Katie McGarry - Crash Into You

“It’s a sweet sound,” he says referring to the engines, but all I hear is his deep voice.

I shrug as if I don’t care, but yeah...that sound rocks, the engines and his voice. Take your hand back, Rach. He’s playing you. One of his fingers moves slowly against my skin again, and goose bumps rise on my arms. The annoying voice in my head repeats the warning, but I don’t listen.

“I wasn’t sure if you were coming.” He sounds both a little hurt and relieved. Good. I can’t contain the slight curve of my lips. I showed, but I also stood my ground by refusing to text back.

“You left your jacket at the garage. I’ve got it in the car, but it looks like you found another.”

Okay, that is sweet, but I’m still standing my ground.

“Come on, Rachel,” he says with a smoothness that reminds me of silk. “Talk to me.”

I shrug again. Okay, I know, completely immature. I haven’t even played this game with my brothers in years, but Isaiah so deserves it. We’re business, he and I. I’m a debt. He wants to use my car so we can pay off Eric. Nowhere in that agreement does it indicate I have to speak.

In one swift motion, I find the courage to remove my hand and shove it into my coat pocket so Isaiah knows touching me is off-limits. It’s a warm night for January, upper fifties, yet I use my jacket as a shield.

“Fine. We’ll talk later.” He pulls on his bottom earring. “Let me show you the place.”

I fall in step with him, and my eyes widen when I see the rows of cars looping around the metal bleachers, each waiting for their turn on the dragway. Mustangs, Camaros, Chargers, Novas, Chevelles, Corvettes. Oh, holy mother of God, the list is endless. All beautiful. All painted in reds or yellows or blacks or whites or blues or oranges—a glorious rainbow. All grumbling with the sounds of fantastic fast engines.

Gathered under smaller streetlights, guys lean against their cars or stand in small groups and call out to Isaiah. He nods or says something in greeting. My world freezes when I notice the gorgeous black beauty near the front of the pack.

“That’s a 2004 Mustang Cobra,” I say. My head snaps to Isaiah, and I repeat what I said, emphasizing each word. “That is a 2004 Mustang Cobra.”

He licks his lips in a pathetic effort to conceal his smile. Yeah, whatever, I’m talking so he won, but who cares. That’s a 2004 Mustang Cobra. That is the car I have always dreamed of owning.

“I know the guy who owns it,” he says. “Do you want a closer look?”

“Are you kidding?” I ask with a bounce that I’m sure makes me look like a five-year-old. “I sort of want to lie on the hood and hug it.”

Isaiah laughs the same laugh as the night in the bar. The one that creates an energized rush. The one that messes with my head and warms my blood. My excitement fades as I remember—Isaiah doesn’t want me.

Over the loudspeaker, the announcer calls the race. The groups quickly disintegrate and the drivers return to their cars.

“I’ll introduce you later,” Isaiah says. “Let’s go watch.”

We weave through the cars, past the bleachers, and stand at the fence near the starting line. I’ve never seen anything like it before: a flat stretch of road with concrete barricades following the eighth-mile course. Toward the end, two large electronic boards loom on both sides of the track. One set of numbers on top, another on the bottom.

The roar of an engine causes me to return my attention to the starting line. Guys walk alongside a red Camaro. One waves his hand in the air, indicating the driver should inch closer. “What’s he doing?” I ask.

Isaiah props his arms on the fence. “They spray water at the start of the track for the burnout. It’s better to get your tires right on the edge of the water.”

Holy freaking crap—a burnout. I’ve seen this hundreds of times on TV, but never in person. On cue, the back tires of the Camaro explode to life, spinning, sending heavy white smoke into the air as the driver heats his tires so he can gain better traction on the track. The sweet smoldering smell of burning rubber fills my nose. Finally, the tires catch and the car jerks forward.

The driver opens the door and fans it repeatedly to rid the interior of the smoke. Once clear, he shuts it and obeys the hand signals of his friend to move to the starting line.

“How do they know where to place their car to start the race?”

“Everything’s done by lasers,” Isaiah explains. “You need to hit the first laser without going too far. That guy doing all the hand motions is guiding the driver to the line. When he’s at the laser, a light over there will turn on.”

The competing car completes his burnout and thrusts to the line without help and without smoke infiltrating the car. “Why does the other driver need help and he doesn’t?”

“Because of the speeds some of these cars go, you can’t use regular seat belts. If we can get your engine to sing, we’ll have to install a safety harness in your car. Sometimes the harness keeps you so pinned in you can’t see the line. Sometimes the helmet keeps you from seeing it. Sometimes your friends want to help.”

He lost me at installing a safety harness in my car. Panic eats at my insides. “You’re going to change my car?”

Isaiah watches the cars at the line. “First they have to hit the line for prestaging. See that thing in the middle between the cars? That thing that looks like a traffic light?”

“Yes.” No. Not really. I mean, I see it. For both racers, the “traffic light” tower has two rows of white lights at the top, three rows of yellow lights, a single row of green and finally a single row of red. But what I really see is Isaiah missing the point. “As in you’re going to physically make a change to my car?”

“Yeah,” he answers calmly, as if he didn’t just announce he’s going to take the one thing in my life I love and ruin it. “It’s called a Christmas Tree. The white lights on top are prestage for the start of the race. They light up when the front of the car hits the first beam. When you hit the second beam, then the second row of lights glow to let you know that you’re ready to race. When both cars are staged, you have seconds before the lights on the tree drop.”

Yeah. Sure. Whatever. “What else are you planning to do to my car?” I grip the fence as a fresh wave of dizziness makes me light-headed. My car. I don’t want anyone messing with my car.

Either he’s ignoring me or he’s seriously into the race. “The yellow lights drop in descending order in .5 second intervals. If you leave before the green light, then the red light flashes.”

That snaps me out of near hysteria. “What does it mean if you get a red light?”

Isaiah glances at me. “It means you lost.”

Understanding socks me in the stomach. That’s why I’m not racing—I stalled at the line on the street and if I panic, I’ll possibly stall again. If I get overexcited and leave before the light turns green—and let’s admit it, I would—then I’ll lose the race before I even hit twenty miles per hour. “You don’t trust my reaction at the line.”

He kicks at the bottom of the fence, and I can tell he doesn’t want to answer. “We need a fast car, Rachel. Speed still means something, but out here at the dragway, whoever catches the light first is typically the winner.”

The cars in front of us roar. Torque causes the front end of the Camaro to pull up into the air, and I step back, half expecting the car to flip completely backward. It doesn’t. The front tires slam back down onto the asphalt. The Camaro races past the Mustang at a blinding speed. The sign at the end flashes. In an eighth mile the Camaro hits ninety-six miles per hour in 6.94 seconds.

My eyes widen and my heart beats hard in my chest. “I so want to do that.”

Isaiah

WITH MY ARMS TIGHTLY CROSSED over my chest and my feet spread apart, I watch from a distance as Rachel chats animatedly with Zach, the owner of the Mustang Cobra. Her hair cascades down her back like a waterfall and her hands move gracefully in the air as she relays some story involving her Mustang on a country road.

Zach touches her arm right above her elbow and says something that incites her laughter. A muscle in my jaw jumps. I’ve known Zach since freshman year. We’ve taken every automotive course together, and I was there when he bought the Cobra for dirt cheap. If the boy keeps flirting with Rachel, he and I may not be friends by the end of the night.

“Hey, Isaiah.”

I tear my eyes off of Rachel for a second to greet Logan. “S’up.”

“Thought I’d check out the action,” he says, following my gaze to Rachel.

In a motion I’ve memorized, Rachel shyly bites her bottom lip. Don’t do it. Don’t look at Zach with those gorgeous eyes searching for him to be your answer like you did with me.

The muscles in my neck relax when she brushes her hair over her shoulder and steps back, causing him to remove his hand. Distracting Zach, she points to the Cobra and moves closer to the car.

“What did you think?” I ask Logan, hoping to distract myself. Watching Rachel laugh with another guy twists knots in my gut.

“That was some insane shit.” A jean jacket replaces Logan’s school one, and he almost fits in with a T-shirt and jeans, but his black hair still has that straitlaced gel-style.

“Think you can handle a car going that fast, man?”

A lunatic smile crosses his face. “Yes.”

Before Beth fell for Logan’s friend, Ryan, she had told me stories involving this kid. She said his only fuel was adrenaline. “You’re a crazy son of a bitch, aren’t you?”