Chapter 1 — The owner of the car shop behind the school gate

Mai An Vy knew she was about to change schools from a message with a period at the end of the sentence. Her father rarely uses periods when texting about family matters. He often writes quickly, skips marks, then calls to explain the rest. The text message that day had only six words: "I will arrive in An Hoa on Monday."

Vy read and reread, sitting on a swivel chair in a dressing room larger than the living room of many apartments. Outside, the butler is choosing a new uniform. She didn't ask why she had to transfer mid-semester. She knew the answer would be related to the launch ceremony of Van Hung Auto's electric car model, the car with her family's logo on every sign, and the video of the girl in a white dress cutting the ribbon and accidentally saying to the camera that "students who ride bicycles are the ones who understand the streets."

The video was cut to twelve seconds. Twelve seconds was enough for a group to call her boss, enough for a partner to ask if her father taught her to speak, and enough for Mr. Mai Duc Thanh to decide she needed to leave the private school where everyone knew who she was.

“You're going to public school for a semester,” Dad said that night, as he put the phone down on the dining table. "No driver to pick you up, no company staff to intervene, no use of Van Hung's name to ask for anything."

Vy looked at the fish in the bowl. “I can go to school by myself.”

"Good."

“You can pay for breakfast yourself.”

“The better.”

“So what do I need to do to make you believe?”

Her father did not answer immediately. He took out a thin folder from his briefcase, on the cover was written the name of An Hoa High School and the line "student skills workshop program".

"The school has a car repair club behind the gate. The company used to sponsor tools, but the project was abandoned. I joined and made a six-week report. There is no logo, no employee named Van Hung. If you just want to prove that you are not pampered, you will give up in the first week. If you really want to understand others, you must learn not to make them your test."

Vy hated the way her father said that last sentence, because it was more true than necessary.

Monday morning, she got off the bus two streets away from the school gate. The driver looked in the mirror and asked if he needed to wait. Vy shook her head and put her backpack on her shoulder. The new uniform is a bit stiff, and the white shoes are no longer suitable for the dusty sidewalks. She passed a grocery store, a noodle shop and a bread cart with a handwritten sign: "Hot bread, not beautiful."

An Hoa School does not have a shiny stone gate. The green painted iron gate has some peeling off, behind is a basketball court and a row of three-story houses. There are so many students riding bicycles that the parking lot overflows into the tree line. A security guard was using his horn to chase away the cars blocking the way.

“Are you a new student?”

Vy came back. The person asking is a teacher with short hair, wearing a badge named Van. Ms. Van teaches technology and is also in charge of the skills workshop program.

“I'm Mai An Vy.”

"I know. But you don't need to introduce your father's last name here."

Vy paused for a moment. “I don't plan either.”

"Good. Then take this."

Ms. Van gave her a set of keys with a plastic key shaped like a bicycle. One key was bent, the other had oil stains.

“The garage behind the gate?” Vy asked.

"The club's equipment room. I will inventory with Minh Khoa, then choose something to do in the first week."

“Who is Minh Khoa?”

“Someone will tell you that you are holding the wrong tool.”

Before Vy could ask more, the bell rang. Ms. Van pointed to the end of the yard. A boy is pushing the blue bicycle, the rear wheel was flat. He wore a uniform that had been washed many times, the sleeves were rolled up, and there were black stains on his fingers that hadn't been washed off.

“Faith,” Ms. Van called. "This is An Vy. From today she is also in charge of the tool room."

He looked at Vy from her clean shoes to her keys. “The tool room is not a showroom.”

Vy looked at the flat rear tire. “I don't intend to put you on display either.”

Ms. Van turned away before the two could say the third sentence.

Khoa parked the car next to the wall and bent down to check the valve. “Where is wrench thirteen?”

"I don't know yet."

“Then follow me.”

“Didn't you ask me if I know how to hold a wrench?”

"If asked, you can say yes even if you've never held it. Follow along faster."

The tool room is located behind the garage, the wooden door is bulging with moisture. Inside there are three iron shelves, a wooden table, two hand pumps, several boxes of unlabeled screws and an old sign saying "Van Hung Factory". Vy stood in front of the sign, feeling something both familiar and awkward in her chest.

Khoa followed her eyes. “Can that sign be removed?”

"I do not know."

“You are the one who holds the key without knowing much.”

"You're a car repairman, but you talk very hard to hear."

“It's balanced.”

Khoa opened the drawer and took out a crumpled notebook. Each page lists the borrower's name, vehicle type, defects and return date. There are lines that last for a whole month, and there are lines that just say "fixed, not picked up".

“How does the club work?” Vy asked.

“When someone is willing to open the door.”

“So who opens it?”

"First it was Miss Van. Then she was busy."

“What about you?”

Khoa put down the hand pump. "I help my mother at the shop behind the gate. I can't be on duty all day."

Vy looked out at the garage. Hundreds of bicycles jostle together, each with a story of going to school, going to part-time work, picking up younger siblings or returning home before dark. She thought of her father's showroom, where each car stood alone under a white light, with no mud stains and no one fixing it themselves.

“What to do this week?” she asked.

Khoa pointed to the wall behind the sign. "Inventory tools, fix door locks, post diagrams. If you have time, try opening an hour after school."

“That's all?”

“What do you want to do bigger?”

Vy intended to say she could ask the company to send a technical team. The saying stuck in the neck. Her father told her not to use the name Van Hung. She took the notebook and sat down on a chair with one leg lower than the other three legs.

“Start taking stock.”

Khoa gave her an uncapped ballpoint pen. "Write the correct amount. Don't round it up to make it look nice."

“I know how to make boards.”

"I know. But this board has eight rusty snails, not eight good snails."

Vy wrote the first line: “Wrench 13: missing.”

Khoa looked over her shoulder. “Missing from before or today?”

“Undetermined.”

"Good."

“Do you like this answer?”

"If I like people who don't know, write them as unknown."

Outside the gate, the sounds of motorbikes, horns and students calling each other mixed into an uneven sound. Vy sat amidst the smell of rubber, motor oil and damp wood, her hands starting to get dirty because the drawer was stuck. She looked at the black streak on her finger, not finding it as scary as she imagined.

Khoa took the hand pump and bent down to the blue car. “Do you know why the tire is flat?”

“Because of a puncture?”

"Maybe. It's also possible because people forgot the pump, the valve was loose, or the wheel was removed incorrectly. Car repair doesn't start with a quick answer."

Vy closed the pen cap. “So what to start with?”

Khoa looked at her, for the first time not looking like he wanted to provoke her. “By asking the right questions.”

The bell for second period rang. Vy Still sitting for a few more minutes, writing down the list. She knew that in the afternoon she would have to explain to her father that her first job was not to fix the car but to find a lost wrench. She also knew she wouldn't tell her that her friend with oily hands made her feel like a new school day had begun by admitting she didn't know.

After Khoa left, Vy did not immediately lock the door. She stood under the corrugated iron roof, hearing the sound of wheels rolling on the soccer field and the sound of the cleaning lady pulling the water hose. On the shelf is a box of dry-tip paintbrushes, a rusty spray bottle with only half a bottle remaining, and a few yellowed instruction sheets. She took out her phone to take pictures of each compartment, but then put them down. He did not tell her which things were being used and which were forgotten by someone.

She found a thin notebook tucked behind the board. The first page lists the names of students who helped repair cars three years ago. Some people have graduated, some people removed their names because they transferred schools, some people wrote a message: "If you don't know how to do it, ask before removing it." Vy read that sentence several times. It's not like a rule, more like a warning from someone who once broke an expensive thing.

Mai Vy called her father and said she had accepted a job at the garage. He asked her if she needed someone from the company to install a new lock. She looked at the old lock, knowing that a good lock would be more convenient, but also knowing that others might think she brought the whole company into the school.

“I will ask Ms. Van first,” she replied.

“You don't need to do everything yourself.”

“I know. But I need to know who has the right to decide.”

Her father smiled lightly and told her not to let a tool warehouse waste her study time. Vy didn't say that she hadn't seen anything worth wasting her time in a long time.

The next morning, she arrived ten minutes before the alarm. An eleventh grade male student was parking his car in front of the garage, but the rear tire was flat. You shyly ask if you can borrow the pump. Vy remembered Khoa's words, asked her name, class, and problem before opening the door.

She doesn't know what type of pump head is attached. The other friend doesn't either. The two struggled and finally broke the valve. Vy blushed and had to call Ms. Van. Khoa appeared from the gate, looked at the cake and said: "Don't force it. If the pump head doesn't fit, change the head."

Vy asked him why he came early. Khoa told him he had time to deliver the car to Mrs. Man, so he could pass by. He showed how to use the pump, but let Vy do it herself. When the cake is stretched, the male friend thanks him and writes his name on the tool borrowing board.

“Have you seen it?” Khoa said. "The garage is not a showroom. People will do it wrong right in front of you."

“So there must be instructions that are easier to understand.”

"Yes. And there must be someone who will stand by them when they are wrong."

Vy wrote that sentence in an old notebook. Her first morning had no meetings, no great photos, just a small loose valve. But thanks to it, she understood that this mission was not to make the old place perfect. Makes latecomers less afraid of putting their hands on something they don't know.