I don’t know why I hope he doesn’t smoke.
Owen pulls his phone from his pocket when it rings, and he starts pacing in the middle of the parking lot while he answers the call, his feet kicking at a few rocks and his other hand rubbing the back of his neck. When he gets off the phone, he holds his thumb up to the guy he was talking to and smiles—a real smile—then jogs back to his truck.
He slams the door to a close and buckles his seatbelt, and I test mine to make sure it’s tight, somehow hoping that will keep me safe wherever it is we’re going. Owen doesn’t share our plans; he just pops the truck into drive quickly, the wheels kicking up gravel as we fishtail back onto the highway and head back the way we came.
“Where are we going?” I ask finally. Owen glances up at the rearview mirror, then leans his head out the window slightly and adjusts the mirror on his door. The wind coming in is cold, and I fold my arms tightly around my body, trying to fight the chill.
“Party,” he says, a smirk on his lips as he notices something in his mirror.
“Party? But it’s…Sunday. We have school tomorrow,” I say, and Owen looks at me finally, then laughs. No other response.
Seconds later, the truck with his friend and Kiera race by us, the guy’s motor growling so loudly that it almost pops as he speeds by us, dust kicking up in Owen’s headlights as his friend passes him and moves back to our lane.
There’s no pause in Owen’s reaction. His right hand grips his steering wheel and he rolls his window up with his left, and the moment it’s closed, he punches the gas with a force that sends my back hard against the seat. My hands grip my seatbelt by instinct, holding onto it to make sure it’s tight—to make sure I stay in this vehicle.
“Owen, slow down,” I say, my heart starting to make my body shake with its beating.
Owen hears nothing, and he starts rocking forward and back with his eyes intent on the truck in front of us, like laser beams locked on the taillights leading our way.
“Owen,” I say, this time a little louder.
The grin on his face is maniacal. It’s actually maniacal—I’ve never seen that expression on someone before. We inch closer and closer to the truck in front of us, and Kiera leans over, draping her arm on the back of the seat in the other truck, her eyes on Owen, her mouth twisted into a tempting smile, urging him to do it, to be dangerous.
There’s a fast jerk to the truck as he veers to the other lane, and I hear his friend’s truck rev a little faster at the threat of being beaten. Owen leans forward and pushes his pedal to the floor, and after a few seconds, we’re dead even with the other truck.
“Owen!” I yell, but he can’t hear me. He’s somewhere else. His hand is pounding on the steering wheel, and I look at his lips and notice them moving, speaking quietly. “Come on, baby. Come on,” he’s saying, over and over.
His friend is laughing, his head tilted back, and Kiera is clapping. Everyone here is having fun. This is fun. This is what they do for fun. And I want to throw up. In fact, I might throw up.
“Owen, you’re scaring me,” I say, my voice coming out in a shrill. But he presses forward.
I have no idea where his other friends are. There were at least three other cars in that parking lot. But no one is near us—not in this race. We move about a quarter length ahead of the other truck, nowhere near enough to pass, and as we top a hill, I notice the lights coming at us in the distance.
“Owen!” I scream, my hands grabbing at the side and front of the seat now. Anything to brace myself. Anything to survive whatever is going to happen.
“Come on, baby. Come on,” he’s still whispering.
We’re racing, our engine fighting to be just a little stronger than the other guy’s, and the lights are coming closer to us. The other car is just over this hill, and we’re either going to veer off the road, or we’re going to die.
I don’t want to die.
I don’t want to die.
“Owen! Please stop! Owen! The car…that car! Stopppppppppp!” I scream. I’m grabbing his arm, trying to get him to change course, and he punches the gas with one last thrust, and our truck slides past his friend’s, only a second before the car coming at us head-on rounds the top of the hill and honks at us—the sound of the horn blaring and lasting for several seconds in the night air.
“Yeahhhhhh baby! Wooooooooooo!” Owen is shouting. He rolls his window down and holds his hand out the window, giving his friend the middle finger, and his friend reciprocates.
“Owen!” I yell, my body plastered to the vinyl seat, my heart stopped now from my near-death experience.