She turned around and walked to her car, got in and started it up. Most people immediately turned their heads, as it was a menacing sound—nothing like Bret’s quiet little Z. As she pulled out of the parking lot, we fell in behind her and walked to the starting line.
When she pulled up next to Bret’s car, the difference was absurd. Her car was longer, wider, and heavier—it simply towered over his. Bret’s car looked quicker, lighter, and faster, but I had to catch myself, because I knew better.
She pulled up next to Bret on the starting line and got out.
“Hey, Bret!” she yelled at him. “Do you mind if Stephen does the time? he’s pretty accurate.”
“No, but, how’s he going to do it?”
“What do you mean?” She looked at him hard.
“I mean,” he paused long enough to look at her like she was stupid, “how does he know two different times on one stopwatch? Or are you just assuming he’s
gifted
?” Bret said the last word with such a condescending inflection that everyone heard it.
“Oh Bret, finally you have admitted to my superiority over you—gifted? Really? It would be perhaps more along the lines of genius, but I digress.” Stephen approached Bret’s car holding a watch. “I understand how watches could complicate matters for you, therefore, let me introduce you to my Cassio. This button here controls the stopwatch. I press once, the watch begins. I press again, and it pauses and I remember the first car’s time. I press again, and the watch starts. I press again, and stop at the second car’s time. Does this in anyway confuse you?” Stephen’s tone was so outwardly mocking that he sounded like he was explaining how to use a watch to a two year old.
“How are you going to remember all that?” Bret spat at him trying to find an angle in which Stephen could answer.
“Easy, you said it yourself I’m gifted… remember?”
Bret was outwardly ticked at Stephen and so turned his attention to Runaway.
“You have your friends doing the most important part of this race—how do I know I’m not going to get screwed?”
“Well,” she replied, “since Stephen is doing the time—and yeah, that’s a big part—you can have one of your deadbeat friends start the race, so you won’t feel like you’re being screwed.” She had a mock smile on her face.
“Fine, I’ll take that, and when we’re finished, your car too.” Bret poured all of his anger into his belief that his car was quite superior to hers.
“Yeah, yeah, whatever,” she said, and got into her car.
Derrick, of all people, wanted to start the race. Runaway didn’t care, but I did. I couldn’t stand him and I wanted to say so, so I opened my mouth to protest. Grant saw me before I could form the words.
“Shut it, Topher.” Grant stopped me. “It’s fine—it won’t matter, anyway.” He was shaking his head.
“Am I the only one worried here?” I looked at him
“Aren’t you always?” Stephen said, watching Runaway.
Both Runaway and Bret sat in their cars. Her car was already running when Bret started his up. We couldn’t even hear it next to her ’57.
Derrick, I could see, had stepped out in front of both cars with a white towel in his hand. Stephen now left us and walked down to the finish line with a stopwatch in his right hand. He just stood there and waited.
Grant and I moved away from Runaway’s car and stood over on the side of the road. We were out of the way, but in a good enough place to watch. My stomach felt hollow.
Runaway let the old Chevy idle. There was no doubt that her car was huge, heavy, and long. The only thing that could save this race for her was just the pure acceleration of her car. I knew her car was fast—I had witnessed that firsthand. I just didn’t know how fast, and the last time I watched her do this, her car had caught fire. That worried me.
Grant saw my expression. “Dude, stop worrying,” he told me. “It’s not like she hasn’t done this before.”
“Yeah,” I said. “But the last time, her car caught fire!”
Grant laughed out loud at this. “You mean to tell me you think the only time she has run this quarter-mile was three years ago?” He was looking at me and still laughing.
“Oh,” was all I said. “Right.”
I’m an idiot,
I thought
.
I looked over at Runaway in her car—she just sat there and stared straight ahead. You could tell she was focused and in her zone—she got obsessive when racing, and there was nothing that would distract her at this point.
Bret sat in his car and kept looking over at Runaway—then he’d look straight ahead again. He looked to me like he was starting to get nervous.
Good,
I thought.
I nudged Grant. “Check him out, man—he looks like he’s going to be sick.”
Grant gave me a “hmpf” and a half smile.
Derrick lifted the towel and looked first at Runaway, then Bret. He started swinging the towel over his head around and around, faster and faster.
Just then the music broke in, as it always did, with the notes we knew so well.
Bret looked over, startled, but Runaway just smiled, not looking at him at all.
Derrick started swinging the towel faster.
Above the air rose the song, “Runaway.”
Derrick dropped the towel.
The cars took off immediately. All at once, I heard the whine of the Chevy, the cry of the Z, and the brilliance of Del.
I watched the two cars bolt down the track. I saw Runaway’s Chevy slam into second gear—it looked as if it slowed, then jumped five feet again, all within a fraction of an instant.
I couldn’t see who had the lead—I could only hear the cries of the two cars and the noise of the crowd. Everyone was screaming and cheering. From what I could tell, Bret’s 300 looked like it was keeping up with Runaway.
It was going to be close.
I got so caught up in the moment that I was second-guessing everything I saw. All I can remember was Grant jumping up and down and hollering between jumps. People everywhere were screaming and had their hands in the air, but to me it was as if it was all blur.
Then, after what seemed like forever, I again looked down at the two cars screaming to the finish line, where Stephen stood—the exhaust seemed to float into the air and the cars themselves just seemed to be idling to the finish with their red taillights fading into the distance.
My trance was irritatingly broken when Grant hugged me and continued to jump up and down with me in his arms, hollering in my ear. I looked toward the finish line and saw Runaway turn her car around and head toward Grant and me. Stephen darted off, running behind her. Bret slowly came up behind them.
“She did it! She did it! She did it, little buddy!” Grant yelled in my ear.
“Grant,” I said calmly.
“Way to go, Runaway!” He continued to jump up and down.
“Grant,” I tried again.
He looked down at me. “We did it, little buddy. She did it! Did you see her? Yahoooooooo!”
“Grant!” I yelled. “Would you stop jumping up and down, man? You’re landing on my foot every time!”
“Whoa… sorry about that, little buddy. Just got caught up in the excitement,” he said, embarrassed.
I looked up at Grant and tried to straighten myself out. “Dude, stop calling me ‘little buddy’— you sound like the skipper on Gilligan’s Island.”
“Sorry,” he replied sheepishly. “I just got so excited—I didn’t know what to do.”
“Yeah, I can tell,” I said, a bit exasperated.
Runaway drove into the lot first and headed directly to her usual parking spot. She quickly opened the door, got out, and was leaning against her car before Bret even made it back. Once parked, he slowly got out of his car. The look on his face was absolutely pathetic—I loved it.
Not only had he just lost the brand-new car his daddy had bought him, but he had also just got beaten by a girl.
He slowly walked over to where everyone was standing.
“Bret, Bret, Bret,” she began, while shaking her head, “wasn’t much of a race, was it? How many car lengths would you say I had on you? At least two, wasn’t it? I think that sounds about right. What would you say, Stephen?” She looked to her left, where Stephen stood with arms crossed
“Oh, definitely, at least two, Bret,” Stephen affirmed. “You ran your quarter in—hmmm, a disappointing thirteen-point-four,” he said, shaking his head back and forth.
“That’s seconds, by the way.” Stephen looked at him. “And Runaway, you ran your quarter in a well-done eleven-point-six.” He finished by flashing a wide smile at Runaway.
“I don’t need your commentary,” I thought I heard Bret say under his breath.
The whole crowd cheered and Runaway smiled—Bret looked like he was going to throw up.
“Well, now,” she said. “Looks like we need to deal with a little matter of pink slips. Looks like I got a new, car guys… what should we do with it?” she yelled into the crowd.
“Scrap it!” someone yelled from the crowd.
“Yeah… sell it back and get the same hundred bucks you paid for it, Bret.” The whole crowd laughed.
“No,” she answered shaking her head, “I think I’ll melt it down into a pen for Bret here to keep as a reminder.” Everyone laughed again.
“Grant,” she turned toward him. “May I have my pink slip, please?” As she reached for it, she looked at Bret. Grabbing her pink slip, she neatly folded it and said, “and Bret’s?”
It took Grant no time at all to produce Bret’s pink slip, as he was holding it in his other hand.
“Here you are—just like new,” he said with a grin.
“Perfect,” she said, and then paused. “Well, kids… I say we go into the diner for a celebration.” She turned to the waiting crowd in front of her. They cheered at her suggestion. She turned toward the diner.
She played this next part well as she walked off and seemed to be talking to Grant. However she suddenly stopped. The faces in the crowd looked confused as she seemed to muse a bit at her hand. Turning around, she looked down at Bret’s pink slip in her hand.
I couldn’t tell if she felt bad, but I couldn’t imagine she would have anything else to say to him. However, she did an about-face and left everyone else behind while she approached Bret yet again. When she got within a foot of him, she said, “I almost forgot.” Looking him directly in the eye, she continued. “When you get a real car, come back and find me.” As she spoke, she threw Bret’s pink slip in his face.