Selena Kitt
A DIFFERENT ANGLE
It was a 1978 Nova, technically a classic according to Paj. It was all hers, a summer waitressing job at Denny’s later—only she couldn’t bring it home. It sat in the school shop, dark green looking almost black in the garage. She liked to visit him. She called it “him.” In fact, she named him Stu. She knew it was weird to name a car but it had just come to her. Paj said it happened that way sometimes with cars. He'd been working with them all his life, and some just had names that they liked to be called, he said. She often sat on Stu’s hood and commiserated with Paj about parents and grades and SATs and what a bummer they all were. Bummer. That was Paj’s word, but she liked it, she found it apropos, considering her situation. Apropos wasn’t Paj’s word, however, it was a vocabulary word in the SAT study book.
Ted was determined that she was going to U of M next fall—his alma mater. She didn’t care. The University of Michigan was as good as any school, as long as she could work on cars somewhere. Of course, he wanted her to be pre-law or pre-med. She was going to be pre-whatever until she could figure out how to wrangle her way into the racing circuit and begin qualifying. As long as she was keeping up her grades, her stepfather didn’t seem to care. It was the SATs that were killing her. Her verbal pretests were top notch, it was her math that was the problem. Geometry to be specific. Until she made a solid 500 on her math SAT, Stuie was stuck in Paj’s garage. No score, no car. She found it rather unfair, and ironic, considering Ted the real estate attorney didn’t know the difference between an isosceles triangle and a parallelogram, but she couldn’t argue with him. At least, not while her mother was around.
“Paj, they’re getting me a tutor,” Cat lamented, sprawling her books on Stu’s hood and using the bumper to hoist herself up into the midst of them. “I feel like such a failure, like I’m some Special Ed reject or something.” She sighed.
“Well hey, maybe they’ll letcha bring Stuie home so you can drive yourself to the tutor?” Paj hadn’t looked out from under the Neon’s hood. Rebecca Watson’s car—she recognized the retro bumper sticker she thought should have gone out with the Reagan era: If You’re Rich, I’m Single. Brilliant.
“Ha! I wish. This guy lives around the corner. They made sure I could walk and no one would have to be bothered to drive me, or that I would have to, god forbid, drive myself. Eighteen years old and I still ride the friggin’ bus to school.
It’s pathetic. Isn’t that Becky’s car again? What'd she do to it this time?” Cat swung her long legs down, and came over to inspect the engine, interested.
“Forgot to put oil in her… again.”
“Cheerleaders suck.” Cat snorted. Paj grinned and shrugged. Yeah, that’s exactly why she’s getting her car fixed for free, too. Cat rolled her eyes.
Paj glanced over at her, then raised his eyebrows. “Hey, you don’t wear skirts. What is it, national suck up to your math teacher day?”
“Do you like it?” Cat did a little twirl, flaring the navy blue pleats a little, exposing one pale, thin thigh. “It’s my English school girl outfit. Navy skirt, white button down, knee socks, Mary Jane’s.” He cocked his head, as if waiting for a punch line. “The new tutor is English. You know, from England. Thought it might help.”
Paj chuckled, ducking his head back under the hood. “Girlie, he’s not the one giving you the test. How’s it gonna help you get a better score?”
“Well it can’t hurt.” Cat pouted. “It works for girls like Becky.”
Paj cleared his throat, flipping the wing nut back on the oil pan. “Well sweetie, and I’m going to say this with all honesty and as much tact as this old man’s got—Rebecca Watson has… a figure.”
Cat crossed her arms over her admittedly small chest and frowned. “Gee thanks, Paj. You think just because a girl doesn’t have big tits, she can’t turn a guy on?”
Paj shrugged, his face turning slightly red as he cleared his throat. “Cat, we prolly shouldn’t be talking about this. I know the bell rang already, but technically I’m still a teacher, and you…”
“I’m just some skinny girl who can’t get a man’s attention, yeah yeah.” Cat hurriedly collected her books. “You know, being a teacher never stopped you from taking favors from Becky Watson.”
“Hey, Missy, I never—” Paj started, turned redder.
“Yeah, sure, whatever you say.” She brushed past him toward the door.
“Cat!” he called after her, but his only answer was a bright rush of sunlight into the dim garage followed by a slamming door.
“Are you Mr. Slater?” Cat peered curiously over her books at him. Taller than she'd expected. Older, too-she noted a few silver streaks in his dark hair as he leaned forward into the sunlight to open the screen door. It was his eyes that were interesting, though-dark blue and quietly watching.
“Miss Warren?” he inquired, and she couldn’t help but smile to hear his accent. She found accents so interesting.
“You can call me Cat.” She stepped into the foyer as he waved her in.
“Is that actually your name?” He looked a little surprised and slightly disappointed.
“Well, no… technically, no. It’s Catherine. Although everyone calls me Cat, since I was little.”
“Ah. Well, good to meet you, Catherine. Would you like some tea?” he offered. “You have to be cold in that.” He nodded to her skirt and bare legs. She flushed, remembering her conversation with Paj. It was March, and she had run out of the garage without stopping at her locker for her jacket. Her books and crossed arms covered her chest, but she could feel how hard her nipples were from the cold.
“I am a little,” she admitted. “I forgot it was going to be so cold today. I should have worn pants.” He stopped, and she looked curiously at his bemused expression and raised eyebrows. “But I don’t really drink tea. Do you have Coke?”
“Sorry, I don’t have any soda.” His eyes flitted briefly back to her skirt hemline, waving her further into the house. She thought proudly that her little English schoolgirl outfit must be the reason for the sudden interest in her skirt, and she was glad that she didn’t know that it was actually her reference to not wearing “pants.” In England, she later discovered, they called underwear “pants.”
It was sparsely furnished, but nice anyway, somehow. Huge book shelves lined one wall, but there were no other real decoration. Sparse. That was another vocabulary word. “Besides, soda wouldn’t keep a girl very warm when she’s not wearing pants, would it?” He smiled then, and she found herself smiling back, warm already. “Come on, live a little! Experiment…try life on the edge.”
“Ok.” She realized he was teasing and unable to come up with some witty reply, but wanting to. He winked and went into the kitchen, and she followed.
“So, geometry… your father says you'd like a little help?” He ran water into a kettle and lit the gas burner.
“Pul-eeeze. Get real.” Cat snorted, forgetting herself and plopping down into a kitchen chair. “Is that what he told you, Mr. Slater?”
“You can call me David.” He glanced at her wide sprawl and crossed arms with something that bordered between interest and amusement. “So what are you telling me? You don’t need any help?”
“Well no, not exactly. I mean, geometry is not my best subject, I admit. Ok, so it’s my worst. It’s just my SATs. He wants my SAT score to be up to a certain level.” Cat eyed some sort of cinnamon bakery confection sitting on the kitchen table.
“Ah. So we’re really here to help you improve your geometry skills, hm?” He had his own arms crossed now, leaning back against the counter.