The set up tonight, while still make-shift and temporary, is less primitive than a straight drag race down the street like the first time I came. There’s an elaborate course, set up with cones and a few metal barricades. It’s hard to tell where the lines are, but it seems to arc all the way across the big parking lot, and loop back around.
“It’s one lap,” Ben says, noticing me surveying the course. “Whoever finishes first or without crashing, wins.”
I spot the Shelby—Jasmine—nose up to the line. Nerves spin in my stomach and I focus on my camera, the crowd, anything to keep my mind off what’s about to happen. I’ve seen Bass drive. I’ve seen him fight. I’ve seen him handle himself. I know his reflexes are good, but he didn’t exactly seem at his most level-headed. All that pent-up anger behind the wheel of a two-ton moving ball of steel doesn’t feel safe.
The flicker and glint of sparkles catches my attention and I press my eye to the viewfinder, watching through my camera. Someone is walking out in front of the two cars, but the most prominent thing I can make out about them is the fact they’re dressed in sequins.
And then, they turn.
I don’t bother trying to hide my smile. “Fuck me, is that…?”
“That is Micha Adams,” Aubrey says, her tone tinged with a similar awe. “He’d posted on his ChattySnap account that he was going to be here tonight and had a surprise for everyone.”
The kid saunters up to the beam of headlights, a red cloth hanging from his hand. His outfit is a sparkly red and gold, and his eye makeup matches flawlessly. The headlights hit him like the catch of sparks, practically making him glow. He looks like a smirking phoenix.
“He’s the flag girl—er, boy?” Emory declares or asks. I’
m not sure he knows. But this kid, Micha? He knows. Goddamn, he’s glorious out there. My lens zooms in on him like a magnet, and through it, I can even see Sebastian grinning at the sight.
Micha raises the flag in the air, and everything goes suddenly still and silent. The two engines rev, and Micha has to know that everyone is watching him, waiting. Just like that, this little freshman holds a whole parking lot of party-goers right in the palm of his hand.
His arm drops, flag slicing through the air.
It’s a blur of smoke and the sharp smell of rubber at first, the two cars squealing off. Georgia and her friends spring up to watch, and I inch out a bit to avoid the press of their bodies. Sebastian’s car is a blur of blue as it approaches the south side of the building where I’d been photographing graffiti earlier, and then they both disappear around it.
I can still hear them though, the roar of their engines bellowing to us against the concrete. Everyone turns to the north side of the building, waiting in anticipation. My camera’s sensor isn’t good with high action shots, so I don’t bother. I loop it around my neck and wait with everyone else, and I don’t even know what the fuck.
Suddenly, I’m wanting Sebastian to win this thing so badly, I can taste it.
Ironic that it’s the first time I truly feel a sense of belonging in this place, all of us poised as one with bated breath, a strange patchwork of unified eagerness. The first car to come around the building drifts in a long, skilled slide of rubber and exhaust, and at first, it’s hard to tell which car it is. It doesn’t matter, though.
I know it’s him.
Jasmine careens around the track and the other car follows closely, gaining speed. My insides feel stiff and electrified as I watch the cars push and pull. Emory’s shouting, “Come on, Bass!” and Ben is emitting some truly embarrassing, screeching sort of sounds, but I can barely hear them over the sound of my heartbeat.
In the end, Sebastian passes the line of worn, jagged spray paint on the pavement in a whir of wind and the crowd’s celebratory shouts.
I deflate in relief at the victory,
“Not too shabby,” Carlton declares, “for a last-minute entry.”
Post-race is almost as much pandemonium as the first time, just with less cops. I pull back, not wanting to get into the push-pull of the people as they scatter about, even though I feel a weird spike of annoyance at the way everyone swarms his car. These people don’t actually understand. None of them saw him right before, that crackle in the air around him, like the electricity of a thunderstorm.
But as much as Bass claimed he didn’t want to race, he’s all bright eyes and winner smiles now, revving his engine obnoxiously. I take the chance to snap a few shots of him like this—he had offered himself up as a subject after all—hair pushed back to reveal his manic eyes and smooth brow.
He’s bombarded with admiration the second he exits the car, palms meeting in high-fives, fists bumping fists, a couple girls straining up to plant kisses on his cheeks, people hungry to gain a scrap of favor from the victor, as if such clout might be catching.
I mutter a deep, “Ugh,” under my breath and look away. That’s how I get a better view of Sebastian’s brother as he strolls across the parking lot, all long legs and arms, squared off at the top with broad shoulders. He’s strikingly handsome, and now that I know they’re related, I can see it in their similar features; sharp cheekbones, defined jaw, blue, aristocratic eyes. Heston is more refined than Sebastian—less rough around the edges. I can’t see him in a street fight, or racing a car, or even punching a girl, but there’s a dark glint in his eye, a twist to his lips, that feels cruel even at a distance. His arm hangs over the small shoulder of a girl. I’m assuming it’s Sydney, the one they were talking about earlier. I’ve seen her around school before, talking shit—talking about Sebastian—just plain talking. She doesn’t make it a secret that she’s into him.
Feeling restless, I gather up the courage to cut through the crowd toward the guy in question. He’s leaning into the driver’s side window, grabbing something from the console. As soon as he pulls back, I start, “Aren’t winners supposed to do some kind of lap around—” He turns and walks away, like I’m not even there. “…the track,” I finish lamely.
I stand there, blinking in his wake, heat licking up the back of my neck. Heston and Sebastian approach the betting table at the same time. When the two brothers meet, a flicker of something rolls between them. There’s a high five, but while Heston’s is firm and sharp, Sebastian’s is loose and unenthusiastic. Whatever that look means, it’s lost when Heston grabs a stack of cash from the bookie and holds it over his head as though he’s the one coming out of this victorious. The stack is easily three inches thick and would probably be enough to pay for the Mustang repairs and a month of Preston Prep combined.
I turn and walk away. There’s something uncomfortable and heavy settling into the pit of my stomach and it’s frustratingly not simple. I’m remembering how I don’t actually belong here. I’m thinking of the way Sebastian’s eyes lit up when everyone was fawning over him before, but just passed right over me, like I was invisible. I’m feeling pissed the fuck off—mostly at myself—for actually feeling this way about it.
Because fucking ouch.
That really did sting.