No Right Turn (11 page)

Scared that I might hit her, I don't floor it right away. Adam does; his goat is a four-speed manual, and he pops his clutch. My slower start doesn't hurt me too much, as Adam's rear wheels break loose and smoke pours off of them. We're past the starter girl in only half a second, and then I floor the 'Vette, too. Adam's tires grab in the same moment as my nitrous kicks in.

The rush from the nitrous is amazing. The 'Vette's always felt fast, always
been
fast, but it seems a hundred times faster now. My head slams back against the headrest and is stuck there; I can't pull it forward if I want to. The torque makes my eyes water. The vibration in the steering wheel is stronger than I've ever felt it before. The front wheels lift up off the ground as the car feels ready to explode. Instead she flat-out flies.

Adam's GTO is right next to me. I may have inched ahead of him slightly, but I can't tell for sure. The nose of the Stingray protrudes so far out that it's impossible to tell where I am in comparison to the goat. Glancing over, I see that Adam and I are right next to each other. There's hardly any back and forth as our cars charge forward with incredible power. In a matter of only seconds, we're running out of room. I back off.

Adam lets up a moment later. We slow down together.

The crowd of kids watching is standing back at the starting line, and I can hear them cheering as Adam pulls up next to me and stops.

He rolls his window down, and I lower my passenger window so that I can hear what he's saying.

“Good run, Jordan, I think you got me.”

I say, “Thanks, but I don't know, I'd call it pretty even.”

Adam smiles and says, “I can live with that. Shit, that NOS really kicks, doesn't it?”

“Yeah.”

“Gonna have to get me some of that,” Adam says.

I say, “Well, don't look for me out here if you're running nitrous on top of four hundred horsepower.”

Adam laughs. “What do you mean, don't look for you? Friends don't let friends win races in Chevy shit.” He laughs again.

I smile back but don't say a word. I'm thinking about what Don told me about the damage nitrous can do to the 'Vette's engine. I hope everything is all right.

Adam says, “We better get out of here before the cops show up.”

I nod, and he takes off.

Wally reaches me before anyone else, having run all the way from the starting line. His eyes are about the size of pie plates. He yells, “That was pretty amazing!”

“Thanks,” I answer.

“You better get out of here.”

I say, “Yeah, I'm gone.”

“The race,” as it was called, is all the rage at school for a couple days, longer among the motorheads. But even at the height of my newfound fame, I have bigger things on my mind.

I start taking the 'Vette more often, even on nights when I know that Don is in town but out, like when he and my mom are on a date.

I know it's totally lame to justify it in this way, totally self-serving and a wimpy excuse, like I'm blaming Becka for it, but I think what's happening with her is part of the reason I'm getting more and more out of control with the 'Vette.

I've found a route, a drive that's perfect—my own personal test track.

Waikiki Road is mostly straight at the beginning, with only a few wide, easy curves, heading westbound, along the Spokane Country Club. This straight stretch ends in a ninety-degree right turn away from the entrance to St. George's, a rich kids' private school.

But the next part of the road, a little over a quarter of a mile, is free of any entry roads and all but one or two driveways, and leads down to a small bridge over the Little Spokane River. I can get the 'Vette up to a hundred mph along there, no sweat, and still have time to ease off for the tight set of S curves up a small hill, where Waikiki Road turns into Rutter Parkway. Once through those curves, the road straightens out again, and for three or four miles it varies between long straight stretches and wicked-sharp curves. There's hardly ever any traffic and I've never seen any cops, so I can concentrate on putting the 'Vette through her paces.

It's about seven miles out, and then I turn around and retrace the same route back home. If I don't hang a U-ey, Rutter turns into Indian Trail Road, which leads straight by Becka's house. I
almost
always turn around before I get that far, because when I drive past Becka's, it feels creepy, like I'm some stalker geek.

The more I drive the route, the more comfortable I am with it. And the more comfortable I am, the more risks I take. Maybe “risk” isn't the right word. I'm not really driving dangerously. But I'm pushing my speeds up, in the straight stretches and in the curves.

I'm getting totally hooked on the rush.

The phone rings, and I pick it up and say, “Hello.”

“Hi.”

It's Becka.

I try to keep my voice calm, “Hi.... How you doin'?” Of course I'm really excited that she's finally called, but I'm also kind of nervous; I don't want to blow this by getting weird on her again.

“I've been swamped!” she answers, and her tone of voice sounds relaxed and almost happy. “Between cheerleader practices, National Merit garbage, and classes, I've been staying really busy.”

“Yeah, I know what you mean,” I say, really stupid because I have no idea what she means—I'm obviously not a cheerleader and I have about as much chance of being in the National Honor Society as I do of … I can't even think of anything more unlikely.

Becka doesn't seem to notice, though. “It's crazy, for sure,” she says, then hesitates and says, “I've missed you.”

“Me too.”

“What have you been up to?” she asks.

I don't want to sound like the lunatic I've actually been, so I just tell her, “I've found this incredible drive, out by the Little Spokane River and the country club. I call it ‘the route,' and it's really fun.”

“I'll bet,” Becka says. “Why don't you come over and pick me up and show me?”

Her timing couldn't be better. It's a Friday night, and Mom and Don are out to dinner and a movie. Don's driving his Pontiac, and they won't be home till at least ten. I can easily go grab the 'Vette.

“Sure,” I say. “I'll be there in ten minutes.”

“I'll be ready,” Becka says. Then she adds, kind of cautiously, “After the drive, maybe we can talk.”

Of course, I know what she means; she probably wants to know more about my dad. But it's cool. If I can get back with Becka, I'm willing to try anything. Besides, I think I'm finally ready.

On the drive over to Becka's going via the route, I drive a little more conservatively than normal. I want to show off to Becka how great the drive can be, and I'm saving the car for that. I actually obey the speed limit most of the way, only standing on it after the St. George's turn, on the straight stretch that leads down over the little bridge. Along there I push the pedal to the floor and hit about ninety-five mph before I notice a red pickup truck up ahead, starting to ease out of a driveway. I hit my brakes, and the driver of the red truck sees me and stops abruptly. As I roar past him, still going seventy in the thirty-five zone, I hear his horn blasting at me. I hit the S curves into Rutter Parkway and, once at the top, check my rearview mirror to make sure the truck isn't following me. Once I see that I'm in the clear, I take it easy the rest of the way to Becka's.

It feels great having Becka sitting next to me in the Corvette again. I've missed her. She grabs my arm and squeezes. “You're looking handsome.”

“Yes, I am,” I say, and laugh.

Becka teases me. “Of course, behind the wheel of a car like this, even really old guys look okay.”

I smile, thinking about how happy Don always looks when I see him driving the Stingray, Mom riding shotgun. For half a second, for some reason, I think about my dad, too, but I push him out of my mind. I turn back to Becka and just smile.

We cruise to the end of Indian Trail Road where it makes a long, gentle right-hand curve and becomes Rutter Parkway: the route.

The 'Vette is warm, all her gauges in the proper ranges, gas tank half full. We're ready.

“You got your seat belt on?” I ask, although I already know that she does.

“Is this it?” she asks nervously.

“Yep.”

She says, “Take it a little bit easy, okay?”

She knows how excited I am to show off.

I look at her and smile. “I promise I'll be careful, really; you can trust me.”

“I know,” Becka says.

Instead of slamming down the gas, I ease the pedal forward and our speed increases gradually. I don't want Becka to be too scared; she needs time to adjust. We hit eighty-five mph pretty quickly and I ease off.

“You okay?” I ask.

Becka smiles. “That was fun!”

“Good.”

I push the accelerator down again, a little bit harder this time. We hit ninety-five before I back off.

“Damn.” Becka laughs. “This thing really hauls.”

As we approach the first set of curves, I'm ready. I know the road perfectly. These turns have a fifteen mph speed limit—I've taken them at forty mph, but I slow to thirty for Becka's first run-through.

As we fly through the curves, Becka laughs and screams and lifts her arms up over her head, like a little kid on a roller coaster. I glance at her for half a second; her mouth is wide open, head back and eyes shut tight.

We move into another short straight stretch and then into and out of another curve—I hit the gas, and we shoot up to seventy mph. The 'Vette is handling it perfectly. At the bottom of another curve is another straight stretch. We're hitting eighty-five before I ease off for the next set of sharp turns.

Suddenly I see headlights ahead, so I ease off a bit more. But we're still going over seventy mph as we fly past a county sheriff's car. I glance in my rearview and see his brake lights flash. There's a small turnout only a few yards up from where he is; I see him spinning around to come after us.

“Uh-oh,” Becka says. “Wasn't that a cop?”

I don't say anything, but I slam the accelerator to the floor. We're just coming out of a curve, and for the first time ever, the 'Vette fishtails but quickly straightens out as we power forward.

“What're you doing?” Becka yells.

“I'm gonna lose him.”

“No!” she says. “Don't.”

“Don't worry,” I say.

“Don't do it, Jordan,” she says, scared.

As we accelerate through the next set of curves, she stops talking. We both do.

I catch glimpses of the cop car behind us. He manages to get reasonably close through the curves. But as soon as I reach back and turn on the nitrous, then hit the activator switch and floor it, he doesn't have a chance. Although I'm concentrating on the road, I glance down and see speedometer needle bouncing back and forth between 135 and 140.

Once we're off the route, with the cop nowhere in sight, I take a crummy dirt road over the prairie back to Becka's house.

She's quiet all the way, pale, her hands kind of shaking.

Just before we get to her place, suddenly she screams, “That was stupid!”

Startled, I say, “What?” although I know exactly what she means.

“Don't act dumb! Outrunning a cop! Why would you do such a crazy thing? You could have killed us!”

I flash on telling her everything, the whole truth right now: This car isn't really mine, in fact it's stolen; Don isn't really a grump, he's my mom's boyfriend and a friend to me, too, who I'm totally screwing over; my dad, well, my dad …

It's all too much, but I try to start. “I … this car …” I stutter.

But the second we stop in her driveway, Becka jumps out and yells, “You are
such
a jerk! All you care about is this car!”

I get a little mad myself now and say, “You wouldn't even
talk
to me if I didn't have this car.”

“What?!” Becka yells.

“You said so yourself—a geek with a 'Vette isn't the same as a geek without one!”

“God, you thought I meant that? Do you actually think I care more about a stupid car than about you?”

“I—” I try again, but Becka interrupts, “You're an idiot!” and slams the door in my face.

I almost yell, “Don't take it out on the car,” but I manage to just shut up.

I'll explain everything later, the next time we talk, after she's had a chance to calm down. That is, if she'll ever speak to me again.

I drive home the same way I drove to Becka's, on the same terrible, rutted back road over the prairie. The cops won't be looking for me up here. I ease along, driving slowly up the crummy road, a street I would
never
take the 'Vette on unless I had to.