Chapter 2: Car Wash Chaos + Donunts
1572 Words
*Chapter 2: Car Wash Chaos + Donuts*
The Georgia heat hit like a wall at 3:15 PM.
I’d been at Crestwood Prep for exactly seven hours.
And I was already losing.
“Brooks! Over here!” Bianca’s voice cut through the parking lot noise.
She pointed at the last station. No shade. No table. Just a bucket, a sponge, and a hose with no trigger lock.
“Your shift,” she said, smile bright enough to cause retinal damage. “Since you’re new, we thought you’d want to start from the ground up. Literally.”
Around me, other volunteers had canopies. Coolers. Chairs.
I had cracked concrete and 95-degree sun.
I knew this game. Camp Evergreen, age 13. Bianca “forgot” my flashlight. Then acted shocked when I got scared of the dark.
Same girl. Older blazer.
I grabbed the sponge anyway. “Thanks for the opportunity,” I said.
Bianca’s smile flickered. She wanted tears. She got sarcasm.
“Don’t say I never gave you a single chance,” she said. Then walked off to pose for i********: with the donation box.
The first car rolled up. BMW. White. Expensive.
The owner was a Crestwood dad in golf clothes. He looked at me, then at the hose with no lock.
“You sure you can do this, kid?” he asked.
“Kid” was the word that did it.
I was 18. Senior year. I’d moved four times in high school. I could wash a car.
I squeezed the hose.
Water exploded everywhere.
The trigger lock was missing. So the second I let go, it sprayed full blast.
Right at my face.
Right down my hoodie.
Right onto the dad’s golf shoes.
He jumped back. “Whoa!”
I dropped the hose. Water kept spraying.
I scrambled for it like I was wrestling anaconda.
Got it. Shut it off.
I was soaked. Hair plastered to my face. Crestwood hoodie stuck to my skin. Sneakers squishing.
The parking lot went quiet.
Then someone laughed.
Then someone pulled out their phone.
Bianca was across the lot. She didn’t laugh. She didn’t gasp.
She just lifted her phone. Camera on.
Recording.
My stomach dropped.
Invisible year. Gone in 3 seconds.
I reached for the bucket to hide behind it.
A shadow fell over me.
Noah Hart.
He’d been inside the council room all afternoon. I’d seen him through the window, tie loosened, calculator in hand. Student Council VP. Too responsible to be at a car wash.
He looked at me. Soaked. Shivering in the heat.
Looked at the hose with no trigger lock on the ground.
Looked at Bianca, still recording.
He didn’t say anything.
He just pulled off his own Crestwood council hoodie. Navy blue. “VP” stitched on the sleeve.
Tossed it at me.
It landed over my head. Smelled like laundry detergent and something cleaner.
It was three sizes too big. Sleeves swallowed my hands.
But it was dry.
“Put it on,” Noah said quietly. “Before you catch a cold.”
I stared at him. “I’m not—”
“You’re shivering,” he said. “Put it on.”
So I did. Zipped it up to my chin.
Suddenly I wasn’t the soaked transfer girl anymore.
I was Noah Hart’s hoodie girl.
The parking lot got louder.
Phones came up faster.
Across the lot, Bianca’s recording stopped.
Her smile dropped. Just for a second.
“Noah,” she called, voice sweet. “We’re doing car wash rotations. You’re supposed to be inside with budget sheets.”
Noah didn’t look at her. He crouched down, picked up the broken hose trigger, turned it in his hands.
“This is missing the lock,” he said. Loud enough for the dad to hear. Loud enough for the faculty advisor to hear. “That’s a safety issue.”
Bianca’s cheeks went pink. “I must’ve grabbed the wrong one from storage—”
“Must’ve,” Noah repeated. Flat.
He stood up. Finally looked at her.
“Go get a replacement. And a canopy for station 6. She’s been in the sun 20 minutes.”
Bianca blinked. “She can handle—”
“She can,” Noah cut in. “But she shouldn’t have to.”
Then he turned back to me. “You okay?”
I nodded. Couldn’t speak. The hoodie was warm. Too warm.
“Thanks,” I managed.
Before he could answer, a minivan screeched into the lot.
Door slid open.
“Volunteers! Donuts!”
Mrs. Hart jumped out. Noah’s mom. Blonde hair in a messy bun, blazer that said “Event Planner” without trying. She had that mom-energy that could organize a wedding while folding laundry.
She hopped out holding two pink boxes from a local bakery.
Her eyes swept the lot. Landed on me.
Took in the soaked jeans. The dripping hair. The navy hoodie swallowing me whole.
Her face changed. From cheerful to mom-mode in 0.2 seconds.
“Oh, honey,” Mrs. Hart said, walking straight to me. “You look like you need donuts more than my son does.”
She pressed a box into my hands.
“You’re Ava, right? The transfer? Noah mentioned you this morning.”
I blinked. “He did?”
“He said ‘new girl seems done with nonsense.’ I like that,” Mrs. Hart said. Then looked at the hose, the missing lock, Bianca’s guilty face.
Her smile stayed, but her eyes got sharp.
“You know what? You can’t fundraise smelling like soap and regret. Both of you. Come with me.”
Noah frowned. “Mom, we have budget—”
“You have 10 minutes,” Mrs. Hart said. “Mill Lane Coffee is two blocks down. Air conditioning. Bathrooms. And they have the best lemon donuts in Atlanta. Move.”
Bianca stepped forward. “Mrs. Hart, we need everyone at stations—”
“We need Ava to not get heat stroke,” Mrs. Hart said sweetly. “And Noah needs to eat something that isn’t stress. Go. I’ll cover station 6.”
She physically turned Noah and me toward the school gate.
“10 minutes. Then back to work.”
Noah looked at me. Question in his eyes.
I looked down at the donut box. At his hoodie. At Bianca still holding her phone but not recording anymore.
I nodded once.
We walked.
---
Mill Lane Coffee smelled like roasted beans and second chances.
College kids with laptops. Soft music. AC blasting.
Mrs. Hart ordered three lemon donuts and two iced waters.
“On the house,” the barista said when she saw the Crestwood shirts. “Good luck with gala.”
We sat at a corner table. Outside the window, Atlanta traffic moved past.
Normal life. Not Crestwood drama.
Noah peeled the sticker off his water bottle. Didn’t look at me.
Mrs. Hart broke the silence first.
“So,” she said, grinning. “Gala partner.”
I choked on my water. “It’s just planning—”
“It’s the last seat at the table,” Mrs. Hart said. “That’s what Noah told me this morning. He said, ‘Mom, I picked Ava.’ Like he’d discovered fire.”
Noah went red. “I did not say it like that.”
“You said it exactly like that,” Mrs. Hart said. She turned to me. “Ava, you seem smart. Tell me honestly. Do you think my son picks people for fun?”
“No,” I said before I could stop myself. “He looks like he overthinks everything.”
Noah blinked. Then snorted. Then covered it with a cough.
Mrs. Hart laughed. “I like you, Ava Brooks.”
We ate donuts in comfortable quiet.
Noah’s hoodie still hung off my shoulders. I should’ve given it back.
I didn’t.
Outside, I saw Bianca walk past the window.
She stopped. Looked in.
Saw me in Noah’s hoodie. Saw Mrs. Hart smiling at me. Saw Noah slide his lemon donut to my side of the table without saying a word.
Bianca’s face went blank.
Then she pulled out her phone.
I didn’t need to see the screen to know what she was typing.
Group chat was probably exploding right now.
“10 minutes are up,” Noah said, standing. “We should get back.”
Mrs. Hart hugged me before I could protest. “Dry off first. And keep the hoodie. You look better in navy than he does.”
Noah opened his mouth. Closed it.
We walked back to Crestwood.
Sun still hot. But I wasn’t shivering anymore.
At the gate, Noah stopped.
“Bianca didn’t ‘forget’ that hose lock,” he said quietly. Not looking at me.
“I know,” I said.
He nodded once. “If she tries it again, tell me. Or Mrs. Hart.”
“I can handle Bianca,” I said.
“I know,” Noah said. Then almost smiled. “But you don’t have to.”
He walked back to the car wash. Hoodie-less. Back straight.
Like he hadn’t just claimed territory in front of the whole school.
I stood there holding an empty donut box, wearing his hoodie, smelling like lemon glaze.
Bianca was at station 3 now. Phone down. Eyes on me.
She mouthed two words: _Not fair._
I zipped the hoodie higher.
Quiet year was officially dead.
*[END OF CHAPTER 2]*
- Writer
