, the cute girl stands surrounded by her peers and explains something that causes them all to laugh.

I walk up behind her and bump her, causing her to turn, eyes angry, scowling before her face softens, cheeks flush rose red, “Sorry, Samatha.”

“It’s Sam!” I growl and walk away. Why did I bump her?

Her friends erupt in laughter. I shake my head at how stupid teenagers act.

Science class teaches nothing important, like thermodynamics, chemical reactions, or anything useful. Instead, we learn stupid cell stuff. What a waste of a good idea. Who the fuck cares about things you can’t see doing things that don’t matter.

Mr. Ryan drones on.

I lean forward to Sarah, “Hey, what did the baby cell say when it stubbed its toe?”

“Shhhh,” ‘Little Miss Innocent’ never talks to me.

“My-toe-is,” I whisper to no one.

I glance at Judith, debating moving a seat to sit beside her. She appears flushed but healthier today.

Instead, I pull out my phone and read up on how to replace the locking mechanism on our washer.

Finally, lunch arrives.

I forgot to buy something at the gas station, so I need to drive somewhere to get something.

The cute little girl stands beside a worn guy, his head buried in an old Mustang’s engine, not a cool one, but from the era when they made them small and ugly.

I want to walk past, not my problem, but the sparkle of braces, and the concern on Cutie’s face, stop me. Against my better judgment, I walk over.

The old guy has moved to the driver’s seat and turns the key. The starter misfires. He needs a new starter. On these old cars, I can replace one in ten minutes with no fancy tools or jack needed.

Cutie stands in front of the car, playing with her braid, “Dad, what’s wrong?”

Her dad keeps turning the key, hoping the starter will magically get fixed, “Not sure, baby, it won’t start.”

Moving closer, I gaze at the engine, my favorite and the best made, an inline six.

“It’s your starter,” I tell him.

Cutie waves to me, “Hey, Samatha.”

Her dad glances at me and returns to turning the key, “Yeah, I know it won’t start. I’m trying to fix it.”

I turn to leave, “Ok, then, whatever.”

Cutie reaches to touch my arm but stops short, “Samatha, can you fix it? Dad needs the car for work.”

While she looks cute, I don’t want to fix a stupid car on my lunch break. But my insides turn squishy with her smile, her dimples, braided air, and puppy eyes - too fucking cute. I frown at her, “Swap the starter, and you’re good to go.”

Dad turns the key, but the starter doesn’t click this time, “It’s ok, little girl. I got this.”

“Fucking men,” I say under my breath. “Great, yeah, just keep turning the key. It’ll work eventually,” I shout and walk away. Maybe I will have a pizza sub for lunch.

“Dad, Samatha works on cars.”

“It’s SAM!”

Her eyes mist. Fuck it. I don’t need this.

“Sorry, Sam.” Cutie looks even cuter while almost crying.

“Don’t yell at my daughter,” the dad says as he exits the car and steps closer to me.

As if I’ll ever back down from such a little man. I’ve stood up to my fuckhead father. I’ve taken a beating from a much bigger man.

“What are you going to do about it,” I step closer to him, staring up into his eyes, daring him to hit me. The little cutie steps between us, facing away from me, “Dad, Sam works at a garage. She knows cars and she can help.”

To his credit, he instantly backs down. Did this fucker get upset because I yelled at his daughter? Did he try to protect her? No fucking way.

I turn to leave, “Whatever.”

Cutie puts her dainty hand on my shoulder. So soft and calming, like a lifeline in a turbulent sea, and while the sea’s still crazy, wet, and cold, I no longer drown. What the fuck does she think? Does she want to save me?

No, she needs me to fix her father’s car. Still, she looks adorable in her frayed white shirt and faded tartan skirt. Even her ratty black shoes look cute.

“I can’t afford...” the dad begins while his arm slips around Cutie’s shoulder. OK, here it comes, the sob story. “But I will pay you if you can fix it.” He sounds sincere. They always sound sincere.

“Sam, please, help,” Cutie’s hand gently tightens on my upper arm.

I turn to face him. His eyes plead, but something else shines through, an embarrassment to ask. His eyes say he wants to pay me. Interesting. Maybe Cutie’s dad has a moral compass and won’t try to cheat a young schoolgirl, like most of our customers.

“The Junker probably has a starter. They used these inline sixes in the Capri’s and shit. I can head over, pull it, and put it in over lunch.”

“Thank you, Sam,” Cutie hugs me.

I refuse to hug her back. She doesn’t want a fuck up like me. She just can’t control her enthusiasm and politeness. I can’t let her find out about all the shit in my life and the fucked-up world I live in.

“Just a second,” the dad retreats to his car, returning with a cloth-wrapped sandwich.

“Have my lunch since you will be missing yours,” he thrusts the sandwich towards me. Why does he give me his lunch?

“No, I gotta go,” I turn and resume my journey to the truck.

Wow, weird fucking guy. Fuck, I didn’t negotiate a price, and even shittier, I agreed to use my lunch break to fix another fucking car.

Stupid hormones. Just because Cutie has a nice smile and cute braids doesn’t mean I have to say yes.

So fucking stupid of me. Braces, glasses, a yummy chest, and I fall over myself to help. So fucking pathetic.

The truck’s unlock beat greets me. Shit, I could spend my lunch fixing my baby. Instead, I must help blue eyes. Well, I can’t change anything now. I must grin and bear it, like all the other shitty things in my life.

“So, where are we going?” Cutie hops into the passenger seat.

FUCK.

“I am going to the junkyard to get a starter motor for your dad’s car. You are going elsewhere,” I scowl at her. I don’t need airhead intruding on my time.

“Right. OK, here, I brought the sandwich, and you can have my apple or cut-up cucumber if you want,” Cutie thrusts the pathetic wrapped sandwich at me.

Fuck it. I don’t care if the little cutie wants to get all dirty. Not my problem.

She keeps pushing the sandwich at me. The cloth has little cleaning buckets and mops on it.

“Mom made it for Dad. He does the night shift downtown,” she waves the sandwich at me.

Persistent little fucker, “Fine.” I grab the sandwich and toss it on the dashboard.

My stomach growls at me. The little cutie turned my whole body against me. So, fucking dangerous, I could grow to like this smiley, petite girl. The last thing I need, and not something she would want.

The truck engine starts with a strange rattle and sputters before roaring to life. Maybe the timing. Fuck, I need to fix my baby instead of helping this girl.

“Dad was dropping off my lunch,” Cutie says in a sweet, girly voice, the opposite of mine. “He doesn’t get to see me after school, and he’s sleeping when I leave for school, so he likes to visit me at lunch.”

Sure, whatever. But I enjoy Cutie talking. Her sweet voice soothes my anger and disappointment with myself.

“His car hasn’t sounded good for weeks, but he doesn’t have enough money saved yet.”

I can’t believe I let her tag along.

“Tuition went up again, so things have been a little tight financially, but Dad says education is the most important thing. I think it’s because he didn’t graduate high school. Mom says it’s because I’m his only child, and he wants to spoil me, but I think it’s because he loves me.”

Fuck, I know the tuition increased. My brother and I fought about it last week. He wants me to go to public school to save money. But fuck if that will happen. While we learn useless things in Catholic school, at least the principal cares about us and keeps the place clean. I wouldn’t last a week in public school before I punched someone out, and the principal expelled me for not acting respectfully enough. At Catholic school, I don’t fit in, but they accept and tolerate me.

We pull up to my place, and Cutie asks, “Is this the junkyard? It looks like a house.”

Shit, she will laugh at our crappy little house. I haven’t mowed the lawn, and I still haven’t painted the front door.

“It’s nice. We live in a small apartment. Oh, I love your flowers.”

I try, but fail, to repress a smile, since I planted the flowers last year. I love the red and yellow against our mass-produced white house.

“Stay in the truck. I need to get my tools,” I growl and slam the door as I exit, embarrassed that grass and weeds grow through the walkway slabs.

A greasy pepperoni pizza smell greets me as I walk in the door. Fuck, right, I need lunch.

Mom and Dad sleep cuddled on the couch. Princess Bride, my favorite movie as a child, plays on the TV. Mom and I would cuddle on the couch while Dad made popcorn and hot chocolate. He always asked if I wanted marshmallows, I always did, and he always responded with, “As you wish.”

I smile at their peaceful faces. A pizza box sits on the coffee table. Awesome, lunch. I open the box to nothing, only a bit of gross melted cheese in the center.

“I love this movie,” Cutie stands behind me.

I need to learn her name. No, we can’t grow into friends.

“Whatever,” I stomp off to my bedroom.

“This is a nice house. So big,” she follows me through the kitchen, down the hallway, and into my messy room.

Clothes, tools, and a small lawn mower engine I plan to fix for the neighbors lay scattered around my room.

“K-Pop, I love K-Pop, and S.E.S. is the best,” she skips closer to my poster of the original K-pop mega band. The three cute Korean girls hold each other in their classic clothes.

I ignore her, move clothing off my portable tool case, and grab her warm and soft hand to leave.

She has calluses on her palm. Does this cute thing work?

I drag her through our unkept house. She pauses in the front room, “I love this part.”

On the TV, the princess pushes Wesley down the hill. I also love this part. But I pull her from the house before she notices the empty vodka bottles, beer cans, or small pieces of tin foil and crack pipe.

“Where to now? You have a beautiful house. We live in a small apartment. I loved all your K-pop posters. I have pictures of cats, dogs, and horses that Mom drew. She’s a good artist.”

While cute, she will not shut up, and I prefer to drive in silence. However, she does have a sweet voice.

“Oh, this is the junkyard. Wow, so many broken cars.”

While a small junkyard, it has a few older cars that will have the starter motor I need. I park and don’t bother telling Cutie to stay in the truck. I don’t care if she gets her clothes dirty, and she wouldn’t listen anyway.

Opening the rusty chain-link fence notifies Killer someone has arrived. The squat, black bulldog barks before he runs towards us. Foam falls from his mouth as he splashes through dirty, oil-covered puddles.

“He’s...” I begin to say, but Cutie squats, arms out, cooing, “Who’s a cute dog? You’re a cute doggy. Yes, you are.” She pets him, getting drool all over her hands. How did she know under the vicious exterior lies the gentlest dog ever?

Bill, the owner, steps out of the temporary prefabrication shack, “Hey Sam, who’s your friend?” The white-haired guy limps over to us, rubbing greasy-covered hands on his blue dirt-encrusted overalls.

“I’m Mary Sue, and you have the cutest dog,” Cutie thrusts out her salvia-covered hand to shake Bill’s.

Who names their kid ‘Mary Sue’? Seriously, way too fucking cute for a real person.

Bill glances at her dainty, slimy hand and nods. Jerk, why won’t he shake her hand? She only has dog salvia on it, his dog’s saliva. And grease covers his hands, yet she, in politeness, offered her hand to shake.

“We need a starter for an inline-six, 1980 Mustang.”

“Back corner, there’s a 1981 mercury,” Bill waves to the back.