☀ Can't Fight Biology

                                    

                                          
C H A P T E R  6: Can't Fight Biology
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    Scout-Juliet Compton hated feeling embarrassed, but even more so when she felt like she was the cause of her own embarrassment. Once she felt the smile brandished across her face, of which she thought made her look like a complete and utter idiot, her expression immediately fell. She made a beeline for the door back into the shop. It wasn't because she cared about scheduling appointments, and it wasn't because she was late for a very important date. It was because she decided, after the horror that was Antonio Ruiz, she wanted to avoid men at all costs.

    "Scout," Scott called, "get your ass back over here. If you can't sit in the shop and answer the phone, which is the only thing I've ever asked you to do — besides not get pregnant in high school, — then you can at least introduce yourself."

    Scout was just a mere two feet from the door; so close, yet so far. She could feel her cheeks burning, and it was then that she wished she had kicked her dad back under the Plymouth when she had the chance. Right now, Scott Compton's big mouth was number eleven on her hate-list.

    Scout took a breath and turned on her heel. She made her way towards Skylar, who stood with his back to the sun, the golden light washing over him like a halo. Scout glared as hard as she could, her expression a reservoir of a thousand flames' intensities, and she made sure her father felt the burn. Scott scowled back at her, but she couldn't tell if he was doing it on purpose or if that was just his face.

    Scout jutted out her hand, aiming it directly at Skylar as if to accuse him of something. She wanted this whole ordeal over with before it even began. Skylar's own hand met hers in the middle air between them. His eyebrows lowered when she gripped his hand unusually tight and gave him one, hard shake.

    "I'm Scout," she said, taking her hand back, "and I have important phone calls to take, but nice to meet you."

    Before Scout could make her escape once again, a head of dark hair shot passed her like a bullet, knocking her off-balance. She caught herself on the frame of the garage door, cursing whatever just tried to take her out.

    "I'm Mandy," said she in a whisper that she hoped was seductive as she gingerly trailed her pink acrylic nails down Skylar's forearm. Her chest was pushed out as far as it could be without her appearing as if she had a bend in her spine — much to the chagrin of Scout, who imagined herself punching Mandy in the boob. "Georgia's daughter."

    Skylar spared a glance at Georgia, who stood beside him. She nodded in confirmation.

    "Maybe," Mandy continued, tracing one of the many tattoos that littered Skylar's skin, "I could show you around Santan sometime. Ya' know, when you're not busy."

    Scout scoffed loudly, thinking that if Skylar took Mandy up on her offer, the only thing he would be shown is the space between Mandy's thighs. At that moment, Scout also thought that all of the top ten slots of her hate-list were reserved for Mandy. She wished she would have let Mandy drown that summer seven years ago.

    Skylar pulled his arm away from Mandy. "In a town with less than five hundred residents, I think I can find my way just fine."

    Mandy smiled. "Well, in case you do need assistance, you know where to find me."

    "Jesus," Scout whispered amongst herself, thinking that Mandy wouldn't know what rejection was even if it gave her syphilis.

    Scott wiped the last remnants of oil onto his T-shirt, jutting out a calloused hand for Skylar to shake. "Nice to meet you, uh..."

    "Skylar."

    "Skylar," Scott nodded, eyeing him in the way that territorial men do. "So, what is it you think you can help me with?"

    Skylar's expression was solid, even under Scott's scrutinizing gaze. Nothing seemed to faze him anymore, especially not a man half his size. "Well, I can fix just about anything when it comes to cars. Kinda have to when you can't afford the luxury of taking yours to a shop," he said.

    Scott looked thoughtful for a moment, like he was mulling around his next words like Pop Rocks. He made his way to the Plymouth, whose hood had been commandeered by Scout. She figured that if she had to be present for this transaction, she would at least sit. One of her general rules was that if something could be done sitting, then she would not waste an unnecessary amount of energy standing. Scott called it laziness; she called it conservation. Scout also called unnecessary expenditures of energy number seven — on her list, of course.

    The Plymouth roared to an explosive start. It stuttered and hiccupped, the transmission threatening to commit suicide.

    "Well," Scott began, his arms folded tightly over his chest, "show me what you can do with this and maybe we'll talk numbers."

    If Skylar had been capable of it, he would've been elated. There's not much you can do with less than a hundred dollars and nowhere to go. He didn't like the thought of a handout, but he resolved to make himself as useful to Scott as possible during his stay, no matter how brief that may be. He hadn't yet decided if there was any benefit in staying long term - nowhere felt quite right so far, and he couldn't see how Santan Valley would be any different. Maybe this immaculate sadness would bleed into every place he'd travel and after years of searching he'd reconcile with the thought that nowhere would ever be right. Maybe he'd travel to every corner of the planet and suddenly feel like Santan Valley was home, or Michigan, or California. Maybe, maybe, maybe...
    Scout knew this was coming. Even if Skylar couldn't do so much as change a windshield wiper, she knew her dad was the type to break his back just to make sure someone else was comfortable. If nothing else, he'd probably have Skylar sweep or maybe even replace her at the front desk. Scott always said Scout didn't have the friendliest disposition when it came to customer service anyway. All Scout hoped at this point was that they wouldn't be stuck at the desk together. If that were the outcome, she probably would cry and she was not the type of person that cried — only twice in her life: When her hamster, Charles William Arthur Fitzgerald, died when she was nine; and when she caught Antonio fucking Ellie Chesney, co-captain of Santan Valley High's cheerleading squad, in the girls' locker room just three months prior. But even on those occasions, she reduced her tears to nothing more than orifical drainage — crying was number six — because, according to her, she did not cry: She leaked. That was all.

    Scott approached Skylar and jutted out a hand open-palmed in mid-air between them. Scott was smiling. Skylar gripped his hand in a firm shake for the second time that day.

    "You're hired," Scott said.

    "Oh, yay," Georgia beamed with a small, celebratory clap and an equally beaming Mandy beside her who probably would've burst with happiness if it were possible.

    Scout was annoyed and hot and wanted to be anywhere else, so she brushed passed Skylar, her dad, aunt and Mandy who all seemed to be getting along swimmingly to return to the safety of the front desk. 

    It's not that Scout had anything against Skylar personally. Maybe in another life, a parallel world, she could have been ecstatic that he was staying. But this was the real world, filled to the brim with steely actualities and unsympathetic conditions. A world where everything Skylar stood for, or everything she thought he stood for, too nearly echoed Antonio. From his looks, to his five o'clock shadow, to his towering height, it was all too much of a blast from the past. The last thing she wanted was history repeating itself because she knew that without a doubt, no matter how much she denied it until she was blue in the face, she was capable of developing feelings for Skylar that were a lot more substantial than they should have been — which was quickly making its way to the top of her list. She felt that it was almost hardwired in her biological composition to be drawn to things that were not good for her well-being...

    ...and although science had never been her strong suit, she knew she couldn't fight biology.