Work Text:
Sparky’s Junk, Rock Island, Illinois.
March 26th, 1961.
It was the middle of the night when they snuck out to the junkyard down the street from St. Helen’s of The Blessed Shroud Orphanage. The Penguin was probably gonna be pissed (that’s a new word her sister taught her) at them in the morning, but the two sisters didn’t care, giggling and snickering the whole way over.
Jacqueline ‘Jake’ Papageorge and Cecelia Delaney laid on the hood of a 1940 Ford Standard Deluxe Sedan, Cecelia’s long legs dangling off the side. She might be the younger sister, sure, but she was starting to rapidly outgrow her older sister. Which Jake complained about constantly.
The two of them gazed up at the stars—or, Jake was. Cecelia was reading a car magazine, as per usual. Something was bothering her, though. Something that’s been bothering her for a while, now that she thought about it.
Everyone's called her ‘Jake’ for as long as either of them could remember. Except for when The Penguin was mad at her, which was often. Cecelia vaguely remembered something about Jake’s ma insisting that her baby is named ‘Jake,’ boy or girl. Cecelia never really thought about her own birth parents much, but sometimes she did wonder what they named her before they gave her to that salesman. Maybe she would like it better than the one she’s got right now. Third kid that week, third letter of the alphabet! Dropped off by Officer Mike Delaney? Now that’s her last name! Why not? She just felt like it wasn’t her name, and she hated it. She also hated it for another reason she couldn’t really place.
She stopped looking at her magazine (that she definitely didn’t steal) for a second, turning to face her big sister. She opened her mouth to say something, but then she whipped her head back around and buried her face in a page. Jake noticed, though. “Motorhead, were ya gonna say somethin’?” Cecelia felt her cheeks burn up. “N-no.”
“Ah, c’mon! Ya can tell me, sis.”
“I w-w-wish you didn’t c-call me that-”
“Call ya what? My sister? I swear, if that fuckin’ bastard, Freddie Robinson, said somethin’ ‘bout us again, I’m gonna beat that kindergartner to a pulp again—”
“N-no, Jackie, Freddie didn’t say an-anything. It’s just—” She let out a sigh she didn’t know she was holding in. “I-it’s just—I’m still your s-sibling, but I’m n-not your s-s-sister. D-does that make any s-sense at all?”
There was a terrible beat of silence while Jake furrowed her brows, thinking. “Yeah. Yeah, it makes sense. I think I sorta… feel the same way?”
Another beat of silence.
“I hate my last name,” Jake said, “I mean, someday, we’re gonna be musicians—big stars, right? I can’t see a name like ‘Jake Papageorge’ up in lights. Can you?”
Cecelia shook her head. “I just h-hate my name in general,” she admitted into her magazine.
“What’s wrong with your name? Cecelia’s a pretty name—she’s the patron saint a’ music, y’know.”
“I-it’s not my name, th-though—” she realized something, “It’s a girl’s name.”
“Well, what’s wrong with that? You’re a girl.”
“No— no, I d-don’t think so. I don’t th-think—I d-don’t think I’m a g-girl. I think I’m a boy.”
Jake’s brows furrowed again as she thought, turning to face the stars. “Are ya my brother, now?”
“…Yap.”
“I think I’m your brother, too, Hot Rod. I mean, not a boy like you are. It’s like… I’m a he, and I’m your brother, but I’m still a girl. Does that make any sense?”
The newly dubbed brother just nodded. He didn’t really understand it, but he would try, for his big brother. He looked back at his magazine. “Chevy,” he said, because he was looking at a picture of a Chevy. “You c-can call me that, Jackie. Fer now.”
“‘Course ya would name yourself after a car.” Jake mumbled, and it was then that they got into their first fight as brothers. They rolled off the hood of the Ford and into the dirt, kicking, punching, pulling hair, the works. Chevy screamed as Jake bit him, and it was then when the owner of the junkyard, Sparky, presumably, came out with a shotgun and screamed at them to get off his property.
They were both a mess now, but the new brothers found themselves laughing as they ran all the way back to the orphanage.
One year later…
The brothers and their mentor, Curtis, were in the front seat of his black 1960 Coupe DeVille, on the way to Chicago to check out this new music store and pawn shop called Ray’s Music Exchange. It had nothing to do, Jake insisted, with the fact that Jake definitely didn’t blow out his microphone and definitely wasn’t in desperate need of a new one. The main route from Rock Island to Chicago was closed for some fucking reason, so they had to take the long way there. Chevy was fine with it, though. It gave him some time to think about shit. Like his name. It was way better than his old one, sure. Yap, he liked it, but it just… didn’t fit. It was more of a temporary fix, than anything. Maybe Jake had a point, for once.
Chevy looked out the window in his new prescription shades, reading the passing signs.
ELWOOD
NEXT EXIT