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JULY 20, 2012 / STEELTON AUTOMOTIVE REPAIR AND SERVICING

The air between Vasily and Asher Delrov was still bristling with frustrated tension. 

More than ever, Vasily wished his wife could be here; this was the rebellious phase she had warned him about, the one he had laughed at, claiming, "It'll be a breeze." Now, his faith in his parenting skills was crumbling again, like it did when he went through Asher's first broken bone.

A pounding headache had made its home in Asher's forehead, reminding him of the incredible night that had led him by his lips into disaster. Not even the strongest of cheap, packet coffees could drive it away. Through breakfast, Asher bit down on the pain; he refused to speak to — or even acknowledge — Vasily. 

The silent treatment: not a very mature way to deal with his anger, but the only method Asher could calm himself down enough to use. He was still too angry about the previous to even try for amicable conversation.

On the drive to the repair shop where Asher had applied for a job, no words were tossed around — Asher was very strict in keeping his feelings wrapped inside of him, held in by fragile ribs and shaky breaths. It was only when the manager of the place saw Asher, and jumped off the rickety stool with a polystyrene coffee cup in hand, that the first words Asher had heard all day were said.

"Wow," the bulky woman said. "So this is Asher."

Vasily gave a grim nod, not very proud of his son at that moment.

"I gotta say, he looks nothing like you. Have you been feeding him, Sil? Coz' he's so thin! And pale," she added.

Discomfort slithered up Asher's spine like a cold rattlesnake, hissing jealous words. 

Who was this woman, who called his father a nickname he'd never heard since Ekaterina passed? Who was she to critique him, tell him he was not fit enough? 

Asher knew he wasn't healthy-looking. His eyelids always drooped, it was habit; his spine always curved, it was genetics; and the pale tinge of his skin couldn't be helped — just like his imperfecta.

But Asher still preferred having this woman analyse him, rather than look at him with sympathy, and say, "You must be so strong to have gone through all this."

Of course he wasn't strong; weakness came handcuffed to osteogenesis imperfecta

To avoid waves of sympathy rolling into the eyes of people he talked to, Asher kept news of his condition a secret. Vasily had asked why, when Asher was eleven. He thought Asher was ashamed; reality was, he wanted to avoid pity. With calculated aloofness, Asher had waved away his father's concerns, and Vasily had never brought up the topic again.

Asher didn't particularly like his new manager, but she treated him normally, at least.

Vanessa, Asher had discovered, used to work with Vasily at the factory, which is where they met and became friends, before she left to start her own business. That was the reason his father could pull such strings with her to get his inexperienced son a job.

"Does your dad let you drink alcohol?" Vanessa questioned, sipping from an equally-abused mug.

"My dad doesn't let me do a lot of the things I do," the teen spat.

"Whoa," Vanessa chuckled, leaning back on the counter of their tiny, efficiently-furnished staffroom. "Gloomy kid, aren't ya?"

The loose shrug of Asher's shoulders did nothing to deny Vanessa's observation. She flicked through a glossy magazine with torn edges, giving more attention to the vehicles than the lean, sultry women draped over them. Whenever Asher felt awkward around this imposing-but-somehow-friendly woman, he downed more of his burning coffee — the second he had had that day.

Soon, his cup was empty, and his mouth had such a bitter aftertaste that Asher grimaced, wiping his tongue on the roof of his mouth, though it just spread the motor-oil-taste around.

Vanessa habitually tugged off her wedding ring, and clipped it onto the miniature carabiner on her crowded key chain. The scrape of plastic on linoleum as Vanessa dismounted the stool snapped Asher back to reality, and he followed glumly to the main garage, where awaited the first customer of the day — a Ford Explorer 2004, owned by a man who wanted to save the car he held much sentiment for.

Vanessa shuffled into the spacious storage room, where every piece of equipment that was not being used in the garage was stacked meticulously with others of its kind. Seconds later, she was unrolling a canvas tool holder — a maximised version of an artist's paintbrush holder — and picking up a socket wrench. Like a drummer showing his flair, Vanessa twirled the metal between her fingers, and caught it solidly in her palms.

She narrowed her eyes analytically at Asher, "Do you plan on helping out today, or . . ?"

"I can't really help," Asher shoved his hands into the pockets of his jeans, fiddling with the clumps of paper there — where he had forgotten to take receipts out before washing. "This is more of a punishment."

"Ooh, yes. I heard about your wild night," Vanessa swung the wrench again, dangerously close to Asher's shoulder. "Spill."

The glee shining in her murky eyes was the glee the girls at Asher's school had — curious, excited; but how old was she? Definitely nearing thirty, Asher estimated.

"Not much to say. I got my motorcycle license couple days ago, so my friends went out to celebrate. We got drunk off our ass- butts and Dad got mad."

Vanessa sighed, "I get it; teens party. Fathers yell. Circle of life, Asher," he didn't remember ever telling her his name, "until you move out, that is."

"But," Vanessa countered, "If you want to work here, you've got to work here. Understand?"

Asher assumed that was Vasily's first intention when he brought his son down to the repair shop. He knew then that it was really just to keep him under control, and under speculation, for the rest of the summer. He understood — but that didn't help erase the infectious pang that rose in his throat every time he thought about his free days slipping through his fingers like sand.

The sourness lasted for as long as Asher's punishment did, and the remaining days of his summer break were spent under the looming shade of a corrugated iron roof, watching cars either drive by the garage, or drive in to be repaired by him, or Vanessa.

One outlet of happiness of Asher's friend-less, internet-less, smothered, confined summer was learning. Under the newfound layers of rebellion, angst and darkness, Asher still retained that insatiable curiosity inherited from his mother. Vanessa was more than happy enough to waste her free hours — most people had their cars serviced before the summer break, so that they could adventure during it (a luxury that had been stolen from Asher) — teaching Asher.

They started pathetically basic, and Asher felt the sting of shame and frustration that came with being a novice. He felt it when he first came to America, and struggled to learn English, and was feeling it intensely now. But impressively quickly, according to a stunned Vanessa (she was convinced Asher was a child genius), Asher flew past simple tasks like checking the engine and changing a tire. 

She went onto show him the intricacies of vehicles, all tingling with mechanical energy. Vanessa folded Asher under her wing, and explained how and why a car ticked. His initial attitude towards her had morphed from a lingering bitterness to an anticipation — he loved learning from her, her sense of humour was as sarcastic and dark as his — and just as dirty-minded.

And when Vasily, come to check on him one day, told her about Asher's osteogenesis imperfecta, she slapped his shoulder lightly, and insisted, "Well, if Asher can take care of cars, I don't see why he can't take care of himself." 

Only Asher caught the annoyed twitch of Vasily's lip. Treating him exactly as she had before she found out about his condition earned Vanessa a permanent place in his life.


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