Asher ✓

23 | mechanic

JULY 20, 2012 / STEELTON AUTOMOTIVE REPAIR AND SERVICING

The air between Vasily and Asher Delrov was still bristling with frustrated tension. 

More than ever, Vasily wished his wife could be here; this was the rebellious phase she had warned him about, the one he had laughed at, claiming, "It'll be a breeze." Now, his faith in his parenting skills was crumbling again, like it did when he went through Asher's first broken bone.

A pounding headache had made its home in Asher's forehead, reminding him of the incredible night that had led him by his lips into disaster. Not even the strongest of cheap, packet coffees could drive it away. Through breakfast, Asher bit down on the pain; he refused to speak to — or even acknowledge — Vasily. 

The silent treatment: not a very mature way to deal with his anger, but the only method Asher could calm himself down enough to use. He was still too angry about the previous to even try for amicable conversation.

On the drive to the repair shop where Asher had applied for a job, no words were tossed around — Asher was very strict in keeping his feelings wrapped inside of him, held in by fragile ribs and shaky breaths. It was only when the manager of the place saw Asher, and jumped off the rickety stool with a polystyrene coffee cup in hand, that the first words Asher had heard all day were said.

"Wow," the bulky woman said. "So this is Asher."

Vasily gave a grim nod, not very proud of his son at that moment.

"I gotta say, he looks nothing like you. Have you been feeding him, Sil? Coz' he's so thin! And pale," she added.

Discomfort slithered up Asher's spine like a cold rattlesnake, hissing jealous words. 

Who was this woman, who called his father a nickname he'd never heard since Ekaterina passed? Who was she to critique him, tell him he was not fit enough? 

Asher knew he wasn't healthy-looking. His eyelids always drooped, it was habit; his spine always curved, it was genetics; and the pale tinge of his skin couldn't be helped — just like his imperfecta.

But Asher still preferred having this woman analyse him, rather than look at him with sympathy, and say, "You must be so strong to have gone through all this."

Of course he wasn't strong; weakness came handcuffed to osteogenesis imperfecta. 

To avoid waves of sympathy rolling into the eyes of people he talked to, Asher kept news of his condition a secret. Vasily had asked why, when Asher was eleven. He thought Asher was ashamed; reality was, he wanted to avoid pity. With calculated aloofness, Asher had waved away his father's concerns, and Vasily had never brought up the topic again.

Asher didn't particularly like his new manager, but she treated him normally, at least.

Vanessa, Asher had discovered, used to work with Vasily at the factory, which is where they met and became friends, before she left to start her own business. That was the reason his father could pull such strings with her to get his inexperienced son a job.

"Does your dad let you drink alcohol?" Vanessa questioned, sipping from an equally-abused mug.

"My dad doesn't let me do a lot of the things I do," the teen spat.