Grant was sitting next to me. When he laughed, I could feel the booth move. His one hand dwarfed mine. He was a good foot taller than me while sitting. Anytime Grant laughed, I couldn’t help but laugh with him—his laugh was infectious and I knew it was from the center of his soul. He wasn’t looking at anyone, just staring down at the table, letting his belly-roll laugh echo through the diner. I couldn’t have imagined life without him and his constant presence of optimism. For him, there was no alternative in life to winning—no matter how bad a situation was, he felt he just had to make the next move that would take him to victory, and that was that. I realized that in any given situation, in any moment ever, Grant always brought out the best in people.
The song continued to play on as I looked around and saw everyone laughing. In my memory, I have no ending of that night—only the reflection and the sense of peace that I still search for today.
Chapter Twenty
The next day, Saturday, proved to be bright and sunny—usually, June in Southern California is known for the “June gloom,” when the fog blows in from the ocean, butts up against the mountains, and stays until at least noon. Then, finally, it burns off. Today, however, when I woke up and went outside, it was as gorgeous as it could be, with no clouds and a cool breeze. It was if Mother Nature knew what was coming, and she was doing her best to pitch in and help.
The racing was set to begin at 9:00.We had all decided last night to meet at the diner at 7:30 for a bit of breakfast—as if anyone could eat. The nerves in my stomach alone could have made a caffeine addict look docile.
When I had gotten home last night and pulled straight into garage, I sat in my car for the longest time, just looking at her. Then, perhaps because I was anxious or nervous, I looked under her hood, checked and rechecked all the fluids, and made sure she had a full tank of gas. It gets to a point that you just can’t do anything else to a car, but you keep looking anyway.
This morning, I went to the garage again, got a cloth and wiped her down—I had waxed her the previous day, and now her black paint shone with a deep luster. I couldn’t find one speck of dust on her anywhere, but I wiped her down, anyway. It was already 7:15 a.m., so I wanted to make sure she was as perfect as I could get her.
I pulled out of my own garage just in time to see Runaway doing the same. Grant was pulling in front of her house, and Brian and Stephen were already waiting in the street.
We drove to the diner like a caravan that morning… Runaway leading. My window was down, as it always was, and I let the cool wind blow on my face. I was behind Brian’s roadster and laughed every time I saw him attempt to get his hair out of his face because his car was topless. On the radio in my car was Booker T and the MG’s “Green Onions—” I smiled in spite of myself.
Arriving at the diner, I could see that we weren’t the only ones wanting to get a head start. Most of the city officials were already there, setting up parameters and roping off sections where spectators couldn’t park—it was for racers only.
We pulled in and parked in our normal spots, which were in front of the doors. Walking inside, we saw Mr. Thompson having coffee with Officer Tessler and Runaway’s dad. They nodded a hello to us as we strolled in and sat at our booth.
Over on the other side of the diner sat four men we had never seen, putting the final touches on the organization of the racing schedule.
At about 8:00, the final schedule went up on a huge poster board outside the diner. Since we were there so early, it was easy to go look and see where we were scheduled and when we would race. It looked like a football or a basketball pool, with racers being divided into brackets and groups. Just as we had been told, the north and south sides were clearly marked and listed.
On the left side of the board, the first listing was Glendora, with The Shakers listed below our city. Under that was each of our names. Next came Claremont and The Kings—their drivers were Phillip, Matt, Tyler, Ed, and Larry. Beneath them, Alta Loma and The Cruisers were listed, with Darren, James, Jim, John and Steve as the drivers.
The right side of the board outlined the south side, beginning with San Dimas and The Roadmasters—Tom, Preston, Greg, Tim, and Mike. Following them was Bonita and The Rebels, with Bret, Kurt, Kevin, Derrick, and Andy. The last club listed on their side was Upland, with The Imperials—David, Chris, Scott, Eric, and of course, Vincent.
Everyone from the north side cities would race each other, culminating in one car as the overall north side winner. It would be the same with the south side. The single winners from each side would then race for the title and the Tri-City Trophy.
“You know,” Grant said, close to my ear. “Some of us will have to lose.”
“Yeah, especially if we want to get her to the finals,” I said, without looking at him.
I think we all knew intuitively that it would come down to all of us losing, or what’s worse, all of us having to race each other. But we were prepared, as we all knew who we wanted to race in the final.
The officials never would have supported the final race being for pink slips between us and The Rebels. We were fairly certain that they didn’t know, and whatever they might
know was purely a rumor. Of course, the less they knew, the better. However, the rumors were everywhere, and most people knew that it wasn’t a rumor. The Bonita High School parking lot had been full when Runaway challenged Bret, and everyone had heard it. The only problem now was keeping it from the cops and the adults.
As the cars began to pour into our parking lot, it was nothing short of amazing. We had raced these cars every week for the last eight months or so, yet to finally see them all together was like a regular car show.
The Imperials from Upland were the first to arrive. Their cars were gorgeous. Two of their drivers had Ford coupes—one was a 1937 and the other was a ’40. There was a ’35 Chevy sedan, an unbelievable 1940 Mercury, and pulling in last was Vincent’s 1959 Corvette.
Even though we had seen these cars many times, and even raced them, it didn’t compare to seeing them today, surrounded by all the other clubs.
The Imperials screamed money—in fact, we knew that they spent the majority of their time at Scrivener’s, down in Pomona—they didn’t want anything to do with Henry’s, as it was Bret’s hangout, and from what Vincent always told us, they hated Bret as much as we did.
Scrivener’s was where a great many cars went, especially from the south side of our neighboring cities, and then, on a larger scale, from Hollywood. The Imperials knew they could race on what was called Holt Boulevard, because that’s where all the big racers would go.
Upon pulling in and parking, The Imperials exited their cars and headed in our direction. Normally their jackets were black leather, like everyone else’s—instead, this time, they wore gorgeous jackets of brown buffed leather with “Imperials” written diagonally on the back. On one sleeve was the year, make, and model of their car.
For a moment, all thought of The Rebels left my mind and I wondered how on earth we were ever going to beat them, as in every race prior, they almost always tied us. Both Stephen and I looked at each other with a bit of apprehension, as Grant and Brian were doing the same.
It was only Runaway who said, “Okay, why didn’t I think of those jackets?”
We all just turned and looked at her like she was insane.
“Hey! Have you realized that we always tie them?” I asked.
“Yeah,” she still stared at their jackets.
“So let me see if I understand this correctly,” Stephen said. “Enter five automobiles that resemble showroom-floor perfection, and the owners of said cars indulge in high-performance racing in Pomona, where we wouldn’t compete in our wildest of dreams…”
“I’d go,” she said.
He put up his finger, “I wasn’t done… hush. Apparently, they race in Pomona, resemble professionals, and we are required to beat them so that you may have a final battle with Bret, yet you comment only on their jackets?” He looked at her with the most quizzical look.
“Yeah—I like them.” She smiled.
There was so little that intimidated that girl.
“Excuse me,” Vincent said, as he ran his hand through his hair.
“Oh, Vincent,” Stephen said. “Really? An excuse for you? I shudder to find one.”
Vincent smiled broadly when he saw us. Then, looking at Stephen, he said, “I see you’re doing well, Stephen.” His face became serious. “I was very sorry to hear of your accident.” He reached for Stephen’s hand. “I can’t believe someone who called himself a friend would have done that.”
“That’s simply because Brandon had never been one,” Stephen said flatly.
“Very true, my friend, very true,” he said, patting him on the shoulder. Then, turning to us, he said, “Well, are we ready for this tournament?”
“Absolutely,” Runaway said.
“Yeah, I hear you have a little something on the side with The Rebels.”
“How is it that you know every crazy rumor out there, and then on top of that, it always turns out to be true?” Grant asked, flabbergasted. “First it was the Tri City Championship and now this.”
“So you’re saying it’s true, then? If they reach the finals, they’ll be racing for pink slips?” Vincent had his eyebrows raised.
“Yeah, it’s true,” Grant admitted.
“Well, you must know that I refuse to throw a race.” He smiled at Runaway. “However, if there is anything I, or we,” he motioned to the rest of his club, “can do to ensure Bret’s placement in the finals, please let us know.”
“With pleasure,” she said.
Within the next half hour, we saw the remaining clubs arrive—The Cruisers, Roadmasters, Kings, and of course, The Rebels pulled in last.
Until this point, we all had been confident regarding today’s races. However, when they pulled into the parking lot, I saw Runaway, for the first time ever, look worried.
Every time we had ever raced The Rebels, Bret always had to lead—he was the first in the parking lot and he was the first out. However, this morning he was the last to enter the parking lot and we saw why. Actually, we heard the reason for Bret’s placement before we actually saw it. Bret’s car was now blown—we heard the supercharger’s cry well before we saw it.
One of the only things that we knew Runaway had on Bret was the fact that her car was blown and his wasn’t—it gave her extra torque off of the line. So many times, we had seen Bret’s front tires lift off the starting line because he just didn’t have the torque that Runaway did.
Now, the two cars would be exactly the same; same weight, length, and power. The only difference now was that Runaway had an automatic shift versus Bret’s clutch shifter. But if Bret knew how to power shift, as Runaway always had, then the two cars were virtually identical.
I didn’t have to explain this to anyone—we all knew what it meant. I tried not to be obvious, but I looked at Runaway from the corner of my eye. She was stoic, and I could tell by her jawline she was gritting her teeth.
Brian was the first one to speak.
“Doesn’t matter,” he shook his head. “It will come down to driving, and I’ve seen enough to know that Bret can’t drive—all he knows how to do is push the gas pedal. He has no clue how to handle a car. I don’t care what he does to that car—hell, he could use nitro instead of gas, and he’d still suck.”
I smiled at him, as did Runaway. She looked at him and said, “Thanks.”
“Thanks?” he said. “For what? I’m just speaking the truth.”
“You know,” Grant said, “he’s right. It may seem like a setback, but Bret doesn’t understand cars, and he sure as heck doesn’t understand us.”
That made me smile wider, because I knew in Grant’s words he made reference to the bond that we’d had as friends and how, no matter what, we would do everything in our power to make sure Runaway was in the final race against Bret
We didn’t stand and look at Bret’s car for long—our attention was pierced when a voice came over a bullhorn. It was a good thing, because I, for one, did not want Bret to catch us staring at him.