Journey, The (11 page)

When Shelly looked again in the mirror she noticed that April was not alone. More than a dozen other cars, lights on, followed her friend at the same pace down a three-mile stretch of freeway. When Shelly flipped her right blinker and slowed to enter the off-ramp near a poorly lighted interchange, the other drivers did the same. She turned to Nick when she reached a stop sign at the end of the ramp.

"Where to from here?"

Nick pointed to a spot on the other side of the freeway, where two vehicles, facing south, lit up a flat stretch of Rural Route 10 with their headlights.

"You see those lights?" he asked.

"I do."

"Drive over there and park on the shoulder," Nick said. He spoke in a businesslike tone. "It looks like Burt Reynolds is ready to go."

Shelly did as instructed. She crossed the overpass and proceeded a quarter mile to a small power station at the junction of Mission Road and Route 10. She turned right onto the latter, drove another hundred yards, and parked on the side of the road behind the black Trans Am and a GMC pickup. Within a minute, the drivers of several other cars followed suit.

"This is where I take over," Nick said.

Shelly looked at him and grinned.

"You mean you don't want me to smoke that badass cowboy from Walla Walla?"

"I'd pay a thousand dollars to see that," Nick said with a laugh. "But this is my battle. I've been waiting a long time to put this punk in his place."

"OK."

Shelly handed Nick the keys, got out of the 'Cuda, and walked around the back of the car to the passenger side. She had barely settled in her seat when Waylon Cooney came a-calling and walked up to the open window on the driver's side.

"Pull up to the power pole and wait for the signal. You're in the left lane. We drive to the next intersection. Objections?"

"None," Nick said.

"Good."

Cooney returned to his vehicle.

Shelly felt her stomach drop.

"Did I hear that right?" she asked. "We're in the lane with
oncoming
traffic?"

"Yep."

"I don't know about this, Nick."

"I do. Strap on your seat belt."

Shelly pulled the safety restraint across her waist but immediately second-guessed her decision to join the fun. It was one thing to drive a muscle car. It was another to play Russian roulette. Route 10 was a fairly busy road, even on a cool October night. She resisted the temptation to unbuckle her belt and join the growing ranks of spectators.

"I hope you know what you're doing," she said.

"I do."

Nick turned on the ignition, drove onto the pavement, and pulled next to the Trans Am, where Cooney and the ditzy blonde awaited. A boy Shelly did not recognize walked a few feet in front of the cars and removed his John Deere cap. Both drivers revved their engines.

Shelly glanced at her side-view mirror and saw April standing in front of several others in the middle of the road. Even from twenty feet away, she could see traces of concern on her best friend's face. This was stupid, she now concluded. Really stupid.

Knowing that it was too late to back out, Shelly shifted her eyes forward and waited for the signal. The boy with the tractor hat waved it from side to side, as if to get the attention of both drivers, before raising the hat above his head. Shelly grabbed the handle on her door.

When the frightened-looking young man dropped his hat, Nick stepped on the accelerator. Shelly heard tires squeal as her head slammed against the top of her seat and both cars lurched forward. Within seconds Nick shifted into second gear and steered the 'Cuda back to the center of the road, correcting a fishtail that had pushed Shelly's pulse to triple digits.

Shelly ignored both Nick and Waylon Cooney and focused instead on the dark road ahead, which dipped and rose like a mellow stretch of a roller coaster track. She squeezed the handle and said a silent prayer, asking God to keep her in one piece, instead of eighty-five, as the 'Cuda approached a rise in the road and visibility of oncoming traffic fell to a hundred yards.

The Trans Am started to pull away.

"Hold on," Nick said as he shifted gears.

With one hand on the dash and another on the door, Shelly silently screamed. This was insane,
One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest
insane. She glanced at the instrument panel just long enough to see the speedometer needle pass 135 and the tachometer needle hit its max.

For two hundred yards the muscle cars moved in unison, as if attached like a motorcycle and a sidecar. Neither driver managed to gain a significant advantage over the other.

When the cars passed blindly over yet another rise, Shelly looked into the distance and saw oncoming lights. She put her hands on her face and then on the dash. She pushed herself back as she tried to will a quick end to an adventure that had rapidly become a nightmare.

"I think I've got him," Nick said as he pulled the stick one last time. "Sit tight."

"This is crazy!" Shelly screamed.

Apparently focused on the task at hand, Nick did not respond. He instead tightened his grip on the wheel and floored the accelerator. Seconds later he pulled ahead of the Trans Am, veered into the right lane, and shot through the intersection ahead of his rival and ahead of an oncoming pickup whose driver had already hit its horn.

Nick tapped the brake and eventually slowed to a reasonable speed. He drove another fifty yards to a wide spot in the road, did a U-turn, and pulled onto a narrow, sloping shoulder on the east side of Route 10. He turned off the ignition, laughed, and faced the girl at his side.

"So much for the shit kicker," he said triumphantly. He extended his arm behind Shelly's head. "What do you think? Did we kick some ass?"

Hearing no reply, Nick leaned toward his passenger.

"Shelly? Are you all right?"

Shelly let go of the dash, dropped her head, and turned away. Shaken and most definitely stirred, she took a moment to collect herself before looking at Nick with an ashen face.

"I think I peed my pants."

CHAPTER 21: MICHELLE

Monday, October 29, 1979

Michelle walked down a hall on the first floor of Unionville High School and noted the absence of activity. In just ten minutes following the final bell, more than six hundred students had managed to open their lockers, visit their friends, and leave the building, rendering it again a tired, old relic to be revived another day.

As she rounded a corner and headed down another corridor, she saw Brenda Brown and waved. The library assistant carried a tall stack of books into the media center. Two students followed close behind and carried stacks of their own, albeit with noticeably less enthusiasm.

Michelle typically remained in her office until three thirty. She would complete her work as fast as possible, grab her things, and get out of school before many students had even left the parking lot. But on this, the last Monday of October, she had decided to make a soda run to the faculty lounge and perhaps greet the spirits that haunted the halls of her alma mater.

She saw a few of these ghosts as she passed a ridiculously large trophy case near the entrance to the gym. Football and boys basketball occupied the prime real estate. Like many high schools, Unionville seemed most proud of the high-profile activities that brought in money. UHS had won six state championships in football and five in basketball to go with dozens of league and district titles. Trophies, plaques, and photographs hailing the two programs took up more than fifty percent of the shelving. But if Unionville High was mostly a bread-and-butter sports school, it wasn't only that. The institution had also produced its fair share of standout wrestlers, swimmers, and gymnasts.

Michelle paused and smiled when she spotted a large black-and-white photo of ten smiling faces. The members of Unionville's 1978 District VII champion gymnastics team looked just as happy, perfect, and innocent as she had remembered them. What a group they had been. When gymnastics coach Sheila Thompson had retired in 1990, after running the program for thirty years, she had told the
Unionville Gazette
that the '78 team had been her best. Six girls had competed at state in individual events, including a junior named Shelly Preston in the floor exercise. Two of the six had brought home titles. Shelly had placed third.

The time traveler knew that Shelly would not do quite as well as a senior. She had a lot more on her mind now and would devote proportionately less time to an activity that had been her passion for years. She would suffer two serious stumbles in the district meet, write off the failings to lack of preparation, and refocus her attention on music and academics. Or maybe she wouldn't. Maybe she would be inspired by the presence of a new friend in the stands, hit those back flips at district, and tumble all the way to a state crown. Two months into her second tour of 1979, Michelle had concluded that nothing – not even the past – was set in stone.

Michelle took one last look at the photo and resumed her walk to the faculty lounge. As she passed the first of five math classrooms, she thought about how she hated the subject. As she passed the second, she thought about geometry and algebra. As she passed the third, she thought about Robert Land. She had seen him almost every day and had had several more pleasant encounters with him in the staff room. But the pleasant encounters had always ended with pleasant but meaningless goodbyes.

Deciding that the time was finally right to say hello on his turf, she walked over to his classroom and stuck her head through an open door. But instead of seeing a handsome math teacher grading papers before football practice, she saw a familiar-looking student sitting in a chair desk near the front of the room. The girl had buried her face in folded arms.

"Shelly?" Michelle asked.

The ponytailed brunette lifted her head and looked toward the door.

"Hi, Miss Jennings," she said in a barely audible voice.

"What are you doing?"

"I'm just resting."

"Are you all right?"

"No. Not really."

"What's wrong?"

"It's this," Shelly said, pushing a sheet across her desk. "I just don't get it."

"You mean math in general or something more specific."

"I don't get any of it," Shelly said. "I feel like such a moron. Even third graders know how to do story problems."

"I'm sure it's not that bad."

"It is, though. It is. It's like I'm dyslexic with numbers," Shelly stared out the window. "I don't know why I have to know this stuff. I want to be a writer, not an engineer. People like Scott and Brian are the ones who need math."

"Have you asked Mr. Land to help you or sought tutoring?" Michelle asked, knowing full well that Shelly had.

"I have, but nothing seems to work."

"Maybe I can help."

"Are you good at solving story problems?"

"Let's say that I've become more proficient over the years."

Michelle walked into the classroom and sat next to the student. She saw the sheet of paper on the top of Shelly's desk and leaned toward it to get a better view.

"Do you mind if I look at this?"

"Go ahead."

Michelle held the sheet with two hands and smiled when she read the first of ten numbered exercises. A learning moment was on its way.

"Has number one been stumping you?"

"Yes," Shelly said.

"Well, let's see what I can do."

Michelle got up from her chair, placed the sheet on Robert's desk, and walked to the blackboard, where she grabbed a stick of chalk and wrote "Exercise One" on the board. She turned to face a suddenly attentive student.

"I can see why you are having so much difficulty. This exercise makes false assumptions. It is completely unrealistic and does not even remotely relate to your life."

"Exactly," Shelly said, seemingly pleased that she had found a kindred spirit.

"So let's fix that."

Michelle retrieved the sheet.

"Let's start with the exercise as written. It asks, 'How long will it take a car going 75 miles per hour to catch up with a car going 65 miles per hour if it starts one hour later?'"

Michelle wrote the question word for word on the blackboard, returned the sheet to the desk, and turned again to Shelly. She put her hands on her hips and smiled.

"The first problem, of course, is that the cars are speeding. You can't go that fast even on the freeway. I-80 is not the autobahn. It's clear to me that both drivers, probably football players, are going to get tickets and have to retake driver's training. You, on the other hand, are a safe driver and would never drive that fast. I know. I've been in your car."

Shelly beamed.

"There's another issue as well. I'm not sure that the speeds stated in this exercise accurately reflect what even fast drivers are doing these days. So let me fix that too."

Michelle picked up an eraser, wiped the original question from the board, and put up a new one. When she finished and pivoted to face Shelly, she saw not a girl with an ear-to-ear grin but rather one with a conspicuous frown and downcast eyes. Michelle glanced back at the board and reexamined her handiwork. The writing on the wall could not have been clearer:

How long will it take a Barracuda going 135 miles per hour to catch up with a Trans Am going 130 if it starts one hour later on Route 10?

"Shelly?"

"Yes."

"There are two answers to this question, and I think you can benefit from both."

Michelle lifted the exercise sheet from Mr. Land's desk, returned to her chair, and again sat next to Shelly. When the girl finally looked her in the eyes, she continued with the lesson.

"The first answer, the math answer, is twenty-six hours. In one hour, the Trans Am will have traveled 130 miles. The Barracuda will have to use 130 of its 135 miles per hour just to keep pace. That leaves five miles per hour for it to cover 130 miles. One hundred thirty divided by five is twenty-six."

Shelly looked at Michelle and nodded.

"I get it. I never really thought about it that way, but I do now. I get it."