Runaway “Their Moment in Time” (23 page)

“Yeah, I guess,” I answered.

Bret smiled at us—or so I thought.

Chapter Fourteen

It had been several months since that night at the drive-in theater. Everyone, including Runaway, had escaped going to any dances. We still raced every Friday, and not only met more people, but also became good friends with some of them.

The diner was becoming extremely crowded, with more and more new faces popping up everywhere. The Wall of Fame was growing beyond just one wall—Mr. Thompson found himself organizing pictures weekly, just to make room for all the additions.

Thankfully, we hadn’t seen or heard much from The Rebels, as they were busy with their own races and clubs.

It was spring, and an end-of-the-year feeling was in the air, along with the fresh rain and mild weather. Spring in Southern California is fantastic—the weather can alternate between light rain and sunshine. The days were now getting longer. With the end of high school in sight, our futures were within our grasp.

On a Friday night in early March, we gathered at the diner, checking our racing schedule.

“Okay,” Grant said, rubbing his hands together in anticipation, “who’s racing first tonight?”

“Isn’t it your turn, Stephen?” Brandon asked, overtly happy for once.

“Yes, let me see…” Stephen replied, as he looked at the schedule hanging on the wall. “Oh, perfect—I race Kurt… again.” He straightened up.

“Oh, boy, that should be a fun one,” I said, rolling my eyes and looking away.

“No doubt,” he said, looking at me. “But, I’ll try and make it succinct as possible,” he said with a smile.

Every week, Mr. Thompson and Officer Tessler would put together a schedule that outlined the night’s races. We were only interested in ours, so we didn’t pay much attention to others.

Despite our schedules, homework, and other activities, we always met at the diner for dinner on a race night. It’s the only time I can actually remember us carefree and unburdened. Even if we were goofing off, or making fun of some lame ’50s song, or just hanging out, it was perfect.

Racing at the quarter-mile had caught on so well—with the help of Officer Tessler—that other cities were getting in on the act, too. In the backs of our minds we’d always thought about what Vincent had told us regarding the end of the year, but we just held off in asking. I suppose Runaway figured, “Why ask?” when it was so far away. But now that we were in the early stages of spring with graduation in just a few short months, we’d hoped that we would have the chance to ask Officer Tessler it. We wondered if it were truth or myth.

After what seemed like many days and weeks, we finally got our chance on that particular day when we walked in and found him and Mr. Thompson knee-deep in organizing races.

Runaway decided she couldn’t stand it any longer and had to ask.

“Officer Tessler!” she yelled across the diner.

“What?” he looked up from the racing schedule.

There was no one else in the diner, so it was pretty safe to let the rumor fly. Who was going to hear it?

“I heard a rumor…”

“Go on,” he looked directly at her.

“Well,” she licked her lips, “rumor has it, there is going to be some sort of quarter-mile championship.”

Officer Tessler looked down at his schedule, chuckled softly to himself, and then got up and dragged a chair over to our booth.

“Got some news,” he said flatly.

My stomach was full of butterflies. Why else would he be headed in our direction if the rumor wasn’t true? The anticipation I felt was insane, but I tried to keep it in check.

“Thompson!” he yelled. “Bring me something to drink, would you?”

Immediately Mr. Thompson came over with a Coke and gave it to Tessler. “What are you yelling about?” he asked.

“Well, I’ve got some news,” he said, taking a good, long drink and ignoring Mr. Thompson. “It seems your little racing gig has caught on. I’ve heard from other departments that two other cities would like to get in on the action.”

“What?” Runaway asked, looking like she was completely surprised by this information. “What does that mean?”

“It means that, essentially, cites are starting to see the benefits of this Friday night racing. They believe it’s keeping kids off the streets, and it has become a healthy competition.” He took another drink of his Coke. “You see,” he continued, “most often, street racing is so illegal, it’s ridiculous—but somehow we’ve been able to keep it contained to just this quarter-mile. We in the police department aren’t seeing kids out there driving like idiots to practice or anything… which, by the way, is amazing.

“The only place we see kids driving like this is on this quarter-mile. City officials and the police department are impressed with that, so they would like to organize an end-of-the-year competition.”

“A what?” I blurted out—I thought I would help in the cover-up cause.

He said it again. “An end-of-the-year competition—I’ve just spoken to two other police departments, and they’re in—they are calling it the ‘Tri City Tournament.’”

“Um… I hate to be the voice of reason,” Stephen interrupted, “however, you all realize that there are more than three cities within this area?”

“Of course,” the police officer continued. “They are using the Tri-City because of the two anchor cities—Glendora and Alta Loma—and then the one city directly between them is Claremont. So that’s how they get the three cities, but of course it will include everyone else.”

“Okay, but what exactly is the Tri City Tournament?” Runaway asked, still skeptical.

“Well,” he looked around at all of us. “It’s going to be an end-of-the-year race. It will be very similar to the Tri City Football Championship, with which I’m sure Grant is very familiar. Everyone will participate in racing all other cities for a final race, which will result in not only a champion racer, but also a city trophy. The trophy will designate which city has the top drivers, as well as the winner of the final race, of course.”

He finished with satisfaction as he beamed at all of us.

“Holy crap,” Grant said.

So what Vincent had told us was not a rumor, but the truth. I, for one, was dumbfounded.

“Yeah,” Brian added. “Seriously—they are going to let us do this?”

“Not only let you, but they will be organizing and arranging the whole thing.”

“You’re serious?” Runaway said, clearly excited.

“Yep,” Officer Tessler answered.

“When?” I asked.

He looked at me and said, “Good question—thanks for asking. We will be scheduling the Tri-City Tournament for June, just prior to graduation. We figured that would end the year quite nicely, and seeing as it’s only about three months away, everyone should be at their personal best.”

“Wow,” I said leaning my head back against our booth. “Who would have thought…”

Runaway smiled.

“Well, let’s not let too much time get by us tonight, as you all have a race approaching,” Officer Tessler said.

And with that, we saw and heard that The Rebels had turned into the parking lot. A large crowd had already formed and was beginning to disperse themselves along the quarter-mile. Teens from everywhere showed up now. Racing or not, they just came to watch. Some came from schools we had never heard of. Word had traveled far and fast.

“Well, my friends,” Stephen rose first from the booth, stretched and then cracked his knuckles, “Time to demonstrate how racing is done… Kurt, once again, being my victim.” He looked around the room nonchalantly.

“Think you’ll win, do you?” Brandon asked.

“Yes,” he looked at him. “As a matter of fact I do. Next question?”

“Go, already!” Runaway pushed him toward the door. “You’re blocking the aisle with that large attitude of yours.”

“Hmpf.”

“Let’s go, Stephen! You’re up to bat.” Officer Tessler was holding open the door for him. It appeared that Kurt was already heading out to the quarter-mile. Bret’s club and all of his scum were already waiting.

I had begun to hate racing The Rebels, because they were nothing more than cocky drivers.

Upon exiting the diner, I heard Runaway pop off first.

“Hey Bret, you must think you’re going to win—you’re never early,” she said with a smile.

“Yeah, babe—take a seat,” he retorted with a sneer as he motioned with his head to the curb.

His entire club was standing over to the left of the parking lot, while we were parked on the right side. They all had smirks on their faces as we approached where they were standing.

“My, my, Bret.” She looked a bit taken aback. “Aren’t we a little chipper this evening?” she snipped, as she crossed in front of him. “Thanks, though—I think I’ll stand.”

The look on her face was quizzical as she ignored his recommendation.

By now, Stephen had gotten into his car and started it up. He slowly backed up, as he always did—for Stephen was never in a rush—and headed to the starting line.

Kurt was already waiting in his Nova. There were maybe a hundred people milling around the parking lot, as Stephen edged his way toward him.

Runaway, Brian, Grant, and I walked over to the other side of the street and down to the finish line, so we could get an unobstructed view.

“Where’s Brandon?” I asked.

Grant shrugged, and Brian looked around.

“Dude, I just saw him a minute ago,” Brian said. “He was over by his car, and I could have sworn he was heading toward the diner.” Brian continued looking around the parking lot, trying to see over people’s heads. “Where’d he go?”

“I don’t know,” I said, shrugging my shoulders. “I haven’t seen him in a while.”

“Yeah, well, it doesn’t matter,” Runaway said. “The race is about to start, anyway.” We had grown used to Brandon’s habitual and mysterious absences.

Officer Tessler walked to his position at the starting line. Normally, we stood near there, but tonight we wanted to actually see a win, rather than see a race start. Besides, Grant had volunteered to keep the stopwatch.

Both Runaway and Brian stood fairly close to me as we looked down the stretch of the quarter-mile toward Stephen’s car. We stood and stared as both sets of headlights lined up next to each other, poised for the start.

Officer Tessler waved the towel a few times before preparing for the drop.

“He makes it quite dramatic, doesn’t he?” I said.