Page 1 of Cinderella and the Daddy

1

CINDY

The wrench slips, skinning my knuckles against the engine block. Blood wells up, mixing with the motor oil already coating my hands. I don't curse, not anymore. Pain is just another tool in the garage, like the socket set or the hydraulic lift.

Most women my age are getting their nails done right now. I'm elbow-deep in a transmission that's been leaking fluid for three days.

This is my church. My sanctuary. The only place where broken things make sense.

Growing up in Charles's garage taught me that engines don't lie. They break down for specific reasons like worn gaskets, blown head bolts, or metal fatigue. Fix the problem, and they purr. People are messier. But under the hood of a car, everything makes sense. It's the only reason I haven't walked away from this dysfunctional circus I call family. Right now, that “family” is standing in the garage’s tiny office and freaking out about something.

Drew, my foster brother, is watching me work through the window that looks into the shop. That predatory gleam in his eyes has been there since I turned eighteen.

He likes to fuck withme.

“Dad, chill. We’re fine.” Drew's voice carries through the glass, but his eyes stay locked on me. Predator to prey, same as always.Asshole.

My foster father, Charles, looks pale. “If they show up, we’re all fucked.”

“Drew’s right, Dad,” Anna, Drew’s twin sister, says. “Relax. It’s going to be fine.”

I don’t know what’s going on, and I don’t care. Whatever shady shit they’re mixed up in is not my problem. I’m not naive enough to think the mechanic business is on the up and up. I’m not privy to the details, but I see things.

I hear things.

Which is why I wear my earbuds all the time. I don’t want them to know, but I do want them to talk freely.

I popin my left earbud, the other tucked in the pocket of my jeans, and turn on my favorite playlist. The guitar solo fills my ear, drowning out most of Charles's muffled panic from the office.

Whatever mess he's gotten into this time, I don't want to know about it.

I stretch out on the creeper and slide under the old Toyota Corolla.

"Cinderella!" Drew's voice cuts through Def Leppard. "You got that piece of shit running yet?"

Cinderella.

They think they are so witty, calling me Cinderella.

Idiots.

Yeah, I’m the grunt that does all the work. I get my hands dirty while my evil foster siblings stand around doing nothing.

Drew thinks he’s so smart because my name is Cindy. Cindy—Cinderella.

Ba dum tss!

I slide out from under the car just enough to glare at him. "It'll be done when it's done."

He's standing there in his pressed khakis and polo shirt, looking like he's never touched anything greasier than a golf club, which he hasn't. Charles's golden boy gets to play manager while I do the actual work.

"Customer has been waiting two hours," he says.

"Then maybe you should've told them it was more than an oil change before I got started." I slide back under, cranking my music louder. The drums pound against my eardrums while my foot taps against the garage floor.

Mom used to crank Def Leppard while we worked on her '78 Camaro, her baby, her pride. She taught me that cars were honest. They didn't lie, didn't leave, didn't waste away in hospital beds while chemo stole everything that made them beautiful. Back when my world made sense. The concrete vibrates at a specific frequency I've learned to recognize. Anna'sLouboutins she bought with money that should have gone to shop supplies.

She nudges my leg with her black stiletto. Because stilettos are appropriate footwear for a garage.