Wes gives me the dirtiest look, throwing both hands up in exasperation as other classmates filter by unaware of theintensity flaring between the three of us. He’s red-faced, obviously pissed off for getting man handled in public for one, two…I hurt his ego. There’ll be a day where he catches another charge and it will come from shit just like this; saying the wrong thing to the wrong girl in front of the wrong man—idiot.
“You’re an asshole, bro. Why you gotta say it like that?”
“What, call you out on your shitty behavior?”
“It was just a comment!”
“That’s how it starts. Next you’ll be in private messages with little girls.”
“Fuck you!”
Zap intervenes again, stepping between us when Wes tries to charge me up. His larger hands land roughly on Wes’s shoulders and preventing him from making another dumb ass decision that gets him laid out on the fucking ground.
“Relax, he made his point. Want to prove him wrong? Then do it. Stop saying piggish-things.”
“Fuck you too, Zap! Always siding with Rey.”
“Not siding with anyone. I don’t want to scrape you off the sidewalk. I don’t have spare gloves on me and the cops will look at me weird.”
Wes bows up and shoves Zap, the last buffer before possibly getting his ass handed to him like he deserves. Stepping up to the plate, I’m ready to go a few rounds with him if he’s really itching for a fight. Lucky for him he backs off and waves me off, thinking better than to go down this road.
“I’m out of here—my own crew throwing me under the bus like this? Fuck that.”
“The bus is better than jail, knuckle head. Get it together. Now, let’s get to the dorms and pack up. I told you we have things to do.”
I’ve done enough waiting the past few years; if they’re coming, they better hurry the hell up. My boots hit the sidewalk as Iturn toward the dorms, leaving them there until they decide to get with the program and catch up. Zap appears at my side in a few strides with Wes shuffling behind him like some temper wielding pubescent child.
Did I say college is pointless? I mean, you have half-assed accolades but the rest of it is worthless. It’s an overly expensive piece of paper that may, or may not, get you where you want to be in life. Never met a professional racer with a college degree—pretty sure most are high school dropouts. Doesn’t take a whole lot of ingenuity to press pedals, pop clutches, and downshift. It’s the rest of the hard work and dedication you can’t learn that makes all the difference.
The trek across campus takes us little to no time, my long strides eating up the pavement like a starved man—in a way I am. Every step gets me closer to Hazelwood, and closer to the only girl I’ve ever wanted.
An hour later and we’re loaded, each of us tossing a single backpack in the trunk along with energy drinks and all the weed we can smoke before we end up blazed. I’m not one for the hard stuff, cocaine, meth, whatever else is floating around but a fat joint does take the edge off. Alcohol is alright too but I don’t drink much either. It makes me feel out of control, like nothing around me is moving at the pace I need it to. I like the control and the safety it provides.
After an unpredictable life with an absent father, having control means a whole lot more than what people give it credit for. That’s likely why I lead this ragtime bunch. I serve a purpose to people who look up to me, outside of my little sisters who would prefer me to stay out of their business.
My sisters are getting old enough to start dating and don’t want big brother ruining their lives by chasing the wrong boys off. It’s our culture to marry early and start families but if there is one thing I’ve taught them growing up, it’s that we don’t have to follow a culture we may not agree with. The younger one agrees and has told me on more than one occasion she’s more interested in women while the other is ready to get married at the ripe age of seventeen.
Over my dead body.
The boy she likes is part of the bike circuit in Detroit. Typical squid, acting cool with a bike that’s too big for his skill level. Hangs around in his helmet, makes riding his entire personality, you know prime husband material. Now, I know cars are pretty much my only fall back, but there’s more to me than being elbow deep in engine gunk and burning rubber—can’t say the same for him.
We’ve run into one another a few times on the track and he always gets smoked, yet what sets me off the most with him is how often he entertains other girls. In the beginning I told my sister about it but she became defensive and shut me out—I was only doing what was expected of me as a brother, protecting her and all that. Unfortunately, she doesn’t see it that way.
Fingers crossed he isn’t in Hazelwood this week.
Shrugging off my jacket, I toss it into the back seat next to Zap and drop into the driver's side. I had the Civic fitted with bucket seats in the front so it always feels like I’m ready for race day. There are special fittings underneath to revert back to the stock seats but I prefer the hard-backed ones with five point harnesses instead. Not only are they for me, because this is my car and I’ll build her how I want her, but they’re also for my passengers. I want them to be safe as well.
Which the guys understand. They don’t hesitate to strap in when we go anywhere, letting me know they respect the danger that comes with riding in a car like Delinquent.
While she isn’t a drag car, and a roll cage isn’t needed, being secure is far better than sitting in a cushy stock seat and having a lower chance of survival.
Exiting campus parking is a task on its own, especially this time of year, so when I finally pull onto the highway I do what I always do and open her up. The torque forces her to bear down a fraction then a second later we’re zipping across lanes cutting through traffic with ease.
I love this fucking car, she’s so smooth and easy to maneuver. It doesn’t take much to glide her from one position to the next, accelerate, or decelerate—she’s a hairpin trigger. I built her that way to make racing easier and more effortless as if she’s an extension of me and not a machine. Driving on pure instinct and autonomic behavior.
We’re several miles down the road once I make it past all the legal drivers, and the ones who should be in the slow lane rather than the first one, before I’m setting the cruise control at a whopping ninety-five. Sitting more comfortably in my seat, I allow my thoughts to drift.
Zap is silent in the back doing whatever on his phone, probably researching something to plug into the computer system while Wes is beside me flipping through the radio stations before a song could finish. I find it rather annoying that he never lets one play through but it’s better than the bickering—what harm is there anyway?
