“Oy vey,” Stephen said.
I felt Stephen’s hand nudge me in the shoulder.
“Yeah, no kidding,” I agreed. “I can’t believe this game.”
“Not that game,” he said motioning with his head. “That game,” pointing to the side.
I tore my eyes away from the field and looked at both Stephen and Runaway, who were staring at the parking lot in the visitors’ section.
I saw a series of headlights turn, and then park—it looked as though there were at least five cars.
I glanced up at the scoreboard and saw that there were only two minutes remaining in the half. The score was still fourteen-seven Glendora, so nothing much had happened. I was happy to see that at least in the few seconds that I had been looking away, Glendora had held their own and Bonita hadn’t scored.
When I looked back to the parking lot, I saw them. Bret and his buddies had walked the distance between the parking lot and the football field. I saw five of them standing there, searching for something—probably us. It wasn’t like we were going to stand up and wave, so Runaway said, without turning toward anyone, “Let’s go.”
We all got up and made our way out of the bleachers and walked down toward the shot-put area. When we had begun to make our way toward the practice field, Bret and his friends had done the same. They were now walking directly toward us.
Ignoring the cheering and the band, we walked with focused and firm determination toward Bret.
“What do you think he’s playing at?” I asked.
“I don’t know, but he has something to natter about,” Stephen reflected. Even in facing enemies, Stephen still had the presence of mind to be elegant.
Runaway stopped and looked at him with an exasperated, puzzled look on her face.
“What the hell’s natter?” she demanded, facing him.
Stephen, Brandon and I had walked about three steps ahead of her before he turned to look at her, smiling.
“Ah, my dear lady, it’s the same thing as chinwag, blather, or prattle.”
She still stared at him dumbfounded.
“Oh for heaven’s sake,” Stephen rolled his eyes and looked exasperated. “He has something, I’m sure, he would like to say.”
“Dude,” she said, “then say that he wants to talk to me!” She threw her arms up in exasperation. “And you jump all over me for my cool cucumber!” She shook her head.
I was laughing. Stephen, too, was smiling.
“I can’t believe you guys are talking about this—don’t you see Bret and his buddies walking toward us?” Brandon stiffened, obviously disgusted.
“Well, yeah,” she mocked him. She looked directly at Brandon now. “But it doesn’t mean we can’t have a discussion about terminology.”
“Diction actually.” Stephen was still looking straight ahead.
She glared at him.
“Aren’t you scared?” Brandon whined.
“Of what?” She looked at him, clearly perplexed.
“Of Bret and his friends!”
“Why? Should I be? Are they scary?” It was almost laughable the way she said it.
“No!” he exclaimed. “He’s probably here to kick your butt, is all.”
“Brandon, are you nuts?” She looked completely confused. “You think we’re just going to start beating the crap out of each other right here? And what’s with all this butt kicking?” She stared at him. “This is the second time I’ve heard it—first from Derrick, now from you. There is no ‘butt kicking’ involved. We are racing—plain, pure, and simple.” Exasperated, she rolled her eyes again and resumed walking toward Bret.
We were about halfway across our side of the stadium when the buzzer ended the first half. As both football teams began to head for the locker rooms, I saw Grant begin to jog off the field. We were, by this point, actually on the field, or rather, on the track, but Grant still hadn’t seen us.
Then he looked up from his jog and turned his head toward us. I saw Runaway smile. Both she and Stephen waved at him. Then Runaway pointed in front of her. Grant’s helmeted head turned to follow her gaze. He stopped jogging and actually began to walk a few paces. He seemed to be quite taken aback.
Then Brandon resumed the conversation.
“Well, why else would Bret be here, then?”
“Um, hello.” Her attention left Grant and was immediately right back on Brandon. “He goes to Bonita, and we’re at a football game, and we’re playing them?”
“Brandon,” Stephen interrupted. “Do you really try to be this ignorant, or is it just a gift with you?”
Brandon gave Stephen a dirty look, but kept his mouth shut.
By this time, we had crossed the practice field that separated the two sides of the stadium, and were within fifteen yards of Bret and his friends. I hated to look at him, but I noticed he was clearly smirking at something.
Bret only had eyes for Runaway—he was staring directly at her. He was flanked on either side by the rest of his buddies. Derrick and Kurt were on his left and Andy and Kevin were on his right. As the five of them got closer, I noticed they were wearing something very similar to the jackets we had on.
Moving toward them until we were about five feet apart, I saw that I was right. They had our jackets—not the same exact style, but something very similar.
When Bret got close enough, I saw that he wore his usual, stupid grin. He said, “Well, if it’s not The Shakers.”
“At least he got the name right,” I said, thinking of Bret’s last salutation.
Something told me that this was his favorite line, as he always seemed to address us this way, and would take every opportunity to say it.
“What’s up, Bret?” Runaway responded. Her voice was as nondescript as it could have been. She clearly was not bothered by what she saw, heard, or faced.
“We came to tell you something about your precious club,” Bret announced.
“Oh?” She raised her eyebrows. “What’s that?”
“That you’ve got competition.” He seemed proud.
Again, I couldn’t help thinking that this was so well rehearsed with him.
“Cool,” she said, looking around. “Who?”
I could tell that she was not about to assume anything, and she was intent on letting Bret have his moment.
I think she had already ticked him off, but all he said was, “Us.”
As if on cue, Bret and all his friends turned around. There, on the backs of their jackets, was the name, “The Rebels.”
I stole a sideways glance at Runaway—her eyes immediately lighted up and sparkled. She also had just barely the hint of a smile on her lips. This was what she had wanted. This was what she had dreamed of and hoped for—other car clubs. I knew she didn’t want to seem too pleased with herself, so she licked her lips in order to conceal the smile that was still lurking underneath and she rocked back on her heels.
“What are you driving?” was all she allowed to escape her mouth. This, of course, was the best question she could have asked. I, for one, was dying to know.
Bret turned back around and, with more pride than I had ever seen him show, he pointed toward the visitors’ parking lot. “It’s right there,” he said.
Our eyes followed Bret’s finger. There was a bright canary-yellow 1955 Chevy Bel Air, the same make and model as Runaway’s, only two years older.
I wanted to say something to the effect that Bret had virtually bought Runaway’s car, but I thought better of it and kept quiet. Was there nothing that this guy didn’t envy about her?
I had to admit, it was beautiful, as far as cars go. It had orange and burgundy flames painted on the side, as if they were coming out of the fender wells and the hood. Parked on either side of the ’55 was a 1968 Fastback Mustang, a 1969 SS Chevelle, a 1966 Chevy Nova, and, believe it or not, a 1963 Chevy Corvair.
I laughed out loud when I saw the Corvair. All eyes turned on me.
“What are you laughing at, you jerk?” Bret snarled.
Runaway’s eyes narrowed in on me, searching me for an answer.
I couldn’t help it—the sight of the Corvair was funny.
“What’s with the Corvair?” I continued to laugh.
“It’s mine, and what’s so funny about it?” All eyes then followed the voice and found Derrick standing at the end of the line, looking quite indignant.
“Hey, man, I didn’t mean to insult you—I just have never really thought of a Corvair as a muscle car,” I explained.
Corvairs were the ’60s version of economy cars. They had engines in the back and were built for commuting on freeways. People didn’t trick them out, or make them hot rods. At best, families threw a picnic basket in the trunk—which was in the front of the car—and hightailed it to the park for lunch. I think they were lucky if the car went over forty-five miles per hour.
“But really, man, more power to you and… uh… yeah—good luck with that.” I continued to chuckle.
I felt a punch in my arm from Stephen. I looked at him and gave a sheepish half smile while rolling my eyes—he returned my look with the shadow of a smile.
“So,” Runaway turned back toward Bret. “What do you want to do?”
“I thought you had this all figured out,” Bret snapped.
“Well, actually, Bret, I do… thanks.” She shoved her hands in her pockets. “I just didn’t know if this was all you were about, or if you were ready to actually race.”
“Uh, yeah—that’s why we’re here.” He glared at her.
“Fine,” she looked at him. “Here’s the deal. We’ll race you tonight, but not for pinks… I don’t think anyone here wants to lose their car. It’s really not about that anyway—it’s just the thrill of the win.”
“Agreed,” he said.
“Second,” she added, “whoever wins the race will have their picture taken and put on the Wall of Fame.”
“What’s that?” Bret looked at her.
She looked at him like he was the biggest idiot in the world.
“It’s a legendary wall where all drivers who have succeeded in winning a quarter-mile race are immortalized,” Stephen answered. “Their photo is taken with their car, the name of their car club, and the winning time, and it receives a sacred place in the diner.”
“Well, how do we know you all aren’t going to screw with the pictures?”