The RX-7 roars, and headlights blind me in the rearview mirror.
I block out the sounds around me—people shouting, music pumping, engines revving. It’s a skill I perfected to survive a summer of country club condolences. The distance is a quarter mile, although technically less, with the lead my rich-girl-from-the-Heights status earned me.
After practicing for hours on the garage ramp and the dead-end street, I understand the delicate balance between letting off the clutch and giving the car enough gas. And thanks to years of piano practice, I know when to shift gears just by listening to the subtle differences in the sound of the engine, without looking down at the tachometer.
Video Game Girl takes her place in front of us, her waist-length black hair arranged in two high braids like pigtails.
I press the clutch to the floor and shift into first gear. Then I give the car just enough gas to keep it at five thousand RPMs, walking the tightrope between moving and staying still.
Video Game Girl raises her arms. Exhaust burns my nasal passages. Headlights blink behind me as Pryor signals that he’s ready. I follow his lead and flick my headlights on and off the way Cruz taught me.
The floorboards vibrate against my feet, but I hold them in place.
Any second now …
Her arms drop, and my foot slams on the gas pedal.
I shift into second, and Cruz’s car lurches forward as I slide the gearshift from second gear to third, fourth, fifth, and up to sixth in rapid succession.
Adrenaline shoots through my veins, and my pulse rages.
The rush is insane. That’s the only way to describe the speed—a rush of adrenaline and energy, rubber and metal.
The steering wheel shakes like the Nissan is fighting for control. I hear Cruz’s voice in my head: Keep your eyes on the finish line and the pedal on the floor. Don’t worry about the other car.
Up ahead, the finish line is only a few car lengths away, and the RX-7 hasn’t pulled in front of me. I steal a glance in the driver’s-side mirror and watch the splash of neon green grow smaller and smaller.
Wait? Why isn’t Pryor’s car moving?
The Nissan streaks across the finish line and I brake, but I don’t know if I actually won the race.
Why would he stop?
Did I jump the line? If I did, it’s an automatic loss, and he wouldn’t have bothered to keep going.
I flip a U-turn and drive back to the starting line and the crowd at a normal speed. If I screwed up, I don’t want to know yet. For a few more seconds, I want to enjoy the rush.
Cruz runs toward the car, waving and smiling. I stop just shy of the starting line. She opens the door and pulls me out with her good arm. “I can’t believe it. You smoked his ass.”
“Does that mean I won?” I ask.
Cruz laughs. “Hell yeah.”
I won.
A smile stretches across my face. “I had a head start.”
“And his engine flooded, but this isn’t NASCAR. We don’t give trophies for second place. You won.” Cruz leads me through packs of spectators, and I can’t stop smiling. Strangers pat me on the back and congratulate me.
My heartbeat still hasn’t returned to normal when an arm latches on to my wrist and pulls me through the crowd, away from everyone—bands of black ink wrapping around beautiful tan skin. My legs are numb from the vibrating floorboards, and I stumble.
Marco whips me around and stares back at me, our faces only inches apart.
“How long have you and Cruz been planning this bullshit behind my back?” Anger rages in his eyes, and a frown line cuts between his brows.
“I don’t know. A few days?”
People walk around us, giving Marco a wide berth.
“You need to calm down, Marco,” Cruz says evenly. She’s beside me again, but she sounded more confident when she was dealing with Deacon.
“Don’t say anything right now, Cruz. You lied to me.” He shakes his head, his chest heaving like he’s about to explode. Deacon warned her that Marco wouldn’t be happy about me racing. Apparently, it was the understatement of the year.
“The whole thing was my idea,” she says.
“No, it wasn’t.” I’m not letting her take the fall for me. “I offered.”
“You offered?” Marco’s brown eyes drill into me. He gave me the same look after I kissed him at the party—a mixture of shock and confusion. “Of course you did.”
Marco turns his back on me and stalks toward the grass.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” I ask, following him.
“Frankie, wait,” Cruz calls after me.
“Hey!” I’m right behind Marco. “You can’t say something like that and walk away.”
He makes it to the grass, then turns around so fast that we almost collide. “What the hell were you thinking?”
“Umm … I don’t know,” I say sarcastically. “How about Cruz needed someone to drive her car so she could pay the rent?”
“That’s not your problem.”
“She’s my friend.”
Marco presses the heels of his hands against his forehead. “Your friend? You hardly know her.”