Sasha, Not Aleks

six - mr Starikov

CORALINE

Three weeks left until the mechanic shop has to close its doors for the last time. Dinner last night was wonderful and the server, Aleksandr, had a very good sense of conversation, but now it's time to get back to the real world, that of working out how I'm going to fix this mess or at least step out of it without any debt, because we're about to cross over into the debt category.

It starts with two unpaid hours from 6-8 in the morning doing extra work cleaning up the shop and thinking about all the best ways to maybe just maybe come out of this with a little money.

I organize some of the tools into label groups. Tools that Briar and my Dad will need to take with them to their next job, a mechanic shop three towns over that's been looking to expand. Tools that I want to keep for sentimental or workable reasons (the wrench that knocked out my first tooth, and a really handy all-size allen wrench for example), and tools that I can sell.

The tools I can sell labels get a little painful to look at over the two unpaid hours and by the time shop opening rolls around, I'm one good blow to the psyche away from a meltdown.

"You look miserable," Briar observes, pulling on his blue coveralls in the back room, fully stained with oil but looking so familiar I can't imagine not watching him do this every morning for another five, ten, twenty years.

"I am," I sigh, "I've been labeling things. Things to go with you two, things for me to keep, and things to sell."

He nods, "oh."

I check my reflection in the shop window, messy hair, clean blue coveralls, my name stitched up into the collar so people know what to call me.

"Hopefully nobody hot comes into the shop today," he ruffles my hair.

"Thanks for that, Bri," I punch his arm in return, "don't make me label your rolling tool chest as 'sell'."

"You wouldn't."

"You're right," I sigh.

Sad becomes downright miserable literally fifteen minutes later. I thought it couldn't get worse than having to label tools I spent my entire childhood around as sell but then the universe decided to stack a hot waiter on top of it.

"This is Laurier's, yes?" A man walks in, crisp suit on with a cigar in hand. He's the same man with the leer from last night at the restaurant.

My dad slides out from under a car, "yes?"

"Good, good," the man holds out his hand for my father to shake, "I'm Andrei, this is my daughter Zoya and this is Aleksandr."

I peep up at that, looking out the window of the car I'm trying to clean vomit off the floor of. Aleksandr is standing in the back, helmet held against his hip, kevlar jacket on over his chest, heavy racing pants cinched tight around his waist down to boots fit with all the necessities for riding competitively. My only complaint is that his jacket isn't attached to his pants, heaven forbid he falls off and the jacket rides up his waist area is going to be a mess.

His eyes travel around the inside of the shop and land on me, standing up out of the car I'm working on. The men and whoever Zoya is are talking amongst each other about God knows what but it's enough that my father looks uncomfortable.

"This is a very clean mechanic shop, I'm impressed," Aleksandr comments, making his way over, then fixes his eyes down on my chest, for some reason, "your bio online says Coraline. Your shirt says Cora."

"It's a nickname. Nobody really calls me Coraline."

He nods, "listen, I need-"

"Coraline!" My dad calls me over. "Come here, Mr. Starikov has an offer to run through with all of us."