The sound of the word Congress made Gansey sigh heavily and urged Blue to whisper in withering derision, “Congress!” It hadn’t been long since Gansey’s mother had announced she was running for office. In these early days, the campaign had yet to directly influence Gansey, but it was inevitable he’d be called upon. They all knew that clean, handsome Gansey, intrepid teen explorer and straight-A student, was a card that no hopeful politician could avoid playing.
“She can’t make me,” Gansey said.
“She doesn’t have to,” Ronan sniffed. “Mama’s boy.”
“Dream me a solution.”
“Don’t have to. Nature already gave you a spine. You know what I say? Fuck Washington.”
“This is why you never have to go to things like this,” Gansey replied.
In the other lane, a car pulled up beside the Camaro. Ronan, a connoisseur of street battles, noticed it first. A flash of white paint. Then a hand stretched out the driver’s side window, a middle finger extended over the roof. The other car shot forward and then fell back, then shot forward again.
“Oh, Christ,” Gansey said. “Is that Kavinsky?”
Of course it was Joseph Kavinsky, fellow Aglionby Academy student and Henrietta’s most notorious recreational forger. Kavinsky’s infamous Mitsubishi Evo was a thing of boyish beauty, moon-white with a voracious black mouth of a grille and an immense splattered graphic of a knife on either side of the body. The Mitsubishi had just been released from a month-long stint in the police impound. The judge had told him that if he was caught racing again, they’d crush the Mitsubishi and make him watch, like they did to the rich punks’ street racers out in California. Rumor had it Kavinsky had laughed and told the judge he’d never get pulled over again.
He probably wouldn’t. Rumor had it Kavinsky’s father had bought off Henrietta’s sheriff.
To celebrate the Mitsubishi’s release from impound, Kavinsky had just put three coats of anti-laser paint on the headlights and bought himself a new radar detector.
Rumor had it.
“I hate that prick,” Adam said.
Ronan knew he ought to hate him, too.
The window rolled down to reveal Joseph Kavinsky in the driver’s seat, his eyes hidden behind white-rimmed sunglasses that reflected only the sky. The gold links of the chain around his neck glittered a grin. He had a refugee’s face, hollow-eyed and innocent.
He wore a lazy smile, and he mouthed something to Gansey that ended with “— unt.”
There was nothing about Kavinsky that wasn’t despicable.
Ronan’s heart surged. Muscle memory.
“Do it,” he urged. The four-lane interstate, gray and baked, stretched in front of them. The sun ignited the red-orange of the Camaro’s hood, and beneath it, the massively souped-up and tragically under utilized engine rumbled drowsily. Everything about the situation demanded someone’s foot crushing an accelerator.
“I know you are not referring to street racing,” Gansey said tersely.
Noah gave a hoarse laugh.
Gansey didn’t make eye contact with Kavinsky or Kavinsky’s passenger, the ever-present Prokopenko. The latter had always been friendly with Kavinsky, in the sort of way that an electron was friendly with a nucleus, but lately, he seemed to have acquired official crony status.
“Come on, man,” Ronan said.
In a dismissive, sleepy voice, Adam said, “I don’t know why you think that would work out. Pig’s got a load of five people —”
“Noah doesn’t count,” Ronan replied.
Noah said, “Hey.”
“You’re dead. You don’t weigh anything!”
Adam continued, “— we’ve got our air-co on, and he’s probably in his Evo, right? Zero-to-sixty in four seconds. What’s this do, zero-to-sixty in five? Six? Do the math.”
“I’ve beaten him,” Ronan said. There was something dreadful about seeing a race dissolving in front of him. It was right there, adrenaline waiting to happen. And Kavinsky, of all people. Every inch of Ronan’s skin tingled with useless anticipation.
“Not in that car you haven’t. Not in your BMW.”
“In that car,” countered Ronan. “In my BMW. He’s a shitty driver.”
Gansey said, “It’s irrelevant. It’s not happening. Kavinsky’s a dirtbag.”
In the other lane, Kavinsky lost patience and pulled slowly ahead. Blue caught sight of the car. She exclaimed, “Him! He’s not a dirtbag. He’s an asshole.”
For a moment, all of the boys in the Camaro were quiet, contemplating where Blue might have learned that Joseph Kavinsky was an asshole. Not that she was wrong, of course.
“You see,” Gansey said. “Jane concurs.”
Ronan caught a glimpse of Kavinsky’s face, looking back at them through his sunglasses. Judging them all cowards. Ronan’s hands felt itchy. Then Kavinsky’s white Mitsubishi charged ahead in a faint cloud of smoke. By the time the Camaro had reached the Henrietta exit, there was no sign of them. Heat rippled off the interstate, making a mirage of the memory of Kavinsky. Like he’d never been.
Ronan slumped in his seat, all the fight sucked out of him. “You never want to have any fun, old man.”
“That’s not fun,” Gansey said, putting on his turn signal. “That’s trouble.”