Breaking the Rules (Pushing the Limits 1.50)

I glare at Courtney through the windshield. “Then be her social worker if you’re up her damn ass so much. She’s been out for over a year and she’s just now coming to visit.”

“Isaiah,” she says with defeat. “Come in. Give her a chance.”

I place one foot on the clutch and the other on the gas. My engine roars with anger and the car’s frame vibrates with the need to run. Third Street ends at the social services building and my parking spot gives me a straight shot to the clear strip of road. Give Mom a chance? Why should I? When have I been given one?

“You have no idea what she did,” I say.

“I do.” Courtney softens her voice.

“I’m not talking about why she went to prison.” I shake my head as if the action can dispel the memory playing in my mind. “You have no idea what she did to me.”

“Yes, I do.” A pause. “Come in. We can work this out.”

No. It can never be worked out. “Did you know that the lights on Third Street are on a timer?” I ask her. “And that if you hit the sweet spot speed you can cruise the entire strip without hitting a red?”

Courtney bangs her fist against the glass. “Don’t you dare!”

I rev the engine again. “Ever hit a quarter mile in ten seconds, Courtney?”

“Isaiah! You’d better—”

I hit End and toss the phone onto the passenger seat. Focusing on the red light, I shift into First as my foot hovers over the gas. Speed. It’s what I crave. I can race the emotions away. The light turns, I release the clutch and my body slams into the seat as my foot crashes down on the gas.

Is it possible to outrun memories?

Rachel

WAITERS IN WHITE FRANTICALLY STEP out of my way as I race down the hall. The expensive art on the wall becomes a colored blur the faster I go. My breath comes out in a rush and my dress ruffles and crinkles against itself. I’m creating too much noise and garnering too much attention. None of that is good when I’m trying to make a quick getaway.

My heels dangle in my right hand and I lift the hem of my shimmering blue-gray ball gown with the other. Cinderella ran away because her coach was going to turn back into a pumpkin. I’m running away because I’d rather be knee-deep in axle grease.

Rounding another corner, I enter the desolate hallway near the country club’s kitchen. The sound of the crowd laughing and the rhythmic beats of the jazz band become muffled the farther I run. A few more steps and I’ll be home free in my sweet, sweet Mustang.

“Gotcha!” Fingers slide onto my arm and I experience whiplash. My hair stings my face as it flies forward, then back. One hand-curled spiral strand of blond bounces near my eye when it breaks loose from the jeweled clip holding the sides of my hair.

My twin brother turns me to face him. A hint of laughter plays on his lips. “Where are you going, sis?”

“Bathroom.” To the parking lot and as far as possible from the ballroom.

Ethan points back toward the long hallway. “The girls’ bathroom is that direction.”

I lean into my brother. My eyes widen and I wonder if I look crazy, because I feel a little crazy. “Mom wants me to give a speech. A speech! I can’t give a speech. I can’t! Do you remember the last time Mom put me on display? Two years ago when she threw us that horrid ‘surprise’ fabulous fifteenth birthday party. I vomited. Everywhere.”

“Yeah, I was there. It even grossed me out.” His face twists in mock disgust. Ethan is laughing at me and I cannot be laughed at—at least not now.

I grab hold of his white button-down dress shirt and shake him. Or try to. The boy doesn’t budge. “It took me months to find the nerve to talk at school again. Everyone there has long memories, Ethan, and they’ve just now forgotten. I would like to be kissed before I graduate from high school. Boys will not kiss girls who keep vomiting.”

“Have you ever noticed you talk a lot when you’re on the verge of a panic attack?” Ethan’s kidding, but my panic is real. I’m close to an attack—very close. And if I don’t get out of here soon, he’ll discover my secret.

“Besides,” he continues, “that was two years ago. So you hate public speaking. You’ll sweat a lot, stutter a little and move on.”

I swallow. If only that was my worst fear.

Ethan’s my opposite. He resembles Dad with black hair and dark eyes, he’s a good foot taller than me and he’s brave. His eyes narrow and he tilts his head as the last word of my outburst registers. “You said vomit. Which means an actual panic attack. I thought you were over that.”

My fingers curl tighter into the material of his shirt. I messed up. How could I make such a careless mistake? For two years I’ve kept this secret from my family: that I still suffer from panic attacks. That when I’m the center of attention or too anxious or stressed, I become paralyzed and lose the ability to breathe. Nausea will coil in my stomach, bile will rise in my throat and the pressure will continually build until I throw up.

Life has been hard on my parents and two oldest brothers. I made the decision after the horrendous birthday party that they would never have to worry about me—the child who won’t die from her illness.