No excuses for me! Free shots -stands and lets big heavy objects be thrown at her- Let this chapter entertain you while I tend to my broken limbs =D
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My Cobalt rolls up to the park where the first race of the tournament is being held. I gulp nervously as onlookers gape and point at me, the newcomer. I park at the starting line and get out, repressing the urge to put my hood up; while it would definitely make me feel safer, others will see it as a sign of weakness. A large man in what can only be described as a pimp coat walks up to me.
"You here to race?" He asks me, squinting at me from behind his purple tinted sunglasses.
Obviously. "Yes."
He holds out a pudgy, ring-encrusted hand. "The fee, and your name."
"Andrea," I reply, reaching in my hoodie pocket and counting out $100. This exchange is seen as a contract: now that I've paid, I'm in the tournament and can't back out; plus it goes toward the winnings so the hosts don't have to pay so much. He counts it again, and apparently satisfied, pockets it and turns away. "Good luck," he throws carelessly over his shoulder. I know he couldn't care less if I won, so I remember Apones' good luck kiss on my cheek and feel bolstered.
I slide back in my car, grateful to be out of the noise of the crowd. Breathing slowly and deeply, I buckle back up. It seems all the contestants have arrived, because our audience cheers louder than ever, and it soon becomes apparent why. The race starter – an African American girl about my age wearing a bikini top and the shortest shorts imaginable – slowly saunters down the line of cars, ignoring the catcalls, and stops in the middle. The snarls of revving engines nearly drown out the cheering crowd. Gradually, the race starter raises her arms. The air around me feels like it's about to snap with noise and tension. My knuckles turn white around the steering wheel and handbrake.
She throws her arms down.
My foot slams the gas just as I release the brake, and I'm flung backwards by accelerations' force. My worry, my fear, all of it has been left at the starting line. If I think about it now, I'm dead, so I let instinct take over.
I weave my way up to second place and tail the white Lexus in first. We dart in and out between trees and playground equipment, plunging through an alley to take us around some side streets before we circle back to the finish line. We lay it on each other on this straightaway. I creep up as the Lexus driver fights to keep their lead. Inch by inch I close in on them. With a final burst of speed, I break away and streak across the finish line.
As the spectators swarm around my car, I smile. This tournament is won based on a simple points system. Since I placed first, I've earned seven points. Those who've finished after me will earn a descending number of points, with last place – eighth in this case - getting no points at all. At the end of the tournament, the one with the most points wins. One race down, two to go, I think to myself.
The man in the pimp coat waves the contestants onwards. We drive to a deserted intersection about a block away from the park. We line up – four cars in front, four behind – and wait again for the race starter. She slams her arms down at the same moment the stoplight turns green.
This track takes us around downtown Atlanta. We weave in and out of traffic, braiding waves of bright light and paint as we go that fade behind us as soon as we're out of sight. Occasionally one of us jumps the curb, sending terrified pedestrians fleeing. Again, the white Lexus and I are in the lead, neither one of us willing to give.
As we near the ramp that serves as the finish line, the white car jumps forward. All I saw was a glimpse of the flames spitting out of the tailpipes before it crosses the line. The crowd is cheering for the Lexus as I cross the finish line seconds behind him. The driver – I can see now it's a guy – gets out of his car to allow his friends to high-five him and thump him on the back. It's like he won the tournament, I think, half incredulous and half amused. Arrogance has been many a racers' downfall.
A tap on my window makes me jump. It's only Apone, so I roll it down. He leans down to talk, one hand on the hood of my car, the other holding the door.
"You're doin' great so far, Dirt. You and Reggie are tied now," he says, jerking a thumb toward the white Lexus driver.
"Thanks, but I can do that math," I smile.
"Never said you couldn't, Dirt," Apone says brightly, "I just wanted to say that I worked on his car so I know he's only got one can of nitrous left."
"He's only got two cans in there?" I stare over at the luxury vehicle. "But he's driving a Lexus! He can afford more, can't he?"
"S'not a question of what the man can and can't afford, darlin'. It's a mental thing he's got. He thinks he's so great, he don't need 'em."
Apone hasn't even finished talking yet and I'm grinning. As I said, we racers need to keep our swag in check. Otherwise we'll exploit it like we would fear: mercilessly – just as I'm about to do.
…
The noise of the crowd is louder than ever now that the last race is about to start. We drivers respond with the snarls of our revving engines. I sneak a glance over at Reggie in the white Lexus. He's got his seat leaned back and he isn't holding the steering wheel as tightly as he should, but he's smiling confidently all the same. I look back at the race starter with a small smile of my own. It doesn't take much to break these big boys.
For the final time, the race starter drops her arms.
My Cobalt surges forward with the rest of the pack. Down the ramp and onto the expressway we fly. Reggie and I resume our earlier positions in the lead. Traffic is heavy, but that doesn't slow us down. We dart in and out of the four lanes, occasionally crossing paths and getting a small lead, only for the other to snatch it back. I have a slight advantage here: my Cobalt is lighter than his Lexus, and can flit between the traffic easier. Reggie seems to have the hang of the Lexus' weight, however, and I grudgingly admit he's doing well.
After we emerge from a particularly heavy portion of traffic, there's a fairly deserted stretch of highway in front of us. A passing white blur tells me that Reggie used his last can of nitrous. I smirk. He thinks he can keep ahead of me for the rest of the race? I wait another split second, then hit my own nitrous button. My little Cobalt charges forward. The flames from Reggies' tailpipes sputter and go out as I pass. I round a bend in the road and the exit ramp that serves as the finish line nears. I'm going to win, I think, elation rising in me.
A sudden bright light in my rearview mirror nearly blinds me. I squint into my side mirror and gasp. Coming up behind me at the speed of light is Reggie in the white Lexus. How did he -?, then I gasp as he flies by. Orange flames are once again spewing from his tailpipes. He had another can of nitrous! But Apone said – Nevermind what Apone said! I shriek at myself and pound my nitrous button.
My Cobalt jumps forward, but Reggie is still ahead, carried on by the momentum of his heavier car. I hold the gas pedal down so hard my foot hurts. "Faster, baby, come on," I mutter desperately. My faithful car responds, closing in on the Lexus. The fire in his tailpipes goes out as my front bumper is level with his back tires. My nitrous runs out in the next second, as our bodies are even. I bare my teeth at the ramp ahead, I will not lose! I press the gas pedal into the floor as we dash up the ramp and hit the line together.
The spectators go wild as we skid to a stop. The riotous excitement in the air is virtually nonexistent to me as I clamber out of my car. I was petrified I had lost, but who could call it? The finish was too close. Dread coats my stomach, heavy like lead.
Apone rushes over to me, "Damn, that was close!" He gets a look at my expression and laughs, "Relax, Dirt. Someone thought to bring a fancy high-speed camera for this finish so they're lookin' at it now. We'll know soon enough." He takes my hand and squeezes it comfortingly as the rest of the racers finish around us.
The noise dies down a little as we wait for the posting. It took what felt like a ridiculous amount of time, but I supposed they were adding up everyone else's score too. It's only after a few minutes that the pimp-coat guy jumps on top of his car, a 1970's Impala. The crowd starts cheering again, but he holds up his hands for quiet, rings sparkling in the streetlamps and headlights. He pulls a piece of paper out of his fur-lined pocket and starts reading the postings, backwards from eighth place. I start fidgeting, but Apone squeezes my hand again and I stop with some difficulty.
"And now, in the closest finish this tournament has ever seen," here, I take a deep breath, "I'm pleased to announce that the winner of $5000 is –," Pimp-Coat Man pauses for effect, looking dramatically around the audience. Everyone waits with bated breath. The suspenseful silence stretches nearly to breaking point before he shouts:
"Andrea!"
"Ya did it, Dirt!" Apone shouts in my ear as the crowd starts cheering again. I feel dazed and faint with victory and disbelief. He has to push me towards Pimp-Coat's car. I walk there on rubbery legs, embarrassed at the way the people part as I go by. Unfortunately, I have to walk past Reggie and his crew. They boo and hiss as I pass, but I really could care less. I keep my chin high and don't give them a second thought.
When I stop in front of the Impala, Pimp-Coat leans down and hands me the money with a smile on his face. Huh. Maybe he really had wanted me to win. I manage to smile back in thanks and turn back to my car. Apone is there, the happiness at my win lighting up his face. I grin back at him as I near. He pulls me into a bear hug, then we get in my car and head back to his place to celebrate.
...
=D I'm actually still in the process of figuring out what's going to happen next. I mean, I have a general idea but specific chapters I'm still working on. I'm back in school so inspiration should be spiking anyway. Keep a lookout! Thanks for reading/sticking with me. Reviews are greatly appreciated!