by Eric Stevens
“What?” I say.
“Yeah,” he says. “Steer your car back to your junior high school and forget you ever met me or your mystery girl, all right?”
“I—”
Behind me, the diner doors fly open with a bang. “What is this?” she says—the mystery girl herself. I crane my neck and get a look at her. Her face is panicked and she’s running toward us now.
“James, get away from him!” she shrieks, but it’s too late. A huge arm wraps around my throat.
“Let him go, Kells,” the girl says, stopping short on the sidewalk. I’m down on the pavement now. The man’s knee is pushing into the small of my back, and his arm is pulling at my throat. I can hardly believe what just happened, let alone scream for help.
“You coming with me?” he says. His voice is gruff and strained. “You gonna get in my car or you still planning to drive off with this little boy?”
“Yes,” she says, hurrying over to us. “Yes, I’ll come with you. Just let him go.”
And just like that, he’s off of me. I roll onto my back and see him standing over me, his arms crossed and a smug smile on his face. He must be pretty proud of himself, pinning a kid half his weight to the street.
The girl crouches and helps me stand up. She says quietly, “I’m sorry I got you into this, James. Just forget about me. Forget about all of this. Drive out of here and don’t look back.”
“Oh no,” the guy says. I look over my shoulder at him, and he’s climbing into his car. The door is still open as he turns the key and revs the engine. “He’s coming with us.”
“In that?” I say. I’m still rubbing my neck. “There’s no room for me if she’s coming with you.”
He grins and leans down, pulling the trunk release. “She’ll help you climb in.”
“What?” I say, staring at the trunk lid as it rises.
“Come on,” the girl says. “You can’t be serious.”
“I’m not the type to kid,” he says. “Besides, I need a guarantee that you’ll cooperate, gorgeous.”
“I guarantee it,” she says. “All right?”
“No,” he grunts. With any trace of a smile gone, he tells me to get in.
It’s a tiny trunk, but what can I do? I curl up best I can. My head is pressed up against a compact jack, and something big and hard is digging into my side.
The guy stands over me a minute, with one hand on the trunk lid. “I’ll try not to hit the bumps too hard,” he says, and then it’s darkness.
I think he was lying. This little sports car, with its tight suspension and low ride, seems to hit every bump on the road to … wherever we’re going. He takes every curve like this is the Monaco Grand Prix, and my head knocks into the metal jack over and over.
After what feels like an eternity, we come to a sudden stop. I expect the trunk to pop any second, but it doesn’t. Instead I hear voices coming from the front seat. It’s impossible to make out any words clearly, but I can tell when Kells is shouting—and he’s shouting a lot.
A few minutes of shouting—from both of them—and then silence. He says a few things quietly, and she laughs. Then the driver’s side door finally pops open. A moment later, so does the trunk lid.
“Out,” he says. He doesn’t even look at me. He just steps back, one hand on the trunk, ready to close it again. For a second, I wonder if he’ll close it a little early, maybe take off my hand. But I climb out and brush myself off before he slams the lid down.
I see through the rear window that the girl is still in the car.
“Wait a minute,” I say. I grab the guy’s wrist before he can get back into the car. He snarls like an attack dog, and I quickly let go. “What’s going on?”
She leans forward in her seat and catches my eye. “Don’t worry about me,” she says. “I’m fine.”
“You sure?” I ask.
Suddenly the musclehead turns on me and grabs my shirt collar. He pulls my face close to his and slaps the back of his hand across my face. It stings, and I can feel a little cut on my cheek from his ring.
“Walk home,” he growls. “Don’t turn around. Erase me, her, and the last twelve hours of your pathetic life from your mind.” He tosses me by the collar to the ground, opens the car door, and climbs in. The engine roars to life, the tires squeal, and burnt rubber fills my nostrils as he peels off down the road.
“Forget him?” I mutter to myself. I’m headed down the winding roads of the bluff toward the nearest city bus stop. “Forget her?”
That’s never going to happen. Instead of forgetting them or the last twelve hours, I go over it all in my head.
Carjacked—sort of—by a gorgeous girl in the middle of the night.
A warning from Dad.
Cutting a morning of school to pick up the girl at work.
And, finally, being held hostage by a muscular motorhead.
Now I’m standing at a bus stop clear across the city waiting for a public bus to bring me to school, bruises covering half my body.
Forget it? I don’t think so.
“Where you been all morning?” says Liam when I drop my tray of hot lunch on the table. The bus ride was long and boring, and I was lucky to make it to school in time for taco lunch.
“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you,” I say. When I open my mouth to take a bite of my taco, the cut on my cheek opens again.
“You’re bleeding,” Liam says.
I pat it with a napkin. “It’s not too bad,” I say. “Some dude slapped me.”
“Some dude?” Liam says. “Who? Someone in school?”
What can I do? I start with the night before—sneaking out to check out the race—and tell him everything that happened since.
“That’s pretty unbelievable,” Liam says.
“See?” I say.
“But I believe you,” he goes on, “because I know who that guy is.”
“How could you possibly?” I ask.
Liam leans back in his chair like he’s a big shot. “Sean used to race,” he says. Sean’s his big brother. He moved to the coast two years ago to open a surf shop. I think he’s working for a lawn care company now, so I guess it didn’t work out.
“So?” I say.
“So that guy,” Liam says, leaning forward like it’s a big secret, “was probably Kelly Briggs.”
“Yes!” I say, practically jumping out of my little plastic chair. “She called him Kells.”
“Told you I knew,” Liam says. “He’s been around the scene for years.”
“What’s his story?” I ask. “Why’s he such a jerk?”
“He’s bad news,” Liam says. “He’s a parts dealer.”
“What so bad news about that?”
“Stolen parts,” Liam says. “At least, that’s what Sean always said.”
“Did Sean buy from him?” I ask.
“He never told me,” he says. “But I’ll tell you this: When Sean took off, we got a few phone calls at the house. Weird phone calls.”
“What do you mean?” I ask.
“Blocked caller ID,” Liam says. “Creepy voice on the other end, always asking for Sean and never leaving a number. The calls eventually stopped. I don’t know if they found him or what.”
“So you think it was Kells?” I ask. “You think Sean owed him money?”
Liam clears his throat. “All I know is, right before Sean left, he came home really late one night with a box of parts. The next day, he spent hours under the hood. And the next weekend, he was sure he’d win the midnight drag race.”
“Did he?” I ask.
“Nope,” Liam says. “Which means he didn’t win any money.”
“You think he was counting on winning to pay Kells for the parts?” I say.
Liam shrugs. “Who knows.”
I think this all over. If Sean couldn’t pay back a guy like Kells, maybe that’s why he took off for the coast so suddenly. I sure don’t blame him for running from the guy.
“So what about the girl?” I w
hisper. “To be honest, I’m more interested in who she is.”
“I have a guess,” Liam says. He pushes the droppings from his tacos into a pile in the middle of his plate, then scoops it up. “I heard about a girl a couple years ago—Kim something. She had a bad accident during a race. Totally destroyed her car and Kells’s. He blamed her, and he’s been making her pay him back ever since.”
“Wow,” I say.
Liam cleans his plate and leans back, his hands folded behind his head. “It’s probably not the same girl,” he says. “But if she’s mixed up with Kells, I’ll tell you this: Stay away from her.”
“But she saved me from him,” I say. “She could have walked away when he had me pinned down in the street and she didn’t. Besides, I think she’s in some kind of trouble. I have to do something.”
“Do what you gotta do,” Liam says as he stands up to return his tray.
I check the clock: It’s not even noon. It’ll be a long day till school’s out.
A little before four o’clock that afternoon, I pull up to the diner—the one on the north side of the city. I sit there in the driver’s seat with the car running, just staring at the front of the place. I’m wondering if she’s in there, if she’d be happy to see me, or if she’d pretend she didn’t know me and tell me to bug off.
With a sigh, I turn off the car and climb out. The afternoon sun is bright, and when I pull open the diner door, the dimness inside makes me feel nearly blind. I stumble up to the host’s stand.
“Eating alone?” says a woman’s voice. It’s not the girl from last night.
“I’m—” I start. Then I realize: I don’t even know her name. My eyes begin to adjust to the low light, and I look around. It’s a small diner, and I can see everyone inside. She’s not here.
“Hello?” says the host. She’s an older woman, with her hair up in a bun. She’s wearing a black shirt just like the one my mystery girl put on in the backseat of my car last night.
“Sorry,” I say. “I’m looking for someone who works here.”
She leans forward as if to say, go on.
“I don’t know her name,” I say.
“Ah,” she says. “Have you got a little crush on one of the waitresses?”
“What?” I say. “No, it’s nothing like that. I know her. I just don’t know her name.”
“Sorry,” she says, shuffling around some menus on the counter in front of her. “Can’t help you.”
“Fine,” I say. “I’ll just take a stool at the counter.” Without waiting for a reply, I grab a seat and order a glass of pop.
“That’s it?” says the waiter. He’s not much older than me, and if he works with the mystery girl, he’d have to know her. He’d want to, anyway.
“Yeah, that’s it,” I say. Before he can walk off, I add, “Hey, I’m looking for a girl who works here.”
“Are you?” he says without looking at me, his tone flat and bored.
“Yeah,” I say. “She’s got dark hair with red streaks and she’s really into cars.”
At the word cars he looks up.
“You know who I mean?” I say.
He quickly brings back his bored look. “No idea,” he says, but I can tell he’s lying. “No one like that works here.”
He walks off to get my drink. Less than a minute later, a glass of cold pop is in front of me. He drops a straw next to it and says, “Enjoy,” as bored as ever.
I sigh and tap the straw on the counter to get the paper off. At the same time, a busboy—my age or younger—comes up next to me to clear an empty plate and coffee cup from the place beside me.
He glances around and then says real quietly, “Hey, I know who you’re looking for.”
I nearly spit out my pop. “Who is she?” I say.
“Not so loud,” he says. “Pay your check and I’ll talk to you outside. I get off in two minutes.”
Then he disappears into the kitchen. I down my pop so fast it burns my throat and drop a pair of dollar bills on the counter. Then I head outside to my car.
The busboy comes from around back and waves me over.
A weird guy at a diner asks me to talk to him in an alley, and I follow. What else can I do?
“If anyone saw me talking to you, they’d kill me,” he says.
“Why?” I ask. “What’s the big deal with this girl?”
“It’s not the girl,” he says. “Everyone saw what happened yesterday. It’s all anyone in the diner’s talking about.”
“It is?”
He nods. “Listen, you don’t want to get involved in this.”
“I already I am,” I point out. I keep having to point that out. “Please. If you can tell me how to find her, tell me.”
“She doesn’t work here anymore,” the busboy says. “After that scene in the street yesterday, the owner fired her.”
“Wow,” I say. “That’s not exactly fair.”
“Look, he wasn’t happy about it,” the busboy insists, “but he can’t exactly have Kells showing up here all the time and making trouble.”
“Then you know Kells,” I say in a quiet voice.
He nods again and leans in close. “I don’t know where the girl is. But if you want to find Kells, I can tell you how.”
“Find Kells?” I say. “You mean the guy who pinned me to the street and tossed me in his trunk? Why would I want to find him?”
The busboy snickers and takes a slip of paper from the pocket of his jeans. “If you change your mind, here.”
I glance at the paper as he puts it in my hand. “What is this?”
“A phone number,” he says, “and a pass code. Text it. He’ll call.”
With that, he turns away and slips in through the diner’s side door, leaving me standing in the alley with a secret phone number. A number that would probably have the police dragging me in for questioning.
That night after supper with Mom—Dad has the late shift again—I sit on my bed, staring at my phone in my hand. In my other hand, I’m holding that slip of paper the busboy gave me.
I take a deep breath and think about the girl: I can still picture her sliding across the hood of my Focus. I can picture her climbing into the backseat to change. I can picture her slamming through the doors of the diner to try to save me from Kells.
What am I waiting for? I think. Of course I have to try to reach Kells, if that’s the only way I can make sure she’s okay.
I put the number down next to me and send the text. Then I continue staring at the phone, waiting for it to ring.
And waiting.
I check the clock—thirty minutes have passed. I wait some more. I even crack a textbook and try to do my math homework. But it’s hopeless, because I keep checking my phone.
When ten o’clock rolls around, my phone’s still silent aside from a couple of messages from Liam. Mom and Dad stick their heads in to say good night.
“Don’t stay up too late,” Mom says. She blows me a kiss and retreats.
“How was work?” I ask Dad.
He shrugs. “Get your homework done?” he asks. I nod.
“Get some sleep,” he says, and he pulls his head out and closes the door.
My shoulders sag as I check my phone one more time. Nothing. I sigh and get ready for bed.
Thirty minutes later, my teeth are brushed and I’m under the covers. I switch off the light and stare into the darkness. I’m exhausted—it’s been a weird couple of days. But just as I drift off, my phone starts shimmying on the table next to the bed.
I grab it, nearly knocking my lamp to the floor in the process.
“Hello?” I say.
“Who’s this?” says a gruff voice I don’t recognize.
Is this Kells? I can’t even tell.
“Um,” I say, my voice cracking, “I got your number from a friend. I’m looking for Kells.”
The voice doesn’t respond, but it sounds like someone’s covering the phone and talking to someone else.
After a couple of
minutes, I say, “Hello?”
The gruff voice comes back. “All right,” he says. “Come to the race tonight. Be early.”
“Tonight?” I say. It’s almost eleven.
“Did I stutter?” says the voice. There’s a short beep, and the phone call is over.
“Great,” I mutter to myself, sitting up. “Looks like I’m sneaking out again.”
It’s harder tonight. As I slip out of my bedroom, I can see the flickering light from the TV under my parents’ bedroom door. They’re still awake. Hopefully the TV will drown out the sound of the creaking wooden steps as I head downstairs.
I really don’t want to try going down the drainpipe again.
As I slip outside and see my Focus sitting at the top of the driveway, it hits me. Even if the TV managed to disguise my footsteps, it’ll wake half the neighborhood when I crank that car up. But I have a plan. It’s lucky I backed in to my parking spot this afternoon.
I quietly get into the car. I even leave the door open a little so I don’t have to slam it. Then, without starting it up, I slip it into neutral. Once I drop the parking brake, the car rolls out of the driveway as quiet as a mouse.
I roll down our street for a good quarter of a mile. Then I push down on the clutch, put the car into second gear, and slam the gas as I release the clutch. An old-fashioned jump start. The car coughs and then roars to life, and I’m off.
I’m a couple of the blocks from the race start line downtown when I come to a red light. I know it’s silly, but the tiniest part of me thinks my mystery girl might come running again. That she might slide across the hood and climb in. Of course, she doesn’t. The light changes from red to green, and I drive on.
When I’m around the corner from the start line, I pull over where it’s nice and dark and try to get a look at what’s happening.
There are four cars there already, with their lights off and drivers and passengers out and standing around. One of the cars I recognize at once. It’s Kells’s Mazda. The man himself leans on the driver’s door with his arms crossed, his head back, laughing loud and clear.
