“Yeah, exactly,” he said. “But she didn’t—she just got all ‘thank you, thank you…’ what’s up with that?”
“Maybe it’s nerves about this weekend—you know, she’s not done with her car, and that’s gotta be a strain on her.” I looked at him, but he was still staring at the back of her head.
“Naw, this is different—something’s weird. She’s always in this kinda weird, half-dreamy state—she rarely talks, and when she does, it’s short, and usually not open for rebuttal. It’s just bizarre.”
“Maybe,” I said, glancing up at her. “Like I said, it’s nerves.”
“Nerves? She’s got more than I do,” Grant said shaking his head. “I don’t know, I just thought I’d ask to see whether you had noticed anything.”
But I did notice something—I noticed everything about her. It was a fact that we hadn’t really seen much of her, or each other, for that matter, as we were all preparing for Saturday. But even in classes when we did see her, she just kept to herself and barely said anything to anyone. I just figured it was her brain working overtime, wondering whether a transmission was enough to win. I looked at her now and wondered what was going through her head, and then all thoughts stopped together.
Standing directly in front of us was Brandon. We couldn’t help that he still went to Glendora—we just swore that we would annihilate him if we ever ran into him. None of us had heard or seen anything of him in the past few months. Even though we continued to go to the diner, Brandon was never there. Mr. Thompson had apparently issued a “no ask, no tell” policy with us. He wasn’t mad at us or anything, he was just furious and hurt by Brandon. In fact, there had been so little information regarding him that most of us figured he had transferred to another school, but of course, we knew we weren’t that lucky.
At the beginning of the year, our schedules had been virtually the same—however, after the accident, we never saw him in any of our classes again. It wasn’t hard to assume that he probably transferred out and got a different schedule—we certainly never asked, because none of us cared where he went.
Brian, Stephen and Runaway were about twenty-five feet in front of us, and Brandon was about thirty feet in front of them. Still, Grant saw him first. He immediately left my side and darted to Runaway and Stephen and stood in front of them.
“Go away, man!” Grant yelled at him, at once furious and protective. “Just turn around and keep walking.” He pointed beyond Brandon.
“I want to talk,” he yelled across the walkway where we were heading to class.
“There isn’t anything to talk about,” Grant yelled back. “The only thing you can do is get the hell out of the way.”
“I need to talk to Runaway!” he yelled. People now stopped walking and started to form a circle around us.
“No, you don’t,” I yelled, a little too protectively. I was enraged—how dare he? I knew Grant could take him, but I would have beat the crap out of him if he had taken one step closer to Runaway. I was also standing next to Stephen.
“I have to explain!” he screamed.
By now, the crowd that was beginning to form was getting larger, as people stopped to listen to what was happening. The entire school knew what he had done, and since that moment, he had been ostracized by everyone. No one would speak to him, or even stand near him—not even Derrick, who was part of The Rebels. From what we could tell, even Bret could barely tolerate him.
“I don’t want you explain crap to me,” she said in a voice that was both threatening and lethal. She had to look between Grant and me to say it. “I don’t need you to explain—the only thing I need is for you to get the hell out of my face!” She now moved herself around Grant so as to see him clearly.
“But you don’t understand,” he seemed to be desperate.
“Understand?” Now it was Stephen who started in, limping around me. “Just what exactly are we supposed to understand? Or more importantly,” he said, while looking around, pretending to find answers in the air, “what exactly am I to understand, you despicable, deplorable, pathetic excuse for a human being! Do you really feel it necessary to explain to me why you felt compelled to sabotage my car at Bret’s request?”
Brandon’s attitude changed from confrontational to that of being scared. Apparently, he had not realized that even Stephen knew the truth. No one had ever bothered to voice it out loud, and everything was based on assumptions, rather than facts. For Brandon to finally realize that even Stephen knew the truth scared him beyond all belief.
“I just wanted to explain,” his voice was small now.
“Oh, well, I feel so much better,” Runaway said sarcastically. “How about you, Stephen?” She looked at him. “Wouldn’t an explanation just make you feel so much better about your accident? Or even help with the pain in your leg?” She looked at him as she said this, and then turned her attention back to Brandon.
“Oh, yes,” Stephen said. “So what could you possibly say that would explain away purposefully endangering my life? Because about the only thing I would believe is that you have finally realized that your IQ and your shoe size are one and the same.”
I couldn’t help it—I burst out laughing. It wasn’t the time or the place, but it just came out. I always loved all the insults Stephen hurled at Brandon, and for some reason I found this one to be particularly funny. Maybe because of all the tension, I didn’t know, but Brian was right beside me and he started to chuckle under his breath. In fact, he even tried to hide it behind his hand.
Runaway looked at Stephen and she started laughing, too. Before we knew it, everyone started to laugh for the first time in a few days. It was like the football game against Bonita with the Corvair—totally inappropriate, but couldn’t be helped.
“Wow,” she said, looking at Stephen. “Did you just think of that right now?”
“Well, yes, actually,” he said, looking down at her, rather proud of himself. He began to smile.
“How do you do that?” Grant asked, now looking at Stephen.
“Wit—pure, sheer, unadulterated wit.” He didn’t even smile.
Everyone standing near the walk was laughing at Brandon’s expense. He was beginning to discover that he would always be the brunt of everyone’s joke. I noticed him looking at everyone with a forlorn look, and really, it was hard not to feel sorry for him. But after what he did to Stephen, I didn’t feel too sorry.
You could tell that Stephen was pleased with himself, but the better part was that all the attention was taken off of Brandon and refocused on Stephen. It was just another great moment where Stephen again had sort of beaten Brandon. Even the crowd was no longer paying any attention to Brandon as everyone mingled back to class.
That was the last time I ever remember seeing Brandon, and that was just fine with me.
Chapter Nineteen
Six days later, it was the night before the city finals, and I was too restless to stay in my own house any longer. I didn’t want to be around anyone and I didn’t want to talk to anyone. There was only one place I could go, so I went to the diner to be alone.
I was nervous, anxious and edgy. All I wanted to do was sit in our booth and try to breathe… try to focus on what was going to happen in less than twenty-four hours. I knew that would be enough to calm my nerves.
I drove slowly to The Oasis. I wasn’t in a hurry, because I knew there was too much time between now and tomorrow. When I reached the stoplight at Baseline and Foothill, I could see into the parking lot—I smiled and shook my head.
Figures.
I pulled into the parking lot and parked next to Runaway’s car. But when I got out, I decided not to go right in—instead, I leaned against the passenger side of my car and just looked at her from the parking lot.
God—she was so beautiful. There was nothing that I wanted more than to take her in my arms and hold her and tell her it would all be okay. I wanted to feel her head on my shoulder—I wanted to feel her breath on my neck—but instead, I stayed outside and tried to collect myself so she wouldn’t see.
She was sitting in our booth alone. The jukebox was blaring and I could hear the melody wafting through the air. It sounded like Kathy Young’s, “A Thousand Stars.”
I looked up and rested my head on the roof of my car. Of course she’d be here—this is where it all started, and in some ways this was where it all was going to end. Just as I had sought solitude, so had she—only now I was going to disturb it.
I stood up, shoved my hands in my pockets, and walked slowly toward the doors. As I opened them, trying not to make much noise, I heard that I was right. The jukebox was playing, “A Thousand Stars.” I tried as silently as I could to walk slowly up to the booth, where I climbed in and sat down across from her. I noticed she was chuckling and shaking her head.
“I heard you coming a block away—what took you so long?” she said, looking up at me. “That car makes so much noise that it could wake people in Chicago.”
She looked at me intently. Her face was hard to read. I was surprised she was even there, because I thought she’d be under the hood of her car. Her hair was partially pulled back and the rest hung loosely around her shoulders. Strands of it had fallen out of her barrette, and now hung delicately about her face.
Man,
I thought again,
she is
beautiful.
“I stood for a few minutes in the parking lot, enjoying the evening and looking at the sky,” I managed to say, trying desperately to bury my feelings.
“My car… it’s finished,” she said suddenly.
“Then why are you here?”
“Where else should I be?” Her face was devoid of expression. She said it almost as if it was any other evening before any other day. She sort of shrugged her shoulders and gave me a half grin—she quickly looked down at the table.
“Don’t give me this crap, I know you…” I said. “You don’t sit alone unless you’re thinking.” There was clearly something on her mind.
She just looked at me and then laughed out loud, “Thanks, Topher!”
I didn’t realize what I had said.
“So apparently I don’t think much, as I’m never alone?” She raised her eyebrows at me.
I stammered, “That’s not what I meant.”
The song ended, only to play again.
“How did you get it to do that?” I asked.
“Lots of quarters,” she said flatly. “I like this song,” she added reflectively. There is was again—something was on her mind.
“Okay…” I said. I didn’t know whether I should ask her again.
I felt like I was interrupting and I didn’t know what to say next. She was sitting there, shredding napkins—she looked right at me as if I wasn’t listening.
“I
really
like this song,” she said again.
She looked at me for what felt like forever—even though it was only a matter of seconds—and then there it was again—mist in her eyes. I opened my mouth to say something—it was like she was trying to tell me something, but I didn’t know what.
She noticed that I was going to say something and she suddenly looked hopeful.
“What?” she asked.
I quickly shook my head and closed my eyes. I couldn’t tell her, so we remained quiet long enough for the jukebox to switch to the next song, “Please Love Me Forever,” again by Kathy Young.
“So what, are we having a Kathy Young marathon?” I asked. I needed to break what I felt was tension now somehow.
“No,” she said quietly. Her eyes immediately looked at the table again.
“Topher…” she continued to shred napkins. “Do you know what a moment in time is?”
“Literally?”
“Is that the only way you think of it? Literally, I mean?” She looked back at me.
“I guess so—I never really thought about it before. It just means whatever you’re doing at that moment is it.” I didn’t know what in the hell I was talking about.
“Hmmm,” was all she said.
It was so odd of her to be closed—I wanted to hear that she had a plan, or that she was thinking something that I would have to pry out of her, but nothing came.
I realized the reason I was there was not to escape everyone else—it was to find her. And my reason for wanting to find her had nothing to do with tomorrow’s race—I wanted to find her and finally talk to her about how I felt. I wanted to tell her the dam that had always held back all of my emotions for her had broken, and there was nothing I could do about it.
Graduation was just but a few days away, and no one—not Runaway, Grant, Stephen, Brian or I—had mentioned one thing about it. We ignored the future, just as we had ignored the possibility of losing tomorrow in the races.
But I wanted to take this chance and not let the moment go—I wanted to confess everything that was going on in my head, my heart, and my soul—she deserved that, and I needed to tell her. I was going to explode.
We were rarely alone, and I knew that this would be the perfect opportunity to speak up and let the chips fall where they may.
“Runaway,” I said. I couldn’t look at her—if I was to confess exactly what was going on in my heart; I needed to stare at the table first.
I could feel her staring at me, and I could imagine the look that crossed her face without having to see it.
“What?”
“I wanted to talk to you about something,” I began. “Well, actually, I’ve wanted to tell you something for a while now.”
My heart was beating inside my chest and I felt it throb in my ears. My stomach was a mess, as though I could literally lose my dinner. I didn’t know if my hands were shaking or not, as I kept them hidden from view by keeping my arms folded and allowing them to rest on the table.
I looked up and my eyes met hers—
those eyes—
it seemed like the look lasted hours, yet I forced myself to suddenly look away toward the opening front doors.
“I figured you two would be here, making last-minute plans to annihilate the racing world,” Stephen said, as he limped through the door. He was followed by Brian, and then of course, Grant.
“Hey,” I managed to say.
Damn, moment gone,
I thought.
Runaway quickly looked at me and then back to them. The jukebox switched records again, and was now playing “Theme from a Summer Place,” from Percy Faith.
“Aw, man, this is a great song,” Grant said as he walked up and sat next to me. In that instant, I noticed they had all sat down, too.
Maybe it was better this way—maybe she didn’t need to know, maybe… maybe she already knew.
Immediately we began talking about how we had come to this moment, all the planning, the racing, the scheming, and the dreaming. We regressed and went back to when we were kids, riding our bikes to the diner, listening to Mr. Thompson and all of his stories, reliving the first time he told us about the Wall of Fame and the quarter-mile. Even though it was years ago, it felt like just last week.
We told Brian how we had met Stephen, and how the first words out of his mouth had confused Brandon. It seemed like we talked for hours, remembering everything we could— go-carts, obstacle courses, little red cars, and summers in our neighborhood.
Runaway, for the first time in days, actually smiled and began to laugh again. She didn’t speak much, but just seemed to be a bystander in the conversation. I, too, began to feel a sense of calm. My heartbeat slowed, I could breathe again, and I didn’t feel like I was going to vomit.
Nothing was said between us that I remember with particulars—it was just one of those moments when I remember the song and everyone laughing, a moment for which every person strives, yet every memory cannot recall with clarity and distinction—it just hinges on emotion.
I wondered what Runaway had read in my look, or if she had read anything at all. I wondered if she intuitively knew what I wanted to say. I also wondered whether she knew what I wanted to tell her, and whether she would ever acknowledge it.
I looked around at the four faces in front of me and I knew at that moment, I would have done anything in the world for any of them. There wasn’t a task too large, a problem too intimidating, or a race too difficult—I would have conquered anything for any of them. And I knew, within my soul, that they would have done the same for me.
I looked over at Runaway and noticed her hair again and the way she had it pulled back—she was forever wearing her black cowboy boots and she had one leg pulled up as it rested on the seat of the booth—she was hugging her leg and laughing at something Stephen had just said. When she laughed, her nose would turn up and she had great little wrinkles when she smiled.
I then looked at Stephen, who always sat so straight—he never would have dreamed of slouching. Even when he walked, his posture was erect and straight as a board. He was still telling the same story, about when he first met all of us and how Runaway had started this whole “opposition” as he called it, with Bret. He had such a presence about him, as if he demanded everyone’s attention at all times—not because he needed it, but because he seemed to understand everyone and everything, and therefore had the most educated opinion.
Brian sat next to him, laughing. He had a habit of continually moving his hair out of his face with his hand. He would attempt to smooth it out of the way, but it never worked, because it would just fall right back into place. He didn’t add to the conversation, but just chuckled. I realized then that I had never seen Brian laugh—he only chuckled. It astonished me that for someone who had barely gotten to know us, he fit in so well with this group. It was as if he had been with us forever, since we were kids. He had brought a sense of strength to our group—nothing ever intimidated him, and he held no grudges or ill will toward anything. Of course, his strong sense of loyalty was astounding.