by Ginger Scott
“I need to buy something . . . for the boys,” I say, stumbling on my words. I almost said “for Dustin.”
“Can’t they buy their own crap? I have to be home in an hour.” She’s already pulled the makeup wipes out from my backpack and is clearing her face of mascara and lipstick. She’s just as pretty this way, but I wouldn’t dare stop her from putting on my makeup every morning. It makes her so happy to have this tiny act of rebellion. Between this, borrowing some of my outfits, and crawling out her window on Friday nights, Bailey can survive all of the stern formalities that come along with life in her household.
“This one’s a surprise,” I say.
She flips the mirror closed on her visor then pushes it up to the roof.
“A surprise, huh?”
I can feel her eyes on me.
“Yep,” I say, forcing my cheeks not to burn and my mouth to remain loose as I maintain a casual smile.
My friend snickers while I scan for traffic, pulling myself close to the steering wheel as I leave the student lot.
“Uh huh,” she finally says.
“What?” I flash her a quick look, lifting my right shoulder.
I’m so busted.
“You’re getting something for Dustin. Don’t you lie to me, Hannah Lee Judge.”
I cringe at the utterance of my middle name. She’s broken out the secret warfare, and that tone, the one that’s a little melodic. The one a smart-ass know-it-all would use.
I wrinkle my nose and squint my eyes, shaking my head to stretch out the lie. It’s useless, though, because the moment my eyes meet hers, she cackles at my lame attempt.
“Girl, you are buying a present for a cute boy. There’s nothing wrong with that, so quit trying to cover it up.” She lightly pushes my shoulder.
I halt the car at the stoplight a block from campus and breathe out a heavy sigh. My shoulders sag. If Bailey can see through my façade, there’s no way I’ll be able to hide this from my brother.
“Okay, fine. But it’s not like that. I swear.”
I lie.
“I feel bad because Dustin’s dad broke his windshield and he had to sell this part to pay for the replacement, and I know how important it was. I have the money, so . . .” I shrug.
“It’s sweet,” Bailey says.
“Yeah?” I lift a brow.
She nods.
I breathe in through my nose to ease the tightness in my chest. It has little effect. I have to ignore the feeling, though, and push on. It takes about ten minutes to get to Earl’s, and I know the guys there are going to be a pain in my ass. I try to build up my pretend courage and arm myself with the bluster my dad and brother have taught me from years at the track. This scene—the shop, the track, the cars themselves—is very much a man’s world. I fully expect the guys on shift today to try to take advantage of me and pocket the extra cash. I did not do two assignments and a test for Michael Bosa for nothing, though, and this one-seventy-five that I’ve saved up is the exact amount I need to reclaim that part for Dustin.
“You ready?” I turn to my friend.
Her eyes widen and she shakes her head.
“What? I’m not robbing the joint. I’m spending my money.” I hold the wad of cash out as proof. I jacked one six-pack of beer from the corner market two months ago, and now Bailey thinks I’m a hardened criminal. I did it on a dare from my brother, and frankly, the way Dustin looked at me after made me wish I hadn’t. I didn’t even drink any of it at the party we went to.
Most of the guys in this place at least recognize me. I roll my shoulders back and punch my feet into the ground with my stride. I know how much Dustin got for the part. I dug the exchange receipt out of our dumpster. My lucky day, Earl seems to be off. The rest of the guys working for him are young and malleable. They have no idea I’m seventeen, and if I say things just right, they really don’t care. I catch a faint whistle leaving someone’s lips as I enter the bay.
“Hannah.” Jim, the oldest one next to Earl at all of twenty-six, stops what he’s doing under some Camaro hood and wipes his hands on a rag on his way to me.
“I’m here for the intake manifold my boys sold to Earl?” I’ve used the right words; the question at the end is an added dose of sweetness.
“What’d Dustin do, cheat a bunch of fools out of cash on the Straights to buy it back?” He turns his back to me and moves toward the counter. I pull my lips in tight and swallow the defensive comebacks I’d like to say. Jim’s bent because he’s lost to Dustin a dozen times. He’s a shitty driver, but he refuses to see that.
“I’ll be using my own money, thank you.” I slap the cash on the counter as he turns around, unraveling the part from the plastic bag Dustin brought it in with. He sets the part down close to him and pulls my money into his permanently oil-accented hands.
“You’re short fifty.”
Bailey swallows hard enough that I can hear it over my shoulder. She’s not a fan of conflict. I’m impressed that Jim’s actually trying to pull one over on me like he does all the other clueless people who come into this joint.
“Yeah? You wanna sell me a new air filter while you’re at it, Jim?” I level him with the same straight-mouthed glare he’s giving me, and after a five-second stand-off he breaks our connection and shakes his head.
“Shit, fine. Take it,” he mutters, cashing out the drawer. “Earl’s gonna have my ass for being soft.”
“Again,” I mutter under my breath. I raise my voice as I edge out the door with my prize. “Yeah, but you’re a good person and Earl’s a real asshole, Jim!”
I bless the boys with my swaying hips as I march back out of the garage, Bailey rushing along in my footsteps. We break into a major case of giggles when I leave the lot.
“That Jim guy really likes you, and yet really hates you,” Bailey observes, pulling her mirror back down to make sure she’s completely free of any signs that she’s a typical teenager.
“He hates the three of us—me, Tommy, and Dustin. Next time he’s there on a Friday, I’ll point his car out to you,” I say, noticing the familiar Toyota grill reflect back at me in my rearview mirror. My grin inches up.
“Hey, look behind us,” I say to my friend.
Bailey twists in her seat to confirm Dustin and Tommy are behind us. She waves and Dustin responds by flashing his headlights a few times and racing up dangerously close to my bumper. One touch of my brakes would really piss him off, but I would never do that to him. He must know I wouldn’t.
Bailey unbuckles her belt when we reach the neighborhood, crawling through the open window and hanging out enough to let her arms wave and hair blow in the wind as she howls. My brother does the same thing as the four of us cruise by the senior center on the corner of our street, catching more than a few sideways glances from the social club letting out.
I speed away from my brother and Dustin and continue down the road to drop Bailey off, helping her to comb out her hair before she exits the passenger seat. Her parents won’t let her drive yet, and part of me thinks she’ll have to move out before she gets her license.
By the time I get back to my driveway, Dustin’s car is already pulled in reverse with the hood popped open for the boys’ daily tune-up session. Sometimes, I think they just like to walk around the car and stare at it.
I pull up right next to the car and reach into the back seat to grab the part I can’t wait to give to Dustin.
“What’s that?” Tommy asks before I’m fully out of the car. He’s alone.
“A surprise,” I respond.
He nods at it, rubbing his hands together as his eyes squint and focus the block-like part I’m trying to conceal behind my back.
“That our intake?” Tommy asks.
I don’t know why the way he asks pricks the hairs on the back of my neck so much, but I’m instantly defensive.
“You mean Dustin’s part?” I retort. It’s not like my brother paid for it. My brother quit paying for things on that car months ago.
&n
bsp; “Hannah.” The scolding, condescending way he says my name really puts me off, and I slam my door closed now that I’m fully out of the car and take a huge step backward, away from him.
“Tommy.” I echo his tone.
He reaches in at me and I twist to avoid his grabby hands, which only makes his immaturity tick up. Lunging at me twice, I flinch each time until he finally catches me turning the wrong way. He pries the piece from my hands and strides around the back end of the car while I practically chase him.
“Tommy! Give it!” I sound like such a child, but I’m pissed. I helped a real douchebag cheat on a test so I could buy that part.
“This is too much, Hannah. I don’t know what you think—or what you’re hoping this will mean—but you have to stop. Okay, Hannah?” He points his long finger at me, along with the final utterance of my name, and I’m tempted to reach forward and snap it off.
“I’m not doing anything, Tommy! I was being nice! To . . . our . . . friend!” I shout, my hands flailing desperately. I can feel the fire tickling my cheeks. I always glow red when I’m angry.
My brother’s eyes shift over my shoulder and he clears his throat. Out of habit, I guess, I obey. Maybe my body is trained to react and follow his lead, to keep my mouth shut when he hints that I should. It’s the curse of being the younger sibling, automatic subservience. Whatever it is, it shuts me up.
Dustin pops out our front door with one of my mom’s sugar cookies in his hand.
“What’s that?” He nods toward Tommy, but his eyes flash to me for a moment. My stomach bubbles up with aching pride as the heat drains from my cheeks, anger replaced by an overwhelming joy because I’m about to give something nice to someone special.
“Surprise, dude! Had my dad pick it up today. Didn’t say anything in case it was gone when he went in,” my brother says, literally stealing my thunder.
What the . . .
I’m stupefied, my feet glued to the ground beside Dustin’s car, my fingers curling into themselves until they practically lose feeling. It’s not that my brother lied; Tommy lies all the time. It’s that he lied to Dustin about me, in a way. That he stole a moment from me, and why? Because he’s jealous.
“That’s amazing, man! Thank you so much! I mean . . . wow!” Dustin slings an arm around my brother’s neck, an arm that’s meant for me. All that’s left for me to do is nod while I smile through gritted teeth as Dustin pulls away and points to the part in his hands.
“Amazing.” I can’t imagine the resentment in my clipped response and tight smile doesn’t beam through the seam between my lips. It’s so obvious to me, but Dustin doesn’t appear thrown by it. He’s already under his hood, already calling out for tools that my brother scurries to find. The two of them are fast at work within seconds, and I’m still glued to the concrete beside a passenger door I’ve never even gotten to pass through for a ride.
Not even once.
6
The biggest perk of being a senior, other than almost being done with this school bullshit, is getting out early. I like the chance to make those last few tweaks to my car before the Straights, not that we ever change anything major. Normally, at least. I need those extra hours today. Tonight’s races are going to have higher stakes.
Tommy has no clue what’s going on. I didn’t mention the boys from Vegas to him. I don’t think he likes the side bets anymore, so it doesn’t really matter. He used to love the money, and he still makes bets sometimes, but not as often. For me, the side hustle is life.
Literal. Life.
I can usually pull down a solid two or three hundred bucks on a good Friday night, and that’s only off the locals and the people who come from the cities to race. You don’t find back roads like we have in the metro. And those Scottsdale kids are easy money with their daddy’s cars and engines they don’t understand. You can’t buy a car that wins. You build it. Fine by me, though; I like taking their money.
I’ve been trying to get the Vegas drivers I met last year out here for months. They worked me up pretty good on the track out in Henderson, but that was under strict rules—rules that I think played to their strengths. There aren’t rules out here in the high desert. I’m looking for a little revenge, but mostly I want their cash.
“We should head out there early, open this baby up a few times and see how the intake holds,” I say as I drop the hood and wipe my hands clean from my tinkering. I meet Tommy’s hard stare, and it takes me a couple seconds to decipher it. Hannah’s home early.
“Hey, can I come along for the test rides?” she asks, stepping closer to my car.
“We’ve got work to do. It’s not a joy ride,” Tommy says, clearly cutting her off to be an asshole.
I let my head fall to my shoulder and breathe out my nose before mouthing “sorry” to Hannah behind Tommy’s back. Normally, I’d stick up for her. Sometimes he gets his big brother pants up his ass. But today I can’t afford extra drama rattling around in my head. If I don’t win my races tonight, I’m losing my car. I don’t have the cash to stake, and I know the rules: if a driver bets a grand or more, loses and can’t pay, winner gets the keys.
I won’t lose.
That’s the thing about me—when my back is against the wall, an acute awareness takes over my body. It’s like muscle memory, formed from years of taking Colt’s bullshit and abuse. I don’t take punches because I foresee them coming, and I don’t get into situations I won’t dominate. Tommy doesn’t understand it, and he thinks I take too many risks, both behind the wheel and with my cash. I know what I can handle though, and I drive myself right up to that line. I’ll never veer over it.
“Let’s go,” Tommy says, snapping me out of my head with a fat palm against the hood.
“Gentle with her,” I tease.
He grimaces and laughs out of the side of his mouth.
“Yeah, like you’re ever gentle with her,” he says.
I roll my eyes as I climb into the driver’s seat. I catch a glimpse of Hannah as I do. She’s moved back to her car and is sitting on the hood, her ankles crossed. She’ll be out at the track by the time the sun goes down, and maybe when Tommy is distracted with all the celebration—after I win—I can take her for a ride at top speed. Just once. As someone who has been in my corner for most of my life, that’s the least I can do to show her how grateful I am for her support.
It takes us about ten minutes to clear the town limits, and the moment we do I open it up to get a feel for the road and adjust to the slight shift in speeds.
“It jumps,” Tommy says as I drop into the next gear. I feel the jerk too so I downshift to make the climb again. We burn a few extra miles going back and forth until I find the perfect sweet spots to punch it into the next gear, and by the time we’re ready for the Straights, I have this thing flying on the pavement.
I catch the grin on Tommy’s face as we round the corner onto the old highway where cars are already lined up, boys leaning on hoods with cash in their hands.
“What you smiling about over there, Tommy Judge?” I throw an elbow at him in jest.
He shakes his head with a short laugh.
“Nothin’, man. I just like going fast.”
I turn my head to meet his eyes and our wide smiles reflect one another. This has always been our space, where the bullshit falls to the sides and Tommy and I get to be two kids who like to race cars. When he smiles like that, I remember all the reasons we became friends in the first place. I hold out my fist and he drops his on top.
“Kick some ass tonight, brotha,” he says, unbuckling as I slow and pull to the side of the road to join the other gearheads out here to tear up the desert.
“Always,” I answer. My eyes lock on my friend’s frame as the passenger door closes behind him with a heavy clunk. He’s going to be so pissed when he realizes who’s here tonight. A few of the girls from town have already gathered in the back of a pickup truck though, and that’s where my friend is headed. He’s a grumpy asshole most of the time, but he
’s also a ladies’ man.
I rev the engine lightly, just enough to feel the rumble vibrate around me and under the pad of my foot. The power makes its way around the nerves in my body. I coast my way a little deeper through the rows of cars until I find a good spot in the middle of the action to get out and size up the competition.
Keys clutched in my hand, I cross my arms over my chest and lean against the side of my car, taking in the scene before the last of the sunlight goes away in the next thirty minutes. I spot the Vegas guys fairly easily—typical Subaru next to a dropped Tahoe the rest of them probably rode here in. I nod at the familiar face in the crowd. His name’s Alex Offerman, and he’s never without the four guys—who are at least double my size—standing nearby. I have a pretty good hunch that Alex’s family is one of those that deals behind the scenes in Vegas, but I’d rather not confirm my suspicion. I don’t know why I feel plausible deniability is a good thing with him, but I do.
“Hey, Dustin, my man!” Alex crosses the street to meet me halfway. His blond hair is slicked back and his white long-sleeve shirt is tight enough to show off his nipples. It’s creepy. I smell his cologne from several feet away. I’m wearing my old black Thrasher skate shirt with a hole at the bottom, my lucky black jeans, and new Vans. I like the way they grip the pedal and I always get a new pair before a big race.
“Finally made it to my street. How was the trip?” I reach out and clasp his hand, noting the way he twists his wrist to make sure his is slightly on top. Headlight beams from the parked cars glint off his gold ring.
“The strip? Or the trip?” he jokes.
I give him a courtesy laugh for his dumb joke. Least I can do since I’m about to take his money.
“So this is the famous Straights you were telling me about, huh?” He spins slowly to take in the long strip of road that stretches far in both directions. Soon, it will lead to black nothingness to the north, away from town.
“This is my home turf, yeah.” I shove my hands back in my pockets and press the ridges of my key into my thumb to keep myself alert and sharp.