If Don knows about my dad dying, and he must know something just by knowing Mom, he’s never said anything about it to me. The more time we spend together, the more he seems to relax. He swears a lot, not like an old guy wanting to show me how hip he is, more like he just always talks that way. He’s funny and smart, my dad’s age, but totally different from Dad. I’m starting to think of Don, a little bit, like he’s kind of a friend, not a real friend, of course, I mean the guy’s like fifty or something, but kind of a friend—yeah, right, a friend whose car I’m going to rip off.
Knowing all along that I have to drive the ’Vette again, I’ve planned how to do it. Don works in insurance, sells it, I think. He goes to appointments most days, and every Wednesday night he is out of town for the whole night, working with his customers in Wenatchee, 150 miles away.
I watched him punch in the code to his garage door, seeing the numbers—53773—so I can get into where he parks the ’Vette. He has a double-car garage and his other car is an almost-new Pontiac, his daily driver and his “work car.” So he’s gone, every Wednesday night, and the ’Vette’s just sitting there.
Mom works late too. Before Dad died, he and I would be home together, but now, Monday through Thursday, I’m always home alone. Mom usually gets back a little after midnight.
My school nights are always the same. I eat some dinner, then watch TV or listen to music or play video games. If absolutely all else fails, maybe I’ll finally do a little homework. I try not to think about my dad and all the crap he used to say to me: “Strike while the iron’s hot,” “A bird in the hand is worth two in the bush,” “Safety first.” He’d been a true master of clichés and worthless advice. And at the end what did he leave me with? “Bullshit.” Great, Dad, big help! So just how boring is my life? Totally and completely. And what, exactly, do I stand to lose by stealing Don Lugar’s Corvette? Not much. Maybe my dad always dreamed of doing wild stuff, taking risks, having fun. Maybe Dad dreamed about it, but he never did anything!
I don’t want to be him!
I’m not him!
So it’s Wednesday night. I dress in dark clothes and walk quietly from my house over to Don’s place. From looking around at his garage during earlier visits, I know that there’s lots of junk—not junk, but stuff all over the place: an expensive ten-speed bike hanging from hooks in the ceiling; some sports gear, like basketballs and volleyballs in a mesh bag; a workbench crowded with tools. I’ve made mental notes about the layout of the place so that I can move around in the dark. On the right side of the two-car garage is the Stingray.
The only light in Don’s driveway comes from a streetlight. I don’t want to draw the attention of any neighbors by turning on the garage light once I get inside, but this plan is instantly messed up. When I punch in the code and the garage door goes up, a light automatically comes on too. I’m standing here like an idiot, basking in what feels like about ten billion watts; I hurry into the garage and hide myself against the wall.
After a few minutes the light finally goes off. It’s dark again. Even though the night is kind of cold, I’m sweating like crazy. I find the door handle of the car and quietly open it. Instantly, the scent of the car—leather and cleaning polish and air freshener—remind me of my first ride, and I calm down.
I know that once I start the car, I’ll be past the point of no return—who am I kidding? I’ve already broken into this guy’s garage, so that’s breaking and entering. Now I’m going to take his car out without his permission. Like I said, grand theft auto.
I take another slow, deep breath and reach down on the steering column and find the keys. At least I’m smart enough not to start the car and let it run inside the garage, where I’d get killed by carbon monoxide.
“Smart?” I can hear my dad’s voice playing in my head. “Do you really think that anything you’re doing shows any intelligence? Are you nuts? What are you trying to prove?”
“Up yours, Dad, you’re not even alive,” I say softly to myself. “And I’m not doing this to prove anything—I’m just doing it.”
A few more deep breaths and I turn the ignition key. The car starts instantly. I sit frozen, waiting for the FBI or SWAT or somebody to blow me away. But there’s nothing—just the loud purr of the ’Vette as it echoes out of the garage into the darkness.
I back out and, as soon as I’m clear, push the button on the remote control hanging on the sun visor to close the garage door.
In the street I leave the headlights off and try to will myself to be invisible. I super-gently slip the car into drive, like if I shift quietly enough, no one will look out and realize that Don Lugar’s beautiful Corvette Stingray is moving up our street with no headlights on.
I drive the long block up Northridge Road as the engine rumbles. At the stop sign I pull on the head-lights and glance at the dash, noticing that my high beams are on. I try to find the lever on the steering column to dim them. Nothing works until I realize that the dimmer switch is on the floor of the car, under my left foot.
Pulling out onto Cedar Road, I head south, down the hill, afraid to try to negotiate the sharp right turn that Don made that day of our ride. I barely touch the gas; the steepness of the hill pulls me along. Cedar winds around in sharp curves, a fun place for going fast if it weren’t for the deer that sometimes jump into the road from the trees and heavy brush growing there.
At the bottom of Cedar I stop at the stop sign and find myself in the left-hand turn lane. The only traffic on the road, the only other car within sight at the intersection at this exact moment, is a green-and-white county sheriff’s car waiting on my right to turn onto Cedar.
I freeze. Everything I’m doing rushes through my brain. My heart pounds wildly; my palms become instantly sweaty; for half a second I actually think I might piss my pants, throw up, or faint, all at the same moment. How could this happen? I haven’t seen a single other car since I left Don’s driveway, not one! But here’s a sheriff.
I stare straight ahead.
He turns slowly, agonizingly slowly, right in front of me and rolls by, heading up Cedar Road toward the prairie.
With no other traffic in sight, and sitting here in the left-turn lane, I have to go, so I ease away from the stop sign and slowly accelerate down Country Homes Boulevard. The ’Vette rumbles softly. I glance up to my left and see the flickering of the cop’s headlights as he moves past the trees and away from me. God, I feel great!
Not wanting to push my luck, I just make a quick loop, going only a few miles down Country Homes to Wall, where I take a left and then up Five Mile Road, a long winding hill that leads back up to the prairie. Because both Cedar Road and Five Mile Road go to the same place, and that cop just went up Cedar only a few minutes ago, I take it real easy, obeying the speed limit except for one short stretch, a hundred yards of sharp curves, where I give the ’Vette a little more juice. Don has fixed the speedometer. I jump from thirty-five to sixty in about two seconds. After gliding through the sharp turns, I back off the gas again and take it slow the rest of the way. I notice that I’m breathing really hard. My heart is beating about ten million times per minute.
Before I know it, I’m turning back onto Northridge Road again. All told, I’ve been out in the car for only ten minutes, fifteen at the most. I ease back toward Don’s driveway. As I get closer, I get scared again. What if Don came home unexpectedly? He could be calling the cops at this very second! What if my mom is home, too, and somehow knows that I’m out committing all these felonies?
But when I reach Don’s driveway, his house is dark.
I hit the garage door opener, and I pull the Corvette in, easing slowly forward.
I turn off the ignition and double-check everything—the position of the seat; the little sliding cover over the ashtray and cigarette lighter that I noticed flew open when I gunned it; the headlights, making sure the bug eyes have closed properly. As anxious as I am to get out of here, I force myself to stay calm, not wanting to screw up. Once everything looks
right, I climb out of the car.
As I walk away, I glance back one more time at the ’Vette. I know I’m crazy to think it, but I can almost feel the car smiling at me, can almost hear it whispering, “Until next time.”
I think to myself, and even say out loud, “No way.”
But then I get back home and walk through the door and yell, “Mom!” and get no answer. I go up to my bedroom and look out at Don’s house, so quiet in the dark, the garage door closed, everything so still and normal. I look around my room and see the framed picture of my dad on my chest of drawers. He’s looking back at me in the only way that I can remember him ever looking now—that is, disapproving. But I think, So what, he’s dead: All his rules, all his “wise” sayings are meaningless; he’s nothing anymore. I stare at Dad’s face in the picture and feel a familiar feeling rising up in me again—a weird kind of numbness. But I also feel something else, too, something I haven’t really felt for a long time—anger.
What would you think of what I’ve just done, Dad?
What would you say?
Ask somebody who gives a damn!
And now I know that the ’Vette is right....
I’ll be back.
FIVE
At school the next day I tell Wally what I’ve done.
“You’re nuts!” he says. Then, “How was it?”
I admit, “Totally incredible.”
Wally asks, “What if you’d gotten caught?”
“I didn’t, though.”
“Yeah, but what if you had?”
“I didn’t.”
“Yeah, but—”
I interrupt. “I was careful, Wal.”
He shakes his head, laughing, and mutters, “Is that why you almost ran into a cop?”
“I didn’t ‘almost run into’ anybody. I saw a cop, that’s all.”
“You’re an idiot.”
I laugh at this, and Wally gets a weird expression on his face.
“What?” I ask.
“What was that sound you just made?”
I ask, “What do you mean?”
Wally says, “Was that a laugh? Did you actually just laugh then? I’ve known you for two years now and I’ve never heard you laugh before.... I’ve never even seen you smile!”
“Up yours,” I say, laughing again, but I have to admit he has a point.
A few days later, when I get off the bus from school, Don’s out working on the Corvette in his driveway. I hope he won’t say anything to me. I’m nervous that somehow he knows what I’ve done.
“Hey, Jordan,” he calls out.
Damn. Concerned, but trying not to show it, I force myself to look up at him, smile, and say, “Hi, Don.”
He looks okay, not suspicious or mad, just normal.
“How you doin’?” he asks.
“Great,” I answer, and walk over to him.
Suddenly I have this weird feeling, something different from just nerves, kind of a sick, guilty thing. Standing next to Don reminds me of one time in eighth grade, just a few months before Dad died. My best friend back then had been Will Nicholson, and he had a crush on Patti Martin. Will talked about her all the time. I listened and pretended that I cared. One day, when Will wasn’t around, Patti asked me if I’d take her to the school dance that Friday. She kind of stared at her shoes part of the time and into my eyes the rest. I could tell she liked me. Of course, I told her no; after all, she was Will’s girlfriend whether she knew it or not. I avoided her for several days, after which she started going out with Alan Mender, breaking Will’s heart (it took Will several hours to fall in love with Suzie Spangle). Anyway, standing next to Don and his car, I feel the same way I felt when I first saw Will after Patti asked me to the dance; guilty and bad, trapped by an unwanted secret.
Don has the hood up on the ’Vette, and for the first time I see the engine.
“Wow,” I say, staring at it shining in the sunlight. The glare off the chrome is almost blinding. “Is that … normal? I mean, are all Corvettes’ motors like that?”
Don laughs. “No. The chrome is all custom: K&N air filter and Edelbrock valve covers. This plate here”—he points at a flat chrome piece at the back of the engine compartment—“I had to order this from over on the coast; it’s an ignition shield.”
Some of the wires and all the hoses are covered in a shiny metal material, like tape, only thicker. I ask, “What are these for?”
“Just for looks. I’m getting her ready to show at some little country Show and Shines—just for fun.”
“Cool,” I say.
Don keeps working on the engine of his car, cleaning the chrome with a soft cloth so that it shines even brighter than before.
For some reason I think about my dad again. I guess since Don is hanging out with Mom, it’s only natural that I’m kind of comparing him to Dad, but they seem so different from each other. Dad went to work and he read the paper and he liked to watch sports, especially baseball and college football. Dad was always just … I don’t know how to describe it … kind of quiet and … I guess restrained is a good word. He always tried to avoid problems—I don’t think he ever even yelled at me.
Don looks up and interrupts my thoughts. “Grab that rag, Jordan.”
“What?” I ask.
“If you’re gonna hang out, you might as well learn how to treat a lady right.”
I smile. This is the kind of thing Don says sometimes—the kind of thing Dad would never have said.
SIX
It’s useless trying to hide my obsession about the Stingray from Don.
On the third day in a row that I stop by, he hands me a soft cotton cloth again and shows me how to polish the chrome wheels and clean the black sidewalls and the white lettering on the oversized tires: BF GOODRICH, T/A RADIAL.
Don says, “When you show a car, it has to look perfect.”
“Like this one,” I answer.
He laughs. “No, we’ve got a ways to go before she’ll be ready. Some guys in the bigger shows spend hundreds of hours and thousands of dollars on their cars. I don’t have that kind of interest or time, but I don’t want to embarrass myself.” He pauses and pats the front fender of the ’Vette, “I don’t want to embarrass her either.”
For some reason I think again about that thing with Patti and Will and me. I guess stealing Don’s car is kind of like how I’d have felt back then if I’d actually gone to that dance with Patti. Back then I’d have never done something like that. Back then, before my dad died, I used to believe that if I did the right thing or at least tried to be good, nothing too bad would happen to me. I used to believe that life was fair. I learned different. Right now I don’t care what-all I used to believe. Right now all I care about is what I know I’m going to do!
I’m gonna take the car again—and that’s that!
Don’s bought new tires, new carpeting, and new Corvette floor mats. He’s let me help him put even more chrome on the engine. We put on a new alternator and water pump, both of them chrome, and he had the old intake manifold replaced with a new, special one from Edelbrock.
But he’s also installed a gray tank that takes up almost all of the tiny cargo space behind the seats.
“What’s this?” I ask him, staring at the tank set in steel brackets. It looks kind of like a scuba diver’s air tank.
Don smiles and says, “That’s the latest improvement to this nasty girl. It’s a nitrous oxide system—NOS.”
I ask, “So what’s it do?” Sometimes I have to remind him that I’m not yet the same level of gearhead that he’s becoming.
“See this?” he says, pointing to a red switch on the center console. I nod. Don flips up the red switch, and underneath is another switch, a small silver one.
I joke, “Ejection seat?”
Don smiles. “Kind of. See this?” He reaches back and touches the silver knob on the top of the gray tank.
I nod again.
He explains, “This handle turns on the nitrous. Then, when you flip on t
his”—he touches the silver switch under the red protective one—“then push the gas pedal to the floor, that kicks the nitrous in.”
“And what’s that do?”
“It gives you two hundred extra horses.”
I try to think what the ’Vette would feel like with that much extra power. It’s almost unimaginable.
Almost. But I can imagine real good.
I stare at the gray tank, remembering the procedure Don’s just explained; two hundred extra horses.
I mutter, “Two hundred, that’s a lot.”
“Oh, yeah,” Don says. “That’s a shitload! And, of course, we’re talking about nitrous, a potentially explosive gas—so if something goes wrong at the wrong time, you can pretty quickly become a three-hundred-eighty-horsepower, hundred-fifty-mile-per-hour fireball flying into a million fiberglass pieces and human body parts.”
I don’t say anything. What’s there to say to that?
But it’s sure something to think about!
SEVEN
The next time I’m ready to go over and steal Don’s car again, I phone Wally first.
“Don’t do it,” Wally says. “I’ve got a bad feeling.”
I laugh. “You always have a bad feeling.”
“No,” Wally insists. “Really, man, this time it’s for real. I mean, think about it—what can make such a stupid risk worthwhile?”
“It’s worth it,” I say.
“You’re a moron,” Wally says, and hangs up the phone.
It’s Wednesday again; Don is out of town until tomorrow afternoon. No rain or even any serious clouds, just a tiny sliver of new moon.
Getting the car away from the house is much less stressful the second time. Thoughts of arrest, conviction, embarrassment, and totally screwing over Don barely enter my mind as I clear the car out of the garage again and head down Cedar Road.
Although I don’t have a real clear plan yet, I want to go for a longer ride than before. I promise myself that I’ll leave the nitrous alone. Stupid as I might sometimes be, the idea of turning into a human fireball doesn’t sound like much fun.
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