Just you wait, sucker,
I thought. Bret, however, looked severely disappointed. I was sure he had wanted a rematch with Runaway, but I guess that’s the luck of the draw.
“Grant, why don’t you go next,” Mr. Thompson said as he noticed him standing behind all of us, yawning.
He was a bit embarrassed. “Sorry,” he mumbled, as he put his enormous hand into the cup. It didn’t quite fit, so Mr. Thompson tipped the cup and Grant fingered out a slip of paper. He opened up the paper and smiled.
“Bret,” Grant said, looking right at him. Bret’s response was a look that said, “I’m your man.”
“Topher, your turn.”
I took a step forward and placed my hand in the cup, grabbing two slips of paper. I let one fall and pulled the other out. Upon opening the slip of paper, I couldn’t believe what I saw.
“Derrick.” I said flatly.
“And his Corvair,” Runaway leaned over and whispered in my ear. Stephen slapped me on the back.
Figures,
I thought. I wanted a fast car—I wanted to race a muscle car, not a Corvair. I was appalled. This was not the race I was looking for—this would not challenge my car or my skills as a driver. I could see Runaway watching me.
“Shouldn’t have laughed,” she murmured to me and shook her head. “Karma, man.”
This was not helping my mood.
“Okay, we only need one more to draw. Stephen, why don’t you take one of the papers left.” Tessler had interrupted my pity party.
“Willingly,” he said, and he stepped forward to take one of the last remaining pieces of paper.
“Ah, Kurt,” he said, as he looked up and smiled. “The Nova, right? It will be a pleasure.”
Kurt shifted his weight and tried not to return Stephen’s look.
“Brandon, that means you will be racing Andy.”
Brandon looked around the room and found Andy’s face. Like the others, he was not overly friendly, but he gave Brandon a knowing look.
“Brandon!” Officer Tessler suddenly yelled. He scared Brandon with his booming voice that made him jump. “You will go first—last to draw, first to race… that’s how it goes. Then it will be Stephen, Topher, Grant and Runaway. Because you all are new to this, I will have George, here,” he pointed to Mr. Thompson, “grab a stopwatch, and he will be timing the race. I will start it, if you don’t mind—that way, no one will question anything, and it will all be fair. Now then—are we in agreement?” He looked around at all of us.
Tessler was jovial, if that can be possible in a cop. He seemed to be enjoying this a little too much, but I figured, what the heck—at least he was on our side and could keep this whole thing semi-legal.
“We’re good,” Bret said stoically. “Let’s just get this thing started.”
You could tell that Bret was not happy about having to race Grant. He had probably thought he was going to race Runaway, and that it would be an easy win, thereby putting her in her place so he could mock her for days to come. But it hadn’t worked out that way.
Having to race Grant was something else—Grant’s car was fast, and even Runaway didn’t want to race him. For Grant’s part, I don’t think he really cared who or what he raced—he just wanted to get it over with so he could eat dinner and go to bed.
“All right, then, let’s get this shindig on the road.” Tessler almost happily trotted out.
Chapter Eleven
Walking silently toward our cars, we stopped at Brandon’s car and wished him good luck. He didn’t respond—I’m sure because of nerves—and quickly got into his car.
Backing out, he did manage to flash us a smile, and then he drove his ’38 Chevy toward the quarter-mile.
Mr. Thompson, we saw, was looking down at a stopwatch in his hand as he strolled toward a safe place on the side of the road near the finish line. Officer Tessler had grabbed a towel from the diner and was shaking it out, making sure it wasn’t stuck together anywhere.
Runaway, Grant, Stephen, and I walked toward the starting line and stood. The crowd of well over sixty was already in place along the sides of the quarter-mile, leaning on the hoods of their cars.
“What do you think?” Stephen broke the silence.
“I think he sucks and he’ll lose,” I said.
Runaway looked at me with a puzzled look. “Who are you talking about?”
I just grinned, “That knowledge is only for my brain.”
“Oh good God,” she said, exasperated. “Now you sound like him.” She motioned to Stephen with her head.
“There are worse things,” he mused, completely stoic.
Dreaming about something happening is one thing—but when a dream comes true, it sometimes takes a while for the reality to sink in. That is exactly what I was experiencing as I stood there waiting for the race to begin. For so long, this had been all we wanted to do. Now that it had begun, I didn’t exactly know how to feel—I was excited, apprehensive, and yes, a bit scared. I had raced my friends, but never anyone else. Apprehension seized me. What if I screwed up? What I veered off to the side and hit my opponent? What if I missed a shift? There were a million “what ifs” that I couldn’t answer.
“Hey!” I felt an elbow in my ribs. “Lighten up, would you? You’ll be fine.”
I looked down and saw Runaway’s face beaming up at me. Her eyes were brilliant with the anticipation of adventure. A light breeze blew the strands of her hair that fell out of her pony tail. Her delicate, small, upturned nose was wrinkled in a smile.
I looked at her hard, and I knew that right then and there, I would have done anything for her—follow her crazy dreams, execute her insane plans, and listen to her endless scheming. She was my life and my being. From that moment on, I could no longer keep the flood behind the dam—it broke apart.
“What?” she looked at me quizzically.
I tried to snap out of my gaze and throw myself a life preserver as I drowned in my own emotions and stared into her eyes.
“Hmm?” I said, startled out of my thoughts. “Oh, nothing—I was just thinking, is all.”
“Are you pondering your humiliation if you lose to a Corvair?” A bit of an evil smile tripped across Stephen’s face.
I finally broke away and rolled my eyes. “Exactly.”
I turned my face away so I wouldn’t have to look at her and I could tuck my emotions away. Unfortunately, I turned right into the face of Grant who scrutinized my expression and my eyes. He only stared at me and then, very quickly he glanced at Runaway and then back at me. His response was a hint of a smile.
In that moment I could have hugged him for his understanding, or throttled him for realizing. Either way, I felt as if he read something in my face that hadn’t been there before.
Tessler was standing now about fifteen feet in front of the two cars. Brandon’s Chevy and Andy’s Chevelle were side-by-side on the faded starting line. Both cars sat idling as they awaited Tessler’s signal.
Brandon’s hand was on the steering wheel, but he kept gripping it like he was trying to peel off the leather. Neither Brandon nor Andy even revved their engines, which was a sure sign that their racing capabilities left a lot to be desired.
All the bystanders by this time had moved to the sides of the road, about forty on one side and about fifty on the other. There was a great deal of chatter as people stood and watched, waiting for the race to begin. I looked over at Brandon, a bit nervous for him, really.
Just before Tessler dropped the towel Brandon’s hand moved to the shifter.
All eyes were on Tessler as he dropped the white towel—the cars took off the starting line, not immediately, but still with enough speed that one wouldn’t have really noticed the slight delay. They passed Tessler with their engines racing toward massive RPMs, but in the instant that Brandon should have shifted into second gear, he missed it. The Chevy’s engine made a grinding sound. I heard Runaway yell, “Shift! Shift! Now!”
But it never happened. Brandon’s missed shift caused the Chevelle to jump ahead and gain almost a car length on him. By the time the two cars flew past Mr. Thompson, Brandon was an entire car length behind and the race was over.
It was so disappointing, because Brandon had such a powerful car, but as I knew, driving is more than just giving it gas.
“Aw, man,” Runaway said, totally exasperated. “How could he have missed that shift?”
“Easy,” Stephen said looking at her. “It’s Brandon.” His voice was completely unemotional and without a hint of sarcasm. “I’m sure he won’t be surprised to learn that he left part of his engine back at the starting line,” he motioned with his head.
“I am positive his dad felt that one,” Runaway said.
“Oh, hell, that was just a warm-up for Topher’s race against the Corvair,” Grant chimed in.
“Well, if you will all excuse me, I’m up to bat… I will return momentarily.” Stephen left our small group.
As we were watching Brandon turn around and start to head back, we heard Stephen’s car start and move out of the parking lot. By the time Brandon had returned to the starting line, Stephen was already at the line waiting for Kurt.
“Well, I guess that race was a bust!” yelled Tessler, loud enough for everyone to hear. Then he turned to Brandon and yelled, “Got to get that shifting down, man—that’s what separates the winners from the losers!” He chuckled to himself.
I looked down to where Mr. Thompson was standing and wondered what he was thinking, but he didn’t seem to be too concerned, as he was ready for Stephen’s race. Brandon finally parked and walked up to where we were standing.
“Crap,” he said. “I don’t know what happened. I just couldn’t get it into gear.”
“Happens sometimes, dude,” Grant said. “That’s why I practice.”
“You practice?” Runaway glared at him. “When? You’re always at football.”
“Well, for your information, I am not always at football, and yes, I do come out here when your little green eyes aren’t looking, and I practice.” He looked at her so matter-of-factly. “I have to keep ahead of you, if you ever decide to race me!”
“Humph,” was all she said, and turned back to watch Stephen.
Stephen, at this point, was picking at a fingernail, still waiting for Kurt. It took another minute for him to finally arrive and park his Nova on the line.
“Well,” Stephen looked up. “Good of you to show—are you ready to dance?” His face lit up into a bright smile and he raised his eyebrows.
Kurt just shook his head and looked away. Tessler raised the towel again into the air and Stephen revved his engine, the way only he could. Because he owned a Buick and they were typically a luxury item, they usually came with an automatic transmission. Stephen didn’t want to change out his transmission when he bought his car, nor did he want to put in a stick shift, so he left the automatic transmission—something about “original integrity” of the car.
The way he liked to rev his engine was to step on the brake and give it a lot of gas—it’s called a power brake.
He actually had three choices as to how he could go about keeping the RPMs high before a race. One was to simply put the car in neutral, rev the engine, and then put it into drive at the last second. This was not really an efficient way to start a race, as it was hard on a transmission. The second way was to put it in park to rev the engine. This would achieve the same basic goal.
The last way was to do a power brake, which was what Stephen was doing now. This way was actually quite cool to watch, because the GS would try and inch forward, but it was being held back by its own brakes. It made his black Buick look even more menacing, but then again, when a guy’s license plate reads “SINSTR,” I think the point is well taken.
Tessler dropped the towel. Stephen was on it faster than Kurt. Stephen’s only option in shifting was to put it into low gear first. Every automatic transmission came with at least two low gears and a “drive” gear. To gain forcible momentum and speed from the engine, Stephen would have had to put his car into first gear—or low—and then watch the tach on the hood. When the tach needle hit the red zone—or about 6500 RPM—he would then move the transmission into second gear, and from there into drive, which would have put the car into third gear.
We would have to have been scrutinizing his car in order to see it shift, so it didn’t bother us that we didn’t see it balk. Stephen’s car was so much faster than Kurt’s that he was already two car lengths ahead of Kurt by the time he passed Mr. Thompson.
Every one whooped and hollered when Stephen won. It wasn’t just by a little bit, it was a crushing blow. Stephen had already turned around and was heading back by the time Kurt got to the point where he could turn around. Stephen passed us with a grin and both hands on the wheel.
“Show-off,” Brandon grumbled.
“Hey, now,” Grant said, “if you’d have won, you’d be smiling, too.”
Brandon sniffled and wiped his nose, but said not a word.
Runaway looked up at me. “Your turn,” she smiled.
But I wasn’t paying attention to any of it, so I simply turned around and walked toward my car. It was infuriating. How was I supposed to run a quarter-mile with those eyes in my head? Did she not know what she was doing to me?
I knew in my heart that she didn’t have a clue, and that I would just have to play the game and never let on to the feeling that I had encountered not more than ten minutes prior—which made me even more mad..
How had I let this happen?
I wondered. She had been my best friend for years—I had grown up with her, for God’s sake. I reached my car door and flung it open, got inside, and wrapped my fingers around the steering wheel.
How could I hide this from her?
I silently lamented.
I was ticked. Ticked at myself for feeling this way, and ticked at her for making me feel this way. There was only one thing to do—I decided to take it out on poor Derrick and his pathetic little Corvair commuter car. I put my car in reverse and backed out of the parking lot, driving with silent determination to the line.
Derrick was already there, waiting for me. I could see that he had a smile on his face. I looked at his car. Yes, it was a Corvair, but it wasn’t stock—Derrick had cut out his back seat, and from what I could tell, put a V8 in that little frame—which essentially meant that our two cars were very similar in speed and horsepower.
Great, just what I need… a Corvair on steroids,
I thought
.
But I didn’t care—I was pissed.