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“Cutit out.”Igrab his ponytail and drag him gently over to the main display. “Whichone did your mom get you?”
Hiseyebrows furrow wistfully as he scans the rows. “Idon’t know.Itwas some kind of street racer, butIdon’t see anything like it.”
Iget distracted looking at him instead of the cars, remembering how my friends andIwould come to this aisle and sit on the floor, trading boxes around like they belonged to us.Sometimeswe’d open them and steal the cars, other times we just played.IguessDalwould have been stuck a few aisles over, in the one full of pink stuff.WhenIimagine his mom bringing him here, to show him that she understood who he really was, it gives me a feeling so big and rawIcan’t get my hands around it.
“Hey.”Igrab a lifted black and red pickup. “Thiswas the oneIhad.Mymom put it in myChristmassock.Ibuilt a whole track in the dirt with jumps and shit.ThenI’dmake obstacles and set them on fire.”
Heblinks away the moisture in his eyes with a weak smile and takes it out of my hands. “You’relucky you didn’t burn the whole trailer park down.”Studyingit reverently, he brushes his thumb along the plastic. “Ilike this one,” he says in a small voice, like he’s a kid again.
“Perfect.”Igrab a gaudy-as-fuck goldElCaminoand nudge him toward the checkout.Thecashier narrows her eyes at us, like we probably have the rest of the cars stuffed in our pockets, but she takes my bill and hands back twenty-seven cents.Ijust blew my whole savings, but nothing in the world matters as much as the look onDallas’ face as he tears the packaging off his truck because he’s too excited to wait until we’re outside.
“Whereare we going?” he asks asItug him around the corner of the building instead of back toward the street.Thescrape of our sneakers on the asphalt is the only sign of life as we weave between sun-faded semi trucks and empty loading bays to a huge undeveloped field full of weeds.
“Westill have thirty minutes to spend.”Istep out into the dirt and drag the toe of my shoe in a huge oval. “Righthere.Andthey’re both good cars, so we have to make it tough.”
Heeyes me with a mixture ofwhat are you onandthis sounds awesome. “We’llget filthy.”
“Exactly.”Afterdouble checking for bindweed,Iplop my ass down on the ground to show himI’mserious. “Bonusfor whoever makes the best obstacle.”
Hestands there for a long time with his hands stuffed in his back pockets and his nose wrinkled, watching me smooth out a hard, packed track wide enough for both cars. “Um.”Hepulls in the breath he does when he wants to explain why he’s right and you’re wrong, then points at my work. “Thereought to be a jump there.”Ijust ignore him.Finally, he drops down on his hands and knees and starts pushing dirt around.
Iget distracted watching his frown of concentration as he shapes the soil with the same precision he uses for everything.Everytime he wipes sweat off his forehead, he unknowingly leaves another streak of dust across his face.
OnceI’vebuilt enough ditches and ramps,Ibreak off strands of weed and stretch them across the track like tripwires.Dallasis very carefully picking the prickly little bunches of thorns out of the bindweed and scattering them across the track.Iwhistle in approval. “Damn,Inever thought of that one.”
Heglances up at me with a grin. “Don’tsteal my ideas.”
Onceeverything else is set, we twist the receipt from the store into a hoop shape and attach it to a stick in the ground so the cars can jump through it. “Lighter,”Dallasdemands, making grabby fingers at me whenIstop to admire our work.
Ipass him my rusty, vintage lighter with an eagle on it that belonged to my great grandpa–or at least that’s how the story goes. “Don’tdo it untilItell you.Theracers have to line up first.”Imitatingthe nasal growl of a vintage engine,Idrive my car into position. “Youcoming?”
Hepicks up his car and sets it neatly next to mine, then raises his eyebrows at me.
“Ruleone.”Isit back on my heels. “Soundeffects.”
I’mpretty sure he’s blushing a little. “No.That’swhat imaginations are for.”
“Vroooooommmm.”Turningmy car around,Idrive it up the side of his leg, then along his arm with dramatic revving noises, like it’s trying to power up a mountain.Heholds his deadpan glare until theElCaminoventures across his chest and up the very middle of his face.Whenit hits his mouth, he splutters and slaps me away, falling over backward.
“Fine.Jesus.”Withthe world’s worst and cutest attempt at an engine noise, he drives the truck in a circle and parks it back at the starting line. “CanIlight stuff on fire now?That’swhat manly men say, right?”
“Perfect.Getready.”
Henever uses lighters, so it takes him five tries to ignite the paper.Assoon as the flame catches,Icall “Onetwothreego!” in a rush, before it can go out.
“Shit,” he yelps, pouncing on his car and sending it chasing after mine with a much better revving sound this time.
Iflick mine toward the burning ring, but it sails wide and lands in a pile ofDallas’ thorns.Theprickles jab into my thumb asItry to free myself. “AaandAlexander’scar is–fucking ouch– incapacitated, can he turn it around?”
“NotifSantraflips his nitro switch,”Dallasyells, zooming his car around half the track in less than a second to catch up.
“Youdon’t have a nitro switch!”Itry to shove him back, but he shoulder-checks me and lunges toward the finish.
“Thenhow didIget here?Huh?”Theblack truck skids across the finish and he rolls onto his back, pumping his fists over his head and imitating the sound of a cheering crowd. “AndSantradestroysAlexanderin the worst defeat of the season.Fuckingbite me.”
“Giveme that.”Iswipe for his truck, and he holds it out of my reach. “Ididn’t spend five bucks just to watch your cheating ass steal my win.”
Breathinghard, his eyes bright, he sits up with that absolute know-it-all quirk to his eyebrow. “Thenmaybe you should have spent more time on nitro and less time on sound effects.”
