Page 5 of Drifting

Janet isn’t our mother or even related to us. She’s just someone we paid to pretend to be our mother so we could rent this apartment

It seems like so long ago that I ran away from the group home, Ashland, where I was placed when I was fourteen. I was in and out of group homes most of my early teenage life, but Ashland was a cesspool of lunatics.

One, in particular, decided to take me under his wing. At first, he was kind and took care of me. Then, over the months, things changed. I survived a year in that hell hole before I knew I had to leave.

The next night, I ran.

I lived on the streets for two days before Cin could come for me.

At the time, Cin was dealing with her own personal hell at home. She drove up to meet me in the car her dad put in my name, even in my absense. I guess he’d done it at some point, and he kept the pink slip in the glove box.

We lived in that car for six months while I raced it before we saved enough for an apartment.

Knowing no one would rent to two underage teenagers, we found a cheap hooker from the next town over and paid her to play our mother.

Most days, I don’t know how we pulled it off, but we did.

And we’ll pull it off again, because things are looking up.

* * *

That Friday, while everyone else is at the school carnival, I stand in a crowd of hundreds, made up of people watching the races, crew, and drivers who didn’t win but came back to find out who would be racing in the final.

There are a few places we race, but every year, we come back to an old, abandoned school for the semi-finals and finals. It’s on top of a hill away from prying eyes, where the local cops don’t bother us; they have worse things to deal with.

Behind the school is the perfect spot for street racing. Even though the place is abandoned, the lights in the parking lot still come on at night. I heard rumors that one of the racers is a commissioner’s son, and he keeps the lights on for us.

Who knows if that’s true or not?

What makes this the perfect place for racing is the part of the parking lot that’s an eighth of a mile, with enough room at one end to turn around. On that part of the lot, white lines spraypainted onto the asphalt mark a start and finish line.

Tonight’s first race starts with five racers, an uneven split for competing. We’ll race tonight until there are only two left, then the following week, those two will race for the big pot. Twenty-five thousand. Since there’s no pot tonight, the only way to make money is to bet with other drivers or other bystanders.

Gary, the announcer and the person who runs the semi-finals, holds out a bucket with buttons in it that we each draw from to determine who will compete against whom for the first round.

I get lucky and draw a button with a big B on it for Bye Run, which comes as a huge relief. Last year, I made it to the semi-finals but lost by half a car’s length. This year, I get to make my first lap without competing against anyone else.

The Bye Run is both a blessing and a curse. It puts the same amount of wear on my engine as racing against someone, but without the pressure. My time, though, will determine where I’m placed in the next round, so I can’t take it too easy. It also ensures I make it into the top three, meaning there’s a good chance I can win this.

All I need to do is keep my head on straight.

After my solo-lap, Chucky wins his race with his 1998 Ford box Mustang he calls The Beast.

In the next race, a guy named Red wins with his 2010 Camaro he calls TNT.

I know Red from school, and he’s a major asshole. He doesn’t believe women should be allowed to race. He’s been trying to get me kicked out since I started competing.

Gary calls us so we can pull for the next round. “All right, since Little Devil got the Bye Run in the first round, she can’t have it now. Sorry, girl.”

“Aww, shucks.” I fake frown as I snap my fingers, moving my hand in a semi-circle.

“Whoever gets it means they are automatically in the final race.” Gary holds up the bucket, and we each pull out a button.

When I peek at the button in my hand, it has a one on it. At least, we won’t have to pull again. Now, who am I going to race?

Gary stares at the three of us. “Who got the Bye?”

Chucky holds up his hand, and his crew pile around him, yelling and hooting.

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