Page 39 of False Start

I hated the interstate on a nice day, but the interstate in a barely running car with zero visibility? I loathed it.

Exhaling, I eased the car onto the exit ramp. A green smudge of a traffic light greeted us, and I took a left, parking under an overpass behind a gaggle of huddled motorcyclists.

“Where are we?” I asked, suppressing the urge to grab the guidebook out of his hands.

The first two stops had taken us nearly two hours to complete. Trent gave me the wrong directions to the first stop. I didn’t spot the sign for the second. We weren’t off to a goodstart, and a heady mix of frustration and annoyance permeated the car.

“Did that sign say Bat Mountain?” He frowned at the map on his phone, zooming in on the red dot showing our location.

“I didn’t really have time to read the signage while I was trying to keep us on the road.” I held up a finger as another sound caught my attention. A familiar dripping. “Do you hear that?”

Trent cocked his head. “Hear what?”

I unbuckled my seat belt and launched into the back seat. Icy water soaked my pants leg.

“It’s water. There’s water in the car.” My hand came away from the weather stripping dry. “How is it getting in?”

As if to answer my question, a cold droplet splashed on the back of my neck.

“Fuck,” I swore, wiping the water away. “It’s the vinyl top.”

“Wait, this car is a convertible? We can take the top off?” Trent pressed his palm experimentally to the roof, as if opening it in the pouring rain, even under an overpass, was a good idea.

“It’s not a convertible. It’s just vinyl tolooklike a convertible and someone, probably my dad, added a radio antenna by drilling a hole through it. I thought I patched it.”

Trent leaned back, finding the hole and plugging it with a finger. “You didn’t.”

“Not helpful.”

His eyes traveled down to my pants, now soaked. He pulled his hand away from the roof and touched the backseat. “Wow. It’s like a river back there.”

“How did you not see it leaking? Weren’t you looking behind us?”

“Not for leaks.” His offhand lackadaisical responses would be the death knell of our shaky truce. “Oh, hey, Barbie and Ken saidthey just saw us on their way back from Bat Mountain. So, we must be at the right exit. That’s good news.”

His relentless optimism chafed at me. The car was a wreck. I was a wreck. Neither of us had any business even attempting the rally. And now, the car was flooding. “We can’t drive like this.”

“Why not?” He placed his palm on my shoulder, kneading out the tension. His voice lowered to a soothing timbre. “The backseat is already soaked. Even if we had something to fix the hole, it’s too wet for a permanent solution. Forget about it for now. We’ll find you a dry pair of pants and worry about the leak when the weather clears up. I’ll get directions from these guys.”

Without waiting for a reply, Trent removed his hand and leapt out of the car. He sauntered up to the group of burly bikers as if he was attending a signing event and these guys were just waiting for him to show up. The tension from the group was palpable, all bunched shoulders and shuttered glares, but within seconds of conversation, all that apprehension was gone, and loud laughter pierced the interior of the car. One man clapped Trent hard on the shoulder.

“I got directions!” he announced, cheeks red and eyes glittering. “And an invitation to a bar if we’re still in town later.”

Judging by the cuts on their backs, I had no interest in the offer, but I shot him a thin smile, anyway. “Is it close?”

“Ten minutes down the road. They said we can’t miss it, even in this weather.”

I returned to the driver’s seat, wringing cold water out of my pants before I turned the key in the ignition. With an audible exhale, I shook my shoulders out. “Thanks.”

Trent clicked his seat belt into place and gave me a suspicious look. “For what?”

“For asking directions. And navigating. And talking me down off a ledge about the leak.”

He glanced back. “That? That’s nothing. We’ll have that patched up tonight. And directions, honestly, we didn’t need them. But…you’re welcome?”

I didn’t blame his apprehension. I hadn’t exactly been my best self. Since I’d agreed to spend five days in a car with Trent, I could at least try to be his friend. Or let him befriend me.

By the time I eased the leaking car out from the overpass, the rain had lessened from a flood into a steady shower. Trent pointed out signs for Bat Mountain, and we pulled up alongside a Mario Kart and a sketchy-looking white van that had “Free Candy” spray painted on the side. Rally cars.

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