The Sisters of Nowhere

e i g h t : o n i o n s

Marigold wiped a streak of grease from her brow and leaned against the motorcycle propped up in the shop. It was an AJS 18s-- sleek, though clunky and difficult to start up.

Marigold liked to think of herself as a doctor and the vehicles she repaired as her patients. This particular patient's outlook was grim.

Mr. Cerbus, a 35-year-old man who had the posture of someone much older, watched her from a distance with a doleful look on his face. "Well?"

"You said you got her during the war?" Marigold asked, wiping her oily hands on a clean rag.

"That I did. Fresh off the line in England, should still be brand new."

"That's your problem," Marigold replied. "This model was built to hold the low-quality fuel back then. You're filling her up with what we have now and it's the wrong type of gas."

It was hard to tell who was sadder as they both looked at the motorcycle.

"You'll either have to import fuel from England or make her a nice home in the garage," Marigold said. "Sorry, Mr. Cerbus."

"Ain't your fault."

"Maybe I can find a new engine," Marigold suggested.

Mr. Cerbus's eyebrows raised with hope. "You think so?"

"I'll look in town today and see what I can do."

"That'd be real swell. I'll pay you on Friday for the work you've already done."

Marigold waved at him as he left the shop, which was actually just a garage-turned-mechanic attached to the hair salon (which was always why it smelled like shampoo and motor oil inside).

Marigold wiped off the rest of the grease from her hands and checked the clock. It was almost three.

She swept the two dollars she'd made that day into a tin can labeled "College Tuition" and hid it behind the rack of tools.

She was almost at fifty dollars now after five summers of working and doing repairs after school. Almost halfway there.

She would need one hundred dollars to pay for tuition and she only had two more summers to earn it if she wanted to enroll in college by the time she was eighteen.

Marigold took a deep breath.

Her grades were the highest in all of her classes, though Marigold would never describe herself as an academic. She was "driven" as her teachers described her, which was another way of saying that Marigold looked ahead to what she wanted and adjusted her goals accordingly.

It's about the trajectory, she told herself, locking up the metal cupboard of tools and untying the bandana protecting her hair.

The bridge club used the garage to play cards after their hair appointments on Tuesdays, so Marigold had to pack up her things and leave the space tidier than she would've liked.

She had to go to the store before going home and she kept repeating her mother's grocery list in her mind.

Onions, parsley, starch. Onions, parsley, starch. Onions, parsley, starch...

Allen's Grocery & Market was always crowded.

At any given time it would seem that the whole population of Nowhere was crowded into the seven aisles provided for shopping.

Today, oddly, was not one of those days.

Marigold was alone in the store. At least, she thought she was until she was counting the onions in the bag (there were four), and she heard her name.