Redline (3 page)

“You race this thing at the track? What's that like?” I can't help myself. I had no idea this guy was into cars. And speed. He never mentioned it when I bought my car from him.

“Well, it's…” Dmitri takes a deep breath. He looks at me to see if I'm really interested in knowing, or whether I'm just making conversation. But I'm in. “It's wicked fun,” he says. “I go out every Saturday during racing season. We have a pit meeting around noon, and then we do a few sorting runs to figure out which class everybody's going to drag in.”

“What do you mean?” I ask. “Don't you already know which class you'll race in?”

Dmitri shakes his head. “Depends on who's racing that day. There's all kinds of cars.”

“Like what?”

“Well, there're street cars, like yours. And there are cars like mine, which are stock. There's nothing pro, though.”

“What's street?”

“Street? You haven't modded the engine too much. They're pretty much right off the lot. You haven't messed with the carb or the gear ratio or anything like that.”

“And so stock means you have?” I ask.

Dmitri nods. “Yeah, like stock could be anything. They're louder, faster. Some have high-efficiency engines. Nitrous and all that.”

“Do you do your own…messing?” I ask, pointing to the air intake.

“Modifications?” He nods again. “Some. Like I did the racing stripes and took the rev limiter off, but I had the carburetor done by a guy who knows what he's doing.”

My mind buzzes as I add all this new information. I've heard of drag racing, but I've never really thought about doing it, much less met anyone who does. “So what kind of cars do you race against?” I ask.

“Depends who's there,” he says. “There's all kinds. Corvettes, Mustangs like yours, Mazdas. Escalades.” I laugh at that. “Seriously? People race in their Escalades?”

“Sure,” he says. “My first race before I modded this engine was against a minivan.”

“No!”

“Yeah,” he laughs. “It's crazy. I've even seen a station wagon. People just race whatever they've got. It's good times.”

I laugh again at the image of minivans and station wagons racing each other. I look at him for a moment. I like him. I like the way he talks to me. God, I like the
fact
that he talks to me. No one else does.

But more than that, I like the way it feels to be talking with him.

I look at the car, then back at him.

“Start it up,” I say, nodding toward the driver's side. “I want to hear it.”

Dmitri looks surprised, but he grins and pulls his keys from his pocket. He unlocks the driver's side and slips inside, leaving the door open. I watch him push in the clutch and turn the key in the ignition. The motor roars into life, splitting the night air. It's so loud! I peek around, suddenly feeling like a troublemaker. An older couple leaving the coffee shop pause to look in our direction.

The noise from the motor thrills me so much that all the little hairs on my arms and the back of my neck are standing up. Dmitri revs the engine a bit. The exhaust responds with a few growling coughs before returning to a throaty idle. My mouth drops open in a ridiculous smile.

I can't contain my excitement. “What's with all the backfiring?” I ask.

Dmitri shrugs from his low seat behind the wheel. “Engine's cold, I guess,” he says. He revs it again, just a little bit, and another
boom
erupts from the tailpipe. My grin widens. I wanna ride in that car.

“Take me out,” I say.

Dmitri's eyebrows register his surprise. “Definitely,” he says. “That'd be cool. May long weekend? We'll make the first day of the season.”

I shake my head at him. “No,” I say. “Take me now.”

Chapter Five

I don't remember the last time I enjoyed myself like this. It feels like years ago.

Even just pulling out of the parking lot onto Desautels Street makes me smile. And now that we're nearing the city limits, the engine loud in our ears and the wind messing our hair, I'm grinning like an idiot.

“How long have you been racing?” I ask. I have to raise my voice to be heard over the engine.

“A while,” Dmitri says. “At the track? I guess about a year now.”

“What do you like about it?” I ask. “I mean, I know you like going fast, but besides that.”

He thinks for a moment. “I like the people,” he says. “There are all different kinds. Some of them are really into car stuff, and others are just into speed.” He pauses. “I think what I like most is being in tune with my engine. It sounds kind of clichéd, but it's true. I like the feeling of figuring out the exact moment to shift. Trying to find the most power.”

Dmitri opens it up a bit as we head off an exit ramp and onto the highway. I love the way his hands look on the wheel. A little thrill flutters loose in my stomach.

Okay, dangerous thoughts. Steering back to cars now.

“So does this car kick ass at the track?” I ask.

Dmitri glances at me and smiles. “It'd kick your car's ass.”

“The hell it would!” I say, in mock outrage.

He turns serious. “You're right,” he nods. “You'd pound me with your little pony car.”

“Damn straight,” I say. “I'd wipe the track with your sorry butt.”

“That may be.” He laughs, and again the sound fills my body, warming me. “Your car's cuter anyway,” he says. He looks over again, his hand easy on the gearshift. I'm suddenly aware of how close it is to my leg. I tear my eyes away.

Dmitri goes back to my original question. “Yeah, this car's fast, but speed doesn't really matter. In my class, we all race at pretty much the same pace.”

“I don't get it,” I say. “Where's the fun in that? Don't you want to blow everyone else away? Isn't that the point?”

“Maybe for street racing. But racing at the track isn't really about beating the other guy,” he replies. “It's more about competing with yourself. To get a better time with each run.”

“So you're at a racetrack…but you're not there to race against other cars?” I ask. “You just…race against yourself?”

He laughs. “Yeah, that's pretty much it.”

I consider this as I look out the window. We've left the city behind. Last year's hay bales sit in the spring-time puddles in the farmers' fields. I try to count the posts on the barbed-wire fences as we pass them by. I used to do that on road trips when I was little. Before my parents split up. But despite being older—and better at counting—the fenceposts still go too fast. I lose track.

I turn back to Dmitri. “Okay then, racer boy,” I say. “Give me some tips on how to race at high speeds. Without killing myself.”

He smiles at me again, and that little flutter goes off in my tummy. I pretend to be interested in the stereo as he answers. “Stay in control,” he says. “And don't take risks any bigger than you can handle.”

“That's it? How do you know if you're taking risks that are too big?”

He answers me slowly, enunciating each word deliberately as if I were five years old. “Um, when it starts to feel scary and dangerous?”

I punch his arm. “Listen, you. I'm new at this!” I exclaim.

He laughs. “You're right. I should assume you don't know how to handle yourself in a vehicle. Seeing how you drive a Mustang GT and all.”

It's my turn to smile. I like how he thinks I can drive.

We stay out for another hour. We talk about cars and music and work. Mostly Dmitri talks. I'm happy to listen.

“Enough from me,” Dmitri finally says, slowing the car. “You want a turn?”

I look around at the road. Ordinarily it would blow my mind to be able to drive a speed machine like this. But tonight? I don't know. I'm kind of cool just chilling here, letting Dmitri have the wheel. Listening.

“Next time,” I say.

Next time?
a little voice chirps.
When did we decide there'd be a next time, Jenessa?

Dmitri grins at me. “Next time,” he agrees. And then he punches it.

Chapter Six

I guess some part of me decided there'd be a next time after all. Because we do the same thing the next Friday. And the one after that. And the one after that.

The drill: Dmitri and I meet up after work at the coffee shop. I get a serious case of the butterflies. We get a drink and then hit the road. We laugh. We talk about school, cars, jobs. We listen to music.

We talk about ourselves—our habits, our hopes, our histories.

Everything.

There are certain parts that I skip.

“There's this section of the highway down by where I live,” I say one evening, shifting my body in the seat so I'm facing him more. “I can see big black streaks on the pavement when I drive by. I think there's street racing going on there.”

“Down south, close to 44X?” Dmitri asks. “The road leading to the new developments they're starting to build?”

I nod.

“I'd say you're probably right.”

“I bet that'd be fun,” I say.

Dmitri looks at me sharply. “You don't want to be doing that,” he says. His voice is serious. His eyes are dark. The look in them makes me shiver.

“Why not?” I ask. “Hey, keep your eyes on the road, man.”

Dmitri glances at the darkened highway. Then back at me.

“Street racing's dangerous stuff, Jenessa,” he says. Another little shiver runs through my body when I hear him say my name.

Of course he'd say that. Who doesn't know that it's dangerous? But only for people who don't know what they're doing.

“Yeah, well, it might be more fun than the track,” I counter. “If you're street racing, you don't have to stop after, like, seven seconds or whatever it is.” I point to his speedometer. “Your car could probably pound most other cars in the city,” I say. “Why don't you try it?”

Dmitri doesn't answer, just presses his lips together. When he finally speaks, he doesn't answer my question.

“It's nothing to mess with,” he says.

I give his knee a playful little push. “I'm sure I'd be able to hold my own. I can deal with it. I can drive fast. Just as fast as anyone. And I wouldn't lose control.” I smile at him. “And it's fun.
Dangerous.
”

Dmitri shakes his head. “I'm sure you could hold your own, given the ideal circumstances. But street racing's far from ideal. And the guys who get involved in it aren't the greatest kinds of people to hang around with.”

I fold my arms. “And how do you know all this?”

He pauses. “I watch the news.”

“Well, the only time a street-racing gang makes the news is when they get busted,” I say.

Dmitri looks at me. “Or hurt.”

“But it doesn't happen very often,” I say.

“Jenessa.” Another shiver. “You can't hook up with a street-racing gang. It isn't safe. They push each other to take stupid risks. Sometimes innocent people get killed.”

The shiver gives way to a sickening wave at his words.

Innocent people get killed.

My own words suddenly dry up. I look down at my hands.

“Why do you drive anyway?” he asks. His tone is different now. Less serious.

I shrug.

“You crave the risk?” He glances at me. “The need for speed?” He laughs.

I don't want to talk about this. I reach for his iPod and search around for something different.

I realize I should say something. I don't want him to think I'm choked at something he's said. How could he have known?

I scroll through the playlists, willing my brain toward another topic.

“Hey,” I say. “You've got the Spice Girls on here! What's up with
that
?”

Dmitri grabs the iPod from me. “My sister, man! She's ten.”

“Well, she's pretty out of touch,” I say, grabbing it back. “Tell her to try Justin Bieber or something.” Dmitri makes a play for the iPod, but I hold it out of his reach. “Hang on. Let me find something else. How about, um… The Airborne Toxic Event? That sounds kind of exciting. Wait…The Airborne Toxic Ev...is that like a fart?”

He laughs. “Try the Dead Milkmen.”

I run my finger down the screen. “‘Bitchin' Camaro'?”

“That's the one.”

I touch it, and Dmitri cranks the volume. The car fills with crazy punk chords and shouty lyrics.

Without warning, Dmitri floors it. I shriek and then laugh. I can't help myself. Dmitri grins. The Camaro roars forward, chewing up the road, insatiable. I feel my body being pressed back into the seat, hard. I can barely lift my head off the headrest.