Jacked

by Eric Stevens

  It’s like he’s daring someone to hear them gathered here, breaking at least two laws and getting ready to break a whole bunch more.

  Kells’s trunk is open—I get a chill just looking at it—and lots of small boxes are stacked up inside it and on the street behind the car. This must be the merchandise. One of the other guys is counting out some money.

  So the number I texted must be for customers, I think. They’ll be expecting me to have cash, ready to buy something.

  I don’t have much—a couple of bucks and a fifty dollar bill Dad makes me carry folded up in my wallet for an emergency. This is an emergency, I decide, and I start walking over. He must have something for under fifty, right?

  But just as I step out of the shadows near my car, something goes down. One of Kells’s customers says something or does something wrong. Maybe he doesn’t have enough money, or maybe he insulted Kells. Who knows? All I know is, Kells grabs him by the collar, just like he grabbed me.

  I stop short. One of the other guys—he must work for Kells—comes up behind the guy and holds his arms. Then Kells slams his fist into the poor guy’s gut. He cries out and then folds over in pain. But Kells isn’t done. He pulls his fist back again. This time he gets the guy in the chin.

  “No!” I call out. I have no idea what kind of a moron I am, but by the time I’ve clamped my hand over my mouth, it’s way too late. They’ve seen me.

  Kells’s henchman drops the poor guy with the busted jaw. Kells starts running toward me.

  What can I do? I turn around, get into my car, crank it to life, and peel out of there. And suddenly I’m in my first car chase.

  I’m lucky to have a head start. By the time Kells and his buddies get into their cars, I’m a couple of blocks away. Still, with that turbocharged RX-8, and probably a trunkful of nitrous, Kells will catch me pretty quick.

  I take a turn onto 13th Street, going way too fast. My tires scream and the rear end sticks out as I slide around the corner. Somehow I survive, and I slam it into third gear as I roar up to forty miles an hour. Soon I’m screaming through the abandoned streets of the warehouse district, doing sixty in a thirty.

  But what can I do? If they catch me … What they did to that other guy …

  I check the rearview, and I was right: Kells is having no trouble keeping up. He’s still ten blocks back, but he’s gaining, and with no other cars around, he’ll have no trouble finding me. The roar of my engine will be easy to hear.

  The light up ahead is red, but I can’t stop. He’ll be on my tail in no time if I do that.

  But suddenly I have no choice—someone is walking across the street. I slam on the brake and the clutch. The tail slips and slides, threatening to spin around and send me into a 360 or worse. I grip the wheel with all my strength, trying to keep the car stable and to stop before I reach the crosswalk.

  Ahead, the girl crossing the street is waving frantically, screaming at me.

  It’s her. It’s my mystery girl. I finally squeal to a stop inches from her. She runs to the passenger side and gets in.

  Without waiting for hellos or for her seatbelt to click, I slam the car into first, stomp on the gas, and shriek off around the corner, hoping to lose Kells.

  “Fancy meeting you here,” she shouts over the scream of my engine.

  I force a smile but keep my eyes on the road.

  “You’ll never lose him like this,” she says as we tear around another corner, onto Grand Boulevard.

  “You got a better idea?” I say. I grab a hard U-turn around a divider. Now we’re flying along the boulevard back toward Kells—but he’s on the other side and going the wrong way.

  “As a matter of fact,” she says, grabbing the hand strap as we squeal back onto 13th Street, “I do.”

  “I’m all ears,” I say, shifting into fourth and then fifth. Fifth gear on a downtown street—I should go to jail forever.

  “Take a right, next light,” she says. I obey. A half block later, she leans forward and points at a driveway: a narrow alley between office buildings. “In there.”

  What can I do? I hit the brake, shift into second, and crawl into the alley. It’s a dead end. About ten yards in front of me are a Dumpster and a wall.

  “Now what, genius?” I snap.

  She smiles and leans across the gear shift. With a hand on my leg, she reaches over, switches off the lights, cuts the ignition, and puts a finger to her lips: Shhh.…

  “Are you crazy?” I shout. But she shushes me again and cocks her head toward the back window.

  I turn in my seat and she turns in hers. We watch as two cars—Kells’s and another—speed by our alley. A couple of minutes later, they speed by again.

  I wait a few minutes, silently. All I can hear is the roar of Kells’s engine fading and the mystery girl’s breathing. The smells of leather and gasoline and exhaust swell inside the car, along with hints of the garbage in the Dumpster and the girl’s shampoo: citrus.

  “Think he gave up?” I whisper.

  “Probably,” she says. “Let’s wait a little more, just to be sure.”

  So we wait.

  “It’s a good thing you got the boring blue exterior instead of the bright orange,” she says.

  “Boring?” I say.

  “This looks like a car my grandma would drive,” she says. “No offense.”

  “Not offended at all,” I say with a grin. “Though I don’t think your grandma drives a machine with close to 300 horsepower and 300 pounds of torque. Besides, I’d rather look like a grandma than have Kells’s fist in my teeth.”

  “Was he handing out beatings tonight?” she asks.

  I nod. “What about you?” I ask. “Why were you walking around the warehouse district?”

  “I live there,” she says. “I was just walking home from the light rail station.”

  “I’ll drop you off, then,” I say. “It’s probably safe. I don’t hear Kells’s engine anymore.”

  She leans back in her seat. “Yeah, he’ll want to be at the start line anyway,” she says. “He’s more interested in selling parts and placing bets than beating you up.”

  “That’s all right with me,” I say, about to start the car.

  “Wait a sec,” she says. “I never get to drive anymore. Always riding the train or the bus.”

  “And?”

  “Let me have a turn,” she says.

  “Seriously?” I say, my finger frozen on the start button.

  “What?” she says. “You don’t think a girl can drive?”

  So what can I do? I put up my hands, climb out of the car, and let her climb over. She starts it up. The instant I’m seated in the passenger seat, she throws the shifter into R, squeals out into the street, and flips us around.

  “Nice move,” I say.

  “You ain’t seen nothing yet,” she says, grinning.

  We’re off, and this girl can drive.

  She takes me to a paring ramp, way up to the big wide-open top story. She drifts, shows off with hand-brake turns and parks, and finally does a wicked hand-brake U-turn that nearly knocks my head off.

  “Okay, okay,” I say. “Before you shred my tires, let’s call it a night.”

  But she’s grinning ear to ear, and I can’t help grinning with her. She’s obviously having a blast.

  “All right,” she says. “Thanks for the good time. I’ll head to my place, OK?”

  It’s a short drive, and she pulls up to the curb right near where I picked her up after nearly running her over. Her building is a three-story tenement. The place looks pretty run-down. But she’s on her own, instead of living with her parents, so I’m pretty jealous.

  We meet face-to-face in front of my car, her on her way to the building, me on the way to the driver’s seat.

  “Thanks again, James,” she says.

  The car’s headlights are washing over us.

  “Listen,” I say. “I wanted to tell you. I didn’t come out tonight to buy parts from Kells or see the race.”
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  “No?” she says.

  I shake my head. “I came hoping to find you,” I say. “I wanted to make sure you were okay.”

  She shrugs one shoulder and smirks. “I’m all right,” she says. “Looking for a new job, hardly making rent. But, you know. I’m all right.”

  “Good,” I say.

  She smiles at me, then slips past me toward the sidewalk, running her fingers down my arm as she passes.

  “Wait,” I call after her before she gets inside. I hurry to the bottom of her stoop. “Your name. I don’t know your name.”

  “Kimberly,” she says. “Kimberly Dutton.”

  “Kim,” I say. “Then it is you. You’re the girl who had the accident.”

  Her face falls and she looks at the ground.

  “Sorry,” I say. “That was a pretty stupid thing to say.”

  “It’s fine,” she says.

  Then it hits me.

  “Maybe I can help. I can race him. I’ll bet the whole debt.”

  “You?” she says. “Not to be rude, James, but he’ll destroy you.”

  “Thanks a lot,” I say, feeling pretty dumb.

  She steps down the stoop and takes my hand. “You’re very sweet, but his car is suped up way beyond yours. And his skill behind the wheel …”

  “All right, I get it,” I say.

  “Look, it’s not a terrible idea,” she says, “but I’ll have to drive.” My eyebrows go up and she sticks her tongue out. “I might win.”

  “Fair enough,” I say.

  “And we’ll have some work to do between now and the race,” she says. “That little Mazda of his has got more than meets the eye under the hood.”

  “I figured,” I say.

  “Gimme your phone,” she says, so I do. She types in her name and number. Her phone rings in her pocket and she shuts it off. “We’ll talk tomorrow and start work.”

  With that, she pats my hand and slips inside. The door closes behind her. It locks with a click, and I get back in the car. I drive home on cloud nine.

  But despite how good I was feeling in the car, I’m feeling a whole lot worse when I pull up to the house.

  Because the front porch light is on. And so is the light in the living room and in the kitchen. And the front door is open, and both my parents are standing in it, with their arms crossed and very angry looks on their faces.

  I’m so busted. And so grounded.

  The next day is Saturday. The plan had been to head out and meet Kim to work on the car. But with the grounding, that’s not going to happen. I text Kim to let her know before I head down for breakfast.

  My parents glare at me over their coffee cups. I grab a glass of juice and decide to ride out the grounding in the basement, in front of the TV. I’m an hour into a marathon of British car shows when I hear the doorbell ring. Dad’s footsteps clunk over my head. I pause the show and stick my head through the basement door.

  “Hello,” Dad says. I can’t see who’s at the front door. “Can I help you?”

  “Um, I’m looking for James,” says a girl’s voice. My stomach flips as I practically fall up the rest of the steps and hurry to the door.

  “Oh, hi,” Kim says with a smile.

  “What are you doing here?” I ask.

  She shrugs. “I took the bus.”

  Dad looks at me and I flash a nervous smile. “Um, this is Kim,” I tell him.

  “I’m a friend from school,” she says quickly. “We’re working on a project together.”

  “Oh yeah?” Dad says. He looks at me and puts his fists on his hips. “What kind of project?”

  “For auto shop,” I say.

  “I didn’t think you ever had auto shop homework,” he says. “The work is done at the school garage, isn’t it?”

  “Ha,” I say. “Usually it is. But, um, Kim is going to help me install some parts in the Ford, and—”

  “Ah,” Dad says. “A little extra credit?”

  “Exactly!” I say. “Extra credit.”

  Dad turns to Kim. “Just a second, okay? He’ll be right out.”

  She smiles as the door closes in her face. Mom’s straining to hear from her seat in the kitchen, so Dad takes me by the arm away from the door and into the living room.

  “Girlfriend?” he asks.

  “No,” I say. “Totally not.”

  His eyebrows go up.

  “Dad, I swear,” I say. “She’s just here to help me with the car. She knows cars.”

  He twists up his mouth and leans his head back. But I think he’s coming around. “All right,” he says.

  “Yes,” I whisper in triumph.

  “But you stay in the driveway or the garage,” he says. “No test drives. No quick spins. And if the two of you come inside, you stay on the ground floor where your mom and I can see you. Get me?”

  “Yup,” I say, hurrying for the door. I step into my sneakers and slip outside as I quickly add, “Thanks, Dad.”

  Kim’s already got the hood popped and the car off the ground, on ramps.

  She’s crouched in the driveway beside a big cardboard box that looks like it’s been through a couple of moves and maybe a flood or two.

  “What’s that?” I say, stepping up next to her.

  “Some parts I salvaged from the wreck,” she says. “I haven’t gone through them in ages. Hurts my heart too much.”

  I squat beside her. She pulls out the gear shift and grins. “Here’s what we need,” she says. The shift knob is bright orange with tiger stripes. On the side is a little orange button of translucent plastic.

  “Kind of garish, isn’t it?” I say.

  She gasps like she’s offended, and I laugh.

  “It’s beautiful,” she says, “and it matches my racing suit. It once matched my car, too.”

  “Your car had tiger stripes?” I say.

  “It was orange,” she says. “An orange Focus with black detail and interior.”

  “Wow,” I say. I sit back. “No wonder you can drive mine so well.”

  She nods and digs around the parts box. “And everything in here will be compatible, too,” she says.

  I pick up the shift knob. “What’s the button for?” I ask.

  She smiles and stands up, walks around to the far side of my car, and comes back with another box. I immediately spot a big white tank: nitrous.

  “Where did you get that?” I say in a loud whisper.

  “I splurged,” she says, “for you.”

  “Are you crazy?” I say as she puts the box down between us in the driveway. “How much was it?”

  “It’s on me,” she says. “I emptied my tip jar, also known as my life savings, for this.”

  “Kim,” I say, “you can’t do this. You just told me you’re—well, it’s so much money.”

  “If we win this race against Kells,” she says, “it’ll be more than worth it.”

  I sigh. She’s right, but I know a nitrous kit could cost almost a thousand bucks.

  “Don’t look so nervous,” she says, patting my knee. “We’re talking about 75 hp here. It’s what we have to do to win.”

  I nod. “Thanks,” I say.

  “Uh-uh,” she says, standing up. “I did this for me, James, not for you. I have to win this race.”

  Good point, I think. Then we get to work.

  Kim’s there all day, and she knows what she’s doing. We get the lines installed, put the new shifter in—tiger-stripe knob and nitrous button included—and add the tank in the trunk. Mom even brings us sandwiches for lunch. Before I know it, it’s gotten dark.

  “Do we go to the race tonight?” I ask. “Can you beat him in this?”

  “I can,” Kim says, “but we’re not racing him like that.”

  “What do you mean?” I ask.

  “This is going to be just us and him,” she says. “No stoplights. No spectators.”

  “Why not?” I ask.

  “Because when I show up at the start line,” she says, “things get ugly.”
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br />   Ugly? I think. Her? No way.

  She pulls out her phone, and I watch her send off a text to Kells. It’s got a time, a place, and a long number.

  “That’s not the pass code I got,” I say.

  “That’s not a code,” she says as she hits send. “It’s how much we’ll bet.”

  “Whoa,” I say, because that is a big bet.

  “He’ll know what it means,” she says. A moment later, her phone beeps. She reads his reply. “We’re on.”

  “That was quick,” I say. “I think you get under his skin.”

  “You could say that,” she says. “So—tonight at midnight. You’ll have to give me a ride. The bus doesn’t go out that way.”

  I take a deep breath. “All right. I’ll pick you up.”

  Dad gives me special permission to drive Kim home. But when we’re nearby her place, she tells me to pull over.

  “What’s wrong?” I ask, sliding up to the curb.

  She nods toward her building. There’s a coupe parked in front.

  “That’s one of Kells’s boys,” she says. “He’s probably waiting for me.”

  “Why?” I say.

  “Who knows,” she says. “But I doubt it’s to wish me luck in the race.”

  “Ah,” I say. “We can wait till he leaves.”

  She shakes her head. “We’ll be waiting all night. We’ll have to go back to your place.”

  “What?” I say. “No way. My parents will not be okay with you staying over.”

  “All right,” she says with one hand on the door handle. “I guess I’ll just walk over there. He’ll probably rough me up. Maybe break my shifting hand.”

  I sigh and she grins. “Fine,” I say. “But you have to wait outside, till they go to bed. Okay?”

  “You got it,” she says, rebuckling her seatbelt.

  So that’s how I wound up hiding a gorgeous nineteen-year-old girl in my bedroom for two hours. Mom and Dad are in their room watching a sitcom, thinking Kim left an hour ago. Meanwhile, she’s sitting at my desk, leaning on her elbow, watching me while I watch her.

  “Let’s watch some TV,” she says.

  I shake my head. “No way. It’ll wake my parents.”