Page 6 of Furious

Funny Jolene never called to tell us she had Max’s riding jacket, though. And I don’t know how Max plans to get it back from her without a return address, unless … Unless Jolene knows something I don’t.

I check my phone again to find I’m down to an hour before work. If I want to wash up, I have to get back on track. It says in the employee handbook (which Zaynah and I studied together before starting) that Putt by the Pond’s policy is a verbal warning the first time you’re late to a shift, and a write-up for the second. Even if I haven’t been late yet, I could be late again for totally unavoidable circumstances. Then I’d be kicking myself for the warning I could’ve prevented. And Mom’s right—it might only be a summer job, but I’m counting on them to hire me back next summer, so I can save up for my own car before college. UNC–Chapel Hill is over a four-hour drive from Dell’s Hollow, and if I get in there, I can’t have Mom and Dad dropping me off and picking me up from campus in the Oatmobile. I simply cannot.

And I really should wash up, because I must smell like the love child of a gas station and a compost heap.

I stand frozen with indecision in the middle of my bedroom for a long, precious moment before springing to action, peeling off my oil-stained joggers and pulling on a clean pair of jeans. My T-shirt is grease spotted, but I’ll be changing into my work shirt anyway. After slapping on an extra layer of deodorant and finger-scrubbing a streak of grime from my short blond hair (with some beachy-smelling dry shampoo on top to try and mask my odeur), I grab my backpack and run out my bedroom door.

I do a lap of the first floor to find Mom, now in her chair in the living room, immersed in her latest paperback biography. This one looks like it’s about a figure skater from the ‘80s, judging by the cover.

Already shrugging on my backpack, I say, “Hey Mom? Zaynah just texted, and her dad can’t drive her to work anymore, so I told her I’d pick her up.” The lie burns in my cheeks, and I hope she’ll think I’m still overheated from working in the shed. It’s not that I think one little white lie is so terrible, but I know what it would mean to my parents if they found out.

Mom starts to set her book down. “All right, just give me a few minutes, and I can—”

“That’s, um, that’s okay, ‘cause we might get coffee on the way, so … maybe I can just take the minivan for the afternoon, and we can do family ice cream tomorrow? Or actually, I have a volunteer shift at the Syed’s. Um, so Wednesday?”

“Oh.” The way her forehead crinkles sends a fresh wave of guilt all the way down to my toes. But what am I supposed to say? I know you hate talking about your other daughter, the one you guys kicked out of your lives and mine, while you were at it, but I have this hunch….

“That’s fine, El.”

“Okay, cool. But Wednesday, right? We can do ice cream Wednesday?”

“Sure. We’ll see how the week goes.” Mom returns to her paperback.

By the time I’ve grabbed the keys from their hook and escaped into the van, I’m sweating worse than I was in the shed. Still, I force myself to start the engine and pull away without glancing back at the house. Who has time for second thoughts? If the two traffic lights between Cider Lane and downtown Dell’s Hollow are good to me, I can easily make it to work by three—after stopping to talk to Jolene.

See, my sister’s boss wasn’t just her boss, but like, her mentor. Her Yoda in a bright green mechanic’s jumpsuit and spangly chandelier earrings. So if anybody who isn’t my parents knows where Max is—knows how and where to send her the prized possession she left behind—it has to be Jolene Boyd.

CHAPTER THREE

JoJo

I turn the key in the Subaru’s ignition, closing my eyes for a moment as I pretend it’s the purr of an F1 car and not the wheeze of an old station wagon that greets me. Despite my anxiety about racing, I have to admit I’ve missed driving. My hands move slowly over the wheel, my fingertips sliding over the stitching, caressing it as I imagine a whole stretch of track in front of me, waiting to be eaten up by my car. I grip the wheel tighter, pretending to shift into first. Both my hands slide across the wheel as we take the first turn and—

A knock at my window startles me out of my reverie.

My eyes fly open and I see a girl with what looks like handprints of motor oil on her pink T-shirt standing outside my window. She wears jeans and a tremendous scowl. Her blond bob is half pulled back, and she has a pen stuck behind her ear. A small streak of grease marks her neck. Everything about her sparks my curiosity.

Mortified to be caught feeling up the Subaru, I release the steering wheel and unroll the window. “Uhm, hi?”

“Do you work here?” she asks, looking around the parking lot. It’s empty except for a minivan the color of reheated oatmeal and the Subaru. Her dark eyebrows knit together and there’s an intensity to her I instantly like. She reminds me of other race car girls I’ve known—an intoxicating cocktail of grit and determination all contained in the arc of her eyebrows and her slight frown.

I swallow hard as she stares at me. “I do work here, yes.”

“Good. I have some questions for you.”

She has questions? For me? Lord help me, I might actually melt under that stare. JoJo Emerson-Boyd, now a puddle on the floor of the Subaru.

Instead, I arch an eyebrow, trying to keep my cool. “What are you, a private investigator?”

“No.” Her frown deepens. It’s adorable.

“An intern at a private investigator’s office?”

The girl lets out a huff. “No.”

My curiosity rises as does my need to know more about this girl, but rather than asking a decent question, I blurt out: “Are you the assistant to an intern at a private investigator’s office?”

The girl looks vaguely murderous. “What? Oh my God. Are you always this annoying?”