Stranger Things
Page 24
Out in the parking lot, the Camaro was sitting under a streetlight, so blue it looked like a creature from another world. Some kind of monster. I wanted to touch it.
Billy had turned away again. He was leaning on the rail with the cigarette in his hand, watching the go-karts as they zoomed along the tire-lined track.
I sent the last ball clunking into the one-hundred cup and took my tickets. “You want to race?”
Billy snorted and took a drag off the cigarette. “Why would I want to screw around with some little go-kart when I know how to drive?”
“I know how to drive too,” I said, even though it wasn’t exactly true. My dad had taught me how to use the clutch once in the parking lot at Jack in the Box.
Billy didn’t even blink. He tipped his head back and blew out a plume of smoke. “Sure you do,” he said. He looked blank and bored under the flashing neon lights, but he sounded almost friendly.
“I do. As soon as I’m sixteen, I’m going to get a Barracuda and drive all the way up the coast.”
“A ’Cuda, huh? That’s a lot of horsepower for a little kid.”
“So? I can handle it. I bet I could even drive your car.”
Billy stepped closer and leaned down so he was staring right into my face. He smelled sharp and dangerous, like hair stuff and cigarettes. He was still smiling.
“Max,” he said in a sly, singsong voice. “If you think you’re getting anywhere near my car, you are extremely mistaken.” But he was smiling when he said it. He laughed again, pinching the end of his cigarette and tossing it away. His eyes were bright.
And I’d figured it was all a big goof, because it was just how guys like that talked. The slackers and the lowlifes my dad knew—all the ones who hung out at the Black Door Lounge down the street from his apartment in East Hollywood. When they made jokes about Sam Mayfield’s daredevil daughter or teased me about boys, they were only playing.
Billy was looming over me, studying my face. “You’re just a kid,” he said again. “But I guess even kids can tell a bitchin’ ride when they see one, right?”
“Sure,” I said.
And I’d actually been dumb enough to believe that this was the start of something good. That the Hargroves were here to make everything better—or at least okay. That this was family.
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