Did Marco actually say that to her? Or anything remotely close to it?
I climb the stairs to the second floor and walk to the end of the hallway, where a window overlooks the quad. The side door opens and Cruz slips out, leaving the same way she came in. Time to face Mrs. Hellstrom alone.
I’m about to head to English when I notice someone else crossing the quad toward the parking lot.
Where the hell is he going?
If Abel wants to sneak around, he needs to stop wearing a dead rock star’s leather jacket.
*
Lex drives faster than usual on the way to the rec center.
Does she know Abel left school before first period? Did they have another fight?
Lex weaves between lanes, and I feel seasick.
“I need to talk to you about Abel. I saw him ditching this morning before first period.”
She pulls at the ends of her hair. “Why do you care? You have new friends now.”
Her comment hits a nerve. “I’m going to ignore that.”
“What about Abel?” I try again. “Do you know why he left?”
She pulls into the rec center parking lot. “No. And I don’t care.” The pain in her voice says otherwise.
“Yes, you do.”
“But I wish I didn’t,” she says softly.
*
Cruz chose a parking garage for our first lesson, which seemed like a strange place to practice street racing. But she insisted it was perfect. Her cousin worked the evening shift, so he could play lookout.
When we arrive at the garage later that night, Cruz’s cousin raises the electric arm and waves us through. Ava grinds the gears, and Cruz cringes. “Easy. You’re going to wear out the transmission.”
Ava glares at her. “Guess you should’ve given me driving lessons when I asked last year.”
“Just stop on the second level and let Frankie take over before you give me a heart attack.”
Ava hops out on level 2 and sits on the trunk of a stranger’s Lincoln Town Car with her legs crossed. “I’ll watch from here. I value my life.”
Not encouraging. “So what’s the plan? How do you race in a parking garage?”
Cruz laughs. “You don’t. I’m teaching you how to get off the line when the flagger gives the signal. If you can’t do that, there’s no race.” She points at the ramp. “Stop halfway up.”
“I’ll never get the car out of first gear fast enough without stalling or rolling backward.”
“Are you saying you can’t drive stick?” she asks.
“It’s been a while. Am I racing uphill?”
“Getting off the line fast is all about the bite point. If you can’t tell when the clutch engages, you’ll stall on the line and the rest won’t matter.” She points at the ramp. “Let’s do this.”
I drive halfway up and stop.
Cruz runs her hand along the dash and takes a deep breath. “Try to go easy on her. Technically, she isn’t mine. If we screw anything up, I have to fix it or cough up the money to pay someone else to do it. And if we total the car, I have to replace it. A Nissan GT-R in this condition isn’t easy to find.”
Great. No pressure.
“Who owns the car?”
“A guy named Kong. He owns King Kong Bodyworks. He lends us his cars, and he gets a cut of whatever we win racing. It’s like a lease.”
“Does he own Marco’s car, too?”
“Yep. Mine, Marco’s, Deacon’s, and a few others. It works out for everyone. We’re the only people on V Street with top-of-the-line cars who aren’t dealers. Everyone else buys a piece of shit and puts their money under the hood.” Cruz’s expression turns serious. “This stays between us, right? Kong is a good guy, but the cops won’t see it that way.”
“Yeah. Of course.”
“Are you ready to do this?”
“I think so.” I have no idea.
I press the clutch to the floor and shift into first gear. I let up on the clutch and give the Nissan some gas, trying to synchronize the two movements. The engine revs along with my pulse, and the car starts rolling backward.
“Brake!” Cruz shouts. “Don’t hit the wall!”
I slam my foot against the brake pedal, and the Nissan jerks to a stop.
“Don’t worry. I’ll get it.”
“If my clutch survives.” Cruz rubs her temples and exhales slowly. “Straighten out the wheel and try again.”
After thirty minutes of stalling and sliding backward, I’m ready to give up.
“Stop overthinking it, Frankie. Trust your instincts.”
In theory, it sounds easy. But after all the wrong turns I’ve taken—the choices I let other people make for me and the bad ones I made on my own—trusting myself feels impossible.
With the clutch pinned to the floor, I shift into first again.
I can do this.
One foot is on the clutch, the other on the brake. I picture the pedals on a piano, the way my feet controlled them as my fingers danced across the keys. Playing the piano requires a firm but delicate touch … and timing. Getting up this ramp can’t be harder than playing Mozart’s Concerto no. 19 in F Major.
I release the clutch, balancing the weight between the pedals, easing up on the brake and pressing down on the gas. The car starts rolling backward, and my first instinct is to hit the brake again. But I feel the clutch catch.