I scan the sea of unfamiliar faces, searching for Abel or a car like the one Lex described.
Off to the side of the racing strip, three guys are drinking in front of a black car parked on the grass—a car with white stripes running down the middle. A guy wearing a hooded leather jacket bends down and grabs a huge beer can. I catch a glimpse of another leather jacket—the worn black one that belonged to Abel’s dad.
“I see him.” I’m not about to point at anybody here.
“Where?” Lex pushes up on her toes as people weave in front of us and block her view.
“To my left, by the car. He’s standing between the guy who just grabbed a beer and the one with the writing tattooed on his neck.” I nudge her with my elbow when she stares too long. “Be subtle. They don’t look friendly.”
Lex stops walking, and a girl behind us bumps into me.
“Excuse you!” she snaps.
“Sorry.” I grab Lex’s arm and pull her away from the crowd. “Are you trying to get our asses kicked?”
Lex stares back at me, chin trembling. “What if your dad wasn’t working tonight and you couldn’t get out of the house? I’d be here alone right now.”
“Bullshit. I never would’ve let you come by yourself.”
“But Abel did.” Her eyes well. “He should’ve told me to bring someone. He wasn’t even worried about me.”
I take her by the shoulders. “You don’t know that for sure.”
“Yes, I do.” She swallows hard. “Because I’m here.”
“He knew you’d bring me,” I try to reassure her.
The sound of roaring engines fills the silence, and people yell and whistle near the starting line. The race must be over.
“Let’s pay these guys and get Abel. Then we’ll figure out what’s going on with him. Okay?”
Lex nods and wipes her face, even though she didn’t let a single tear fall. In elementary school, she cried all the time. Her parents traveled constantly, leaving Lex at home with a rotating team of nannies. I got used to her tears, and then one day they stopped. Crying doesn’t make you feel better, Lex told me. It’s just a different kind of miserable.
I never understood what she meant until after Noah died. I sobbed for weeks, but it didn’t dull the pain. I carry it with me. I’m not strong enough to watch anyone else I care about get hurt.
Abel hasn’t moved from his spot between the two guys, who are still hammering down beers. Not good. Assholes and alcohol don’t mix. Abel crosses and uncrosses his arms, the way he does whenever he’s nervous.
This situation could go bad really fast. People engaging in illegal activities aren’t generally fans of new faces, and I’ve suffered through enough of Dad’s what-if scenarios to recognize a potentially dangerous situation.
The guy with the black letters tattooed around his neck falls into that category. He leans casually against the driver’s-side door of the car. The curved fenders remind me of the Batmobile, but the guy with the neck ink looks more like a prison inmate than a superhero.
Abel notices us walking toward them and says something to him. The guy tips his chin at us. Even in this light, I notice how flushed his face is from drinking.
Shit.
He punches Abel in the arm. “Check it out, Rock Star. Your groupies came to bail out your sorry ass.” His friend laughs as he looks Lex and me up and down.
“Race is starting, Turk.” A third loser climbs out of the passenger seat. He’s taller than his friends, and he smiles at me with a mouthful of crooked teeth.
“We brought the money,” I shout over the engines and the music.
“After the race. I’ve got two fifty riding on this one.” Turk waves us off and angles his body toward the street, offering me a clearer view of the writing wrapped around his throat like a dog collar. It’s hard to read, but I make out two of the words: PLAY HARD.
Abel clears his throat in an obvious move to get our attention. He gives Lex and me a pleading look and mouths, Sorry.
Puppy dog eyes and an apology won’t cut it. This isn’t like the time he called us from the police station after streaking through the mall in his underwear on a dare. Or when he needed a ride home from a club after the two girls he was dating at the same time ran into each other, and one of them left with his car.
A yellow Nissan and a silver Honda hatchback pull up for the next race. Video Game Girl walks between the cars and talks to the drivers. When she returns to her spot on the white starting line, the drivers gun the engines louder, and the crowd snaps to attention.
Conversations stop, and spectators climb onto the roofs of the crappier cars for a better view.
Video Game Girl raises her arms above her head.
When they drop, tires screech and the stench of burnt rubber fills the air again. The cars rocket down the street faster than I’ve ever seen any vehicle move in real life. Their taillights grow smaller and smaller until both cars vanish into the darkness.
“What are you doing here?” I ask Abel, ignoring the guy in the hooded leather jacket next to him.