“Well said,” Stephen said thoughtfully, as he gimped back to his seat and exhaled. “I can’t speak for any of you, as I was the victim in all this, but what she is doing, I think, is commendable and honorable. I can’t begin to tell any of you how it makes me feel, so therefore, I will be supportive.”
“As you should,” Brian said. “We could have just let her kill Bret and Brandon, and then we wouldn’t be sitting here now!”
All three of them laughed, but I didn’t laugh. I didn’t think anything was funny at the moment.
“I need to go,” I suddenly said.
“Where?” Grant eyeballed me.
“I’m not going to find her, if that’s what you’re worried about,” I replied. “I just need to go and clear my own head. I’ll see you.”
I turned and walked out, not bothering to look at their expressions. I just needed to get out and breathe.
I walked directly to my car, got in, rolled down the windows and started her up. It was now starting to get dark. For a while, I just sat there, staring at my car. For the very first time, I realized that my car was more than just a car… she was an extension of myself. I saw that now. I also realized that, not only were cars extensions of ourselves, but our friends were, as well.
I backed out and then tore out of the parking lot. I drove the quarter-mile and kept going all the way out Baseline, where no one would follow me, I knew, and where there were so few cars. I wanted to be alone and just drive. I wanted to feel the night wind—I wanted to just be.
I let my fingers wrap around the steering wheel again and again. I felt the hard plastic of the wheel—I paid attention to my shifting. I became aware of her gears and how they slid in to engage—I felt her lurch and listened to her engine. I knew that, no matter what, she would always perform for me.
Some people don’t understand the love of a car. Others, I think, do understand it. A car can devour our affection and love—we talk to them, we polish them, we wash, fix, and fiddle over them, and in some cases, we take care of them and treat them better than we treat other human beings.
In that moment, I understood Runaway—I understood her fear, because if I had to risk losing my Camaro, I wouldn’t have done it—I would never put it on the line, for fear of losing it.
I drove faster down Baseline, letting my car catapult me through the air. Trees passed by me and the breeze covered my face. Lights streamed past in darkness. I focused my attention on where the headlights shone on the asphalt in front of me.
I knew I loved Runaway, and that was why I was mad—it wasn’t because she didn’t feel the same, it was because I couldn’t stop myself and I couldn’t protect her. I couldn’t take away what Brandon had done, nor could I do anything about Bret, but I understood her fear of losing her beloved Chevy.
I listened to Conway Twitty’s, “It’s Only Make Believe,” over and over on my stereo. I turned it up so loud I could barely hear anything at all. I let the lyrics fill the inside of my car and the inside of my head. They weren’t what I was feeling, they were what I was living.
I knew I was driving faster and faster, but I didn’t care—I needed the adrenalin to make me feel something other than worry, I needed to understand her
,
and the more I drove, the more things became clear
.
I suddenly stopped and turned my car around. I wanted to go back and tell her I understood now, and that I was sorry for not ‘getting it’ earlier. So, after Twitty sang to me about twelve or thirteen times, I raced back along Baseline, headed toward Runaway’s house.
I passed The Oasis and only saw Brian’s and Stephen’s cars sitting in the parking lot. I’m sure they saw me flying by the diner, as our cars were so loud it would be difficult not to notice.
I raced through the maze that was our neighborhood, squealing the tires at every turn. I was so pumped about telling her of my revelation. I wanted her to know that I supported her and that I would do anything to ensure her win, and I just somehow hoped that it would make a difference to her at this point.
I turned the corner onto our street rapidly, but then slowed as I drove along the street towards her house. It was not what I expected. As I came up to her house, I saw Grant’s Willys sitting out in front of it. He was leaning against the passenger’s side door with his arms folded.
My heart sank—I’d thought the scene would be different, but I was resolved to be supportive. Thankfully, I could see that Runaway was home, because her Chevy was sitting in the driveway. Just inside the garage, I saw her with her dad. They were in an intense conversation, and then I knew where she was going to get her answer of what to do.
As I passed her house, she looked over at me and watched me as I drove past the garage. I pulled in front of Grant’s car and got out. He just looked at me as I walked up to his car.
“Well?” he said. “Did the drive do you good?”
I let out a small smile, looked back at my car and said, “Yeah, it did.”
“Good.”
“Have they figured it out yet?” I asked, as I motioned with my head toward the conversation going on in the garage. I shoved my hands in my pockets and leaned next to him against his car looking at the front of Runaway’s house.
“Yeah, I think they are going to change the transmission to an automatic. Her dad’s got one in the back.”
“Why would they do that?” I looked at him, “I thought a manual was a lot better, at least for torque and speed?”
“Well theoretically it is, but in this case, she can’t afford even a hundredth of a second in lag time to shift. Bret’s got the same transmission—so he will have to still manually shift.”
“Yeah, but I still don’t get it.” I was confused. “She already power shifts—she never even lets off the gas when she punches the clutch in and then shifts. You’ve seen it—her car never even backs off.”
“True,” he nodded, “but her dad said this new transmission would cut out any lost speed or time by having to push in a clutch every time she shifts. The clutch, in this case, will only be used to start.”
I shook my head. “I don’t get it,” I said.
“With the transmission they are going to put in, she will still need to shift it—it’s a manual-shift automatic,” he said.
“Huh?” I was totally lost.
“She’ll have to shift the automatic manually.” By the look on my face, Grant could tell I was still lost.
“Okay,” he explained. “Automatics shift on their own—you know, first, second, third, and then fourth… you never have to touch a thing. What they are going to do is retain the shifter and the clutch, only she will manually shift the transmission from first, second, third and fourth without having to clutch every time she shifts—she can shift without it.”
“So what about the clutch?”
“It seems that’s the benefit—there won’t technically be a clutch, and that’s where she will save time,” he said as he looked at me squarely, “of course that and how fast she reacts off the line at the start of the race.”
“Well,” I said looking back up the garage, “she definitely has great reactions.”
“No pun intended?” he smiled.
I just laughed. “And, at the very least, she has the supercharger,” I said thoughtfully.
“True,” Grant said. “And that is enough to give her an edge, because she will have the torque that Bret doesn’t.”
“Thank God for that.”
Chapter Eighteen
The final races were set for the weekend before graduation. Every car club had entered, and all the cities had donated money for the enormous trophy that Officer Tessler had been telling us about for days.
The races were set up like a track meet—every club would race and earn points for wins
only. As the race continued and drivers were eliminated in a single-elimination process, the final race would be determined. The Trophy would be awarded to the club with the most wins, so technically the Tri-City Trophy could go to a club that didn’t win the final race.
We didn’t particularly like that part, but it was the only way they could be fair and reward the club, rather than just one driver.
The other tricky part was that if a club had five members and one of them lost a race, it would be up to the remaining four members to try and win every race, so they could stay in the running for the trophy.
The officials had decided that they would split the six cities into two separate groups; the northern group would be Glendora, Claremont, and Alta Loma, because all those schools were on the north side of Foothill Avenue. The second group would be from the south; San Dimas, Bonita, and Upland, since all those schools sat on the south side of Foothill. It sounded logical enough—our only job was to show up and pay attention to the schedule.
Every day I was in my garage with my Camaro up on ramps. I changed the oil, drained and changed the transmission fluid, flushed the radiator, and put in all new filters—air, oil, and gas. I set and reset the timing—I tuned the carburetor—I did everything conceivable to car that can be done, just shy of building a new engine. Everyone else was doing the same.
We rarely met at the diner in those days leading up to the Tri-City Championship. We just saw each other in school, talked about how we were doing with our cars, and that was about it. Thankfully we all had the majority of our classes together—that was where we caught up with each other and how we were doing.
It was the second to last week of school—finals were approaching, and we were still learning last-minute details our teachers had forgotten. Everyone was ready for it to be over. Graduation was in eleven days, but no one said anything about it, because the Tri-City was in six days. It was almost as if no one could see beyond the tournament.
It was Monday, the week before the championship, and we were in our first-period government class. The bell had rung about twenty-five minutes earlier. I noticed right off that Brian was nowhere to be seen—I kept looking around for him before school started, but there wasn’t any sign of him. Brian was uncommonly punctual, so this was really odd for him. We were supposed to be reviewing the last chapter of the book and answering about twenty questions, but I just wasn’t into it.
“Did Brian tell you he wasn’t coming today?” I asked Runaway as I leaned over in my desk.
“No,” she whispered looking at me. “You?”
I shook my head. “Huh-uh.” I next tried to get Grant’s attention. “Pssst, Grant.” I tapped him on the shoulder from behind.
He had been talking to the guy in front him about our assignment, which was due in the next five minutes.
“What?” He turned around, irritated.
“Do you know where Brian is?”
“No,” he glanced up at the clock—he hadn’t noticed, either. “Crap… he’s kinda late.” He looked at me and shrugged. “I didn’t really notice, as I just got here before the bell rang myself. Stephen,” Grant whispered and leaned toward him. “Do you know where Brian is?”
Stephen had his nose in George Orwell’s
Nineteen Eighty-Four
, which we were still reading for English. “No, but you can always ask Big Brother,” he said, not even raising his head to look at any of us.
“Thanks,” Grant said “You’re a big help.”
“At your service,” he smiled. “Anyway, have any of you indulged in this book?” Stephen suddenly asked.
“Um, no,” I said. “I’ve been a bit busy trying to get my car ready.”
Before Stephen could come up with a rebuttal, Brian came walking into class, flushed and flustered. He immediately walked up to Mrs. Edwards, our teacher, and gave her a note. He quickly came to the back of the room where we all sat. His seat was directly behind Stephen, but the four of us made a perfect square—with our desks in rows, his desk was the only one left behind us. His face was still red and his hair was completely disheveled.
“You are not going to believe what just happened to me,” he said, completely out of breath.
All of us gave him questioning glances and mouthed, “What?”
“I’ll tell you at nutrition,” was all he said, while he took out his book and tried to look engaged.
Nutrition was a ten-minute break the school gave us between second and third period. It was when we were supposed to eat something healthy, I suppose, but instead, all we did was stand around and talk for ten minutes.
Waiting for the nutrition bell to ring during second period was murder. Mrs. Hill droned on and on about Orwell’s novel. It seemed the only person to pay any attention was Stephen, because he had been busily reading it during government. Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, the bell rang and we grabbed our stuff as fast as we could so we could hear the news Brian had for us.
We quickly walked across the quad. This was now possible because Stephen was walking with only one crutch one his left side. He still wore his hip-to-foot brace, but he favored it tremendously. There was a huge oak tree in the middle of our quad, completely uninhabited by anyone. We headed in that direction, so Brian would be able to talk freely.
“Okay,” he began, as soon as we were under the tree. “So I’m getting my stuff ready to go to school, and I walk out to my car, which is parked in the driveway, and right as I put all my crap in my car, guess who drives up?”
We all just stared at him with wondering glances, because none of us even had a guess at this point.
“It’s Kevin, from The Rebels.” He gave us a no-I’m-not-kidding-look.
“What?” we yelled in disbelief.
“Yeah, no kidding. So anyway, I stop and stand there and look at him and just wait for him to say something, because I’m thinking ‘What the… ?’ I don’t know this guy from Adam. Well, he parks right behind me so I can’t leave, even if I wanted to, and he gets out and walks up to me. He says, ‘Hey, my name’s Kevin and I go to Bonita.’ I looked at him first and thought, ‘No kidding, dude, I know who you are,’ but instead I looked at him and said ‘So?’ and then… you are not going to believe the next part.
“He looks at me and goes, ‘I hear you’re relatively new to The Shakers,’ and I said, ‘Yeah, and…’ He says, ‘Well, we were wondering how happy you were with them. See, just because you go to Glendora, doesn’t necessarily mean you have to be a part of their club. If you wanted to, you could be one of The Rebels…’ ”
I saw everyone’s jaw drop and heard Runaway’s teeth clench.
“ ‘… and we’ve seen you drive, and we think you’re way better than they are.’ ” Brian caught his breath—he looked wild with both excitement and anger.
“I was freaking livid right there, but I wanted him to spill more of his guts before I told him to shove it. And of course, he did. So he goes, ‘We were wondering, since you’re new and all, and you really can’t switch clubs right before the race, if you wouldn’t mind backing off on your racing a bit. You know, don’t try so hard.’ ”
“I’ll kill that son of a bitch.” Grant was boiling with rage.
Stephen was stone silent, as was I—we were both in complete and utter shock. Runaway, however, was livid—you could tell in her eyes and her whole person she was slowly becoming unhinged. Her rage was almost worse than when we told her to back off of Bret.
“So what did you say?” I asked.
Brian looked quite confident while he told the next part. “I looked at him and said, ‘You worthless piece of crap—do I look like Brandon to you? What—you think because you paid him off, you can do the same to me? Well, I’ve got news for you—I’m not only going to drive well in the finals, I will drive the best I ever have in my entire life. And as far as concocting this little plan so Bret and his Rebels will be one up in a race, you can tell him I personally said to kiss my rear end! Furthermore, if this is Bret’s only hope at beating Runaway, then he’d better start looking for another car now, ’cause not only will she win and take his piece of crap car, but she’s going to humiliate him in the process. Now get the hell out of my face!’” He threw his arm in the air, like he was pointing in the direction Kevin could go. “And with that, he just gave me a dirty look, and mumbled something like, ‘You’ll be sorry,’ under his breath and left. I jumped in my car and drove as fast as I could here.” His face was flushed with excitement.
At that moment, I didn’t know who was more proud of him, all of us for sticking with us when he barely even knew us—or Runaway, because he defended her and defended her loyalty. I needn’t have worried about him and his intentions—he was truly an asset to our club.
I grabbed his hand, shook it and said, “Brian, man, you’re the best—I am so glad you have taken Brandon’s spot—I only wish it would have been sooner.”
“That’s a complete understatement,” Stephen muttered.
“Holy crap,” Runaway said, shaking her head. “That S.O.B.”
She quickly regained herself, looked over at Stephen’s leg, and said, “I have always thought that loyalty was one of the best qualities a person could have, and you have proved yourself of that. I’m in agreement with Topher and Stephen,” she nodded toward both of us. “I only wish it was you, and not Brandon, that was always standing with us.”
Brian quickly flashed a grin. “Yeah, like there was even ever a choice! I wouldn’t hang with those losers if you paid me—I’d sooner dump my car altogether than hang with them. And personally, I like being in a club where I know a girl can kick my can.”
Runaway’s eyes popped open.
“It prepares me for being married someday,” he said earnestly.
At that, we all burst out laughing.
“You should be so lucky,” Stephen sniggered.
The bell to end nutrition sounded and we slowly began meandering back to class. Grant grabbed my arm and held me back, while the others discussed random stuff.
“Hey,” I looked at him, surprised.
He just sort of kept his eyes on the back of Runaway’s head. She wasn’t talking—in fact, she wasn’t even listening. She looked as if her thoughts were a million miles away. Every time she looked at either Stephen or Brian, her eyes would become unreadable, less bright. Every so often, she would turn and look at us in the same way.
“What’s with her?” Grant asked.
“What do you mean?”
“Something’s funny with her—I mean, she was as mad as hell one minute, then she suddenly became a girl and got dopey-eyed.”
“She did not,” I defended her.
“Topher, please,” he said, with his head cocked.
“Okay, I’ll admit it—I saw it, too. I was actually more surprised at her response to Brian—I thought she’d go off on Bret sending Kevin over.”