Last Ride (6 page)
His squat little body disappears out the door.
Hard work is the least of my worries. It's holding on to my car that's the problem. A puff of breath hits the back of my neck. I shiver. And figuring out how to get rid of a ghost.
After school, I crank my iPod and head down to the basement to see what I can find to sell. I spend the first five minutes sneezing and looking nervously over my shoulder, expecting Logan to jump out of the corner. He doesn't. No surprise. The guy never liked dark places. Or hard work.
And since our basement is the size of a small apartment, going through it is hard work.
After a couple of hours, I find a box of used tools Ray unloaded on me last year, a couple of pairs of skis that are too small and an ancient guitar that belonged to my mom when she was a kid. Acoustic, not electric, but when I brush the dust off I see nice wood and pearl inlay. In the old bathroom, I find a carton of dusty books. Under a pile of blankets by the back door, I discover an old oak rocker with cool carved arms that apparently belonged to my grandmother. Mom doesn't want the stuff. She says I can go ahead and sell it.
Tuesday and Wednesday, I make the rounds of secondhand stores. I manage to pull together almost three hundred bucks. I spend my nights playing more
Need for Speed 2
, my days hustling work. I find someone who needs a new exhaust system, and the guys find someone who needs a cold-air intake system. It's good but not good enough. The two jobs together don't even total a grand.
Thursday, with my panic edging into the red zone, Blair and the others help me brainstorm how I can convince Ray to give me more time. Blair also offers to write Ray a note.
“What are you going to do?” I ask as we eat our lunch in the cafeteria. “Beg for me?”
“You wish.” Blair stuffs a third of a burger into his mouth. It's a full minute before he can talk. “I'll promise to bring my car in after the holidays.”
“That's not enough.”
“It's the best I can do.”
I hand him a paper and a pen.
“You still have twenty-four hours,” Lucas reminds me. He points to my fries. “You gonna eat those?”
Wordlessly I slide them across the table. I still can't eat.
“That's right,” Drew says. “Maybe somebody will turn up tomorrow needing a new engine.”
“Maybe, but I doubt it.” And I can't wait until tomorrow. I need to talk to Ray today.
I almost chicken out.
What's the big deal about waiting another day? I wonder after I get to the garage and see what job Ray has lined up for the afternoon. Maybe something will happen in twenty-four hours.
Like a miracle.
But I can't live like this. I have to settle the car thing. Then I can put my energy into getting Logan off my back.
I approach Ray when he stops for a coffee and a smoke. “Here.” I dig Blair's note out of the pocket of my overalls and slap it, along with the three hundred dollars, on the desk in front of him.
Ray peers through a veil of cigarette smoke. “What the hell's that?”
I straddle the chair beside the desk and work at keeping my voice casual. “Three hundred bucks I raised by selling every single piece of useless shit I could find in my basement.”
He laughs. “Don't tell me. You want me to put that toward your debt?”
“Yes.” I point to the paper. “And that's from Blair promising to bring in his Mazda by the end of January so you can lower his front end.”
“What good's that gonna do me?”
“Lots in January when business is slow. The kind of front-end work Blair wants will bill out at two grand, easy.”
“So?”
A gust of wind rattles the metal pull-down door. I almost jump. “So in the last week I've brought in almost six grand worth of work, three hundred bucks in cash, and the promise of two grand more in another month or so.”
Ray slurps from his yellow Happy Face mug. “That's not the ten grand I wanted.”
“It's close.”
“Close isn't good enough.”
I will myself not to panic. “Taking my car away is going to mess you up, big time.”
He puffs on his cigarette. “What do you mean?”
“I know a lot of people. Everybody will know what you've done.”
He's silent.
“You think business is down now? Watch what happens when word gets out that you took my car. That you left me with no wheels. You aren't going to be popular.”
“Who said anything about leaving you with no wheels?”
“Don't mess with me, Ray.” He's twisting things, like he always does. “You've made it pretty clear that if I don't come up with what you want by tomorrow, my car belongs to you.”
“That's right. It will. But you won't be without wheels. You can drive the shop car whenever you want.”
Great. A rusty old Ford.
“And it's not like you'll never see your Acura again,” he adds. “It'll be around. It'll still be a contender.”
I'm trying to remember what else the guys told me to say, so at first his words don't register. But when they do, a shiver creeps up my spine. “What do you mean, my car will be around?”
“I'm not getting rid of it. That thing's a moneymaker. I'll find someone else to race it a couple nights a week.”
Someone else will race
my
car? I grit my teeth. No way.
Ray smirks. “One of your friends, maybe?”
My stomach clenches. “I don't think so.”
“'Course, there is an alternative.”
“What's that?”
He guzzles the last of his coffee, plops the mug on the desk. “You quit being an ass and race it yourself.”
“Forget it.”
“I'll pretend I didn't hear that.” He squishes his cigarette butt under the toe of his boot, leans forward and pins me with a look. “I'm setting up an organized illegal for Sunday night. Out at the old Macmillan airstrip. Santiago's racing. Against your car.”
I stare at Ray. My Acura will take the Boxter, easy. And Ray knows it.
“Your car is going in that race. Either you drive it or someone else will.” He pauses for a heartbeat. “I'd rather it was you.”
“Why me?”
“'Cause you're good. 'Cause you owe me.” He smiles. “And 'cause you ain't the guy who died.”
It's the kind of reminder I don't need.
“Santiago's throwing in three grand, and I'm matching him. Winner takes it.”
My heart skips a beat. “Six grand? On a
single
race?”
Ray nods. “That's right. 'Course, your car will belong to me by then, so I'll get the whole shebang.”
So this is the con. Ray's setting Santiago up. He knows the Boxter's no match for my Acura.
“You win and I'll wipe a thousand dollars off your debt.” Ray winks. “I'll even give you a few more months to pay me off. How's that for a deal?”
It's a sweet deal. It's only one race. Just one. And for sure I'd win.
The door rattles. This time I do jump.
But I've promised Hannah. Promised myself. “No.”
Ray waves my answer away. “You've got till tomorrow to decide. Sleep on it.”
I don't need to sleep on it. I'm not racing again. No way.
But that means Ray takes my car.
When I get home later that night, I'm scared and I'm angry. I'm out of options. I'm losing my car, and I have no one to blame but myself.
I hear the murmur of Mom's voice as I open the door and hang my jacket on the coatrack. Then Cam says, “It'll work out. Something will come up.”
I stop midway through slipping off my shoes. It's like he's talking right to me.
“No.” Mom's voice sounds thready and too high, like she's been crying. “It's the right thing to do. I've decided.”
I walk down the hall to the kitchen. They're sitting at the table, bent over mugs of coffee and a pad of paper. “Decided what?”
Mom's head jerks up. “Oh, Tom. Hi.” Her green eyes are overly bright as she glances at the wall clock. “Wow. Is it that time already?”
“Decided what?” I open the fridge, scan the contents.
“Nothing's been decided.” Cam has a deep, gravelly voice that matches his six-foot-three build and dark brown beard. “Your Mom's thinking through some options, that's all.”
“What options?” At least she
has
options.
Cam doesn't answer. Instead, Mom says, “There's leftover lasagna if you want it.”
“Maybe later.” I grab the milk, root through the cupboard for a glass.
“Hannah came by and left an envelope for you,” Mom says. “I left it on the hall table.”
“Hannah was here?”
“Yes. She was with Amy.”
A splash of milk hits the counter.
“Something about a party for Logan,” Mom adds. “They want you to go. The details are there.”
I shove the carton back in the fridge, grab the dishrag and wipe up the spill. “Thanks. I'll take a look.” I head for the door.
“Tom?” Cam's voice causes me to turn around.
He looks fierce, but he's not. He's never judged me. Not once. “Yeah?”
“It may be hard for you to believe, but trust me, you usually regret the things you don't do more than the things you do.” He gives me a half smile. “And sometimes we're asked to do hard things to help others. Not that I'm telling you what to do, get it?”
But in other words, go to the party. “Yeah.”
I head back down the hall, pick up the envelope on the table and slide my finger under the flap.
A celebration of Logan
Freemont's life
, I read.
December 16.
Gifts not needed
.
Out in the kitchen, Mom's voice is edging up again. I linger a minute, shuffling through the pile of bills. There's one from the hospital with a big red word stamped across the top:
Overdue
.
Shame worms through me. That bill is my fault.
“I have to, Cam. Seriously. With my hours cut, I just can't do it.”
Mom's hours have been cut?
“There's no way I can handle things now.”
Handle my bills, she means. A flush hits my cheeks. Here I am worrying about losing my car when Mom is worrying about paying my medical bills. I'm as bad as Ray. Thinking only of myself.
“You can't talk me out of it,” Mom adds.
Talk her out of what?
Cam answers. I strain to hear but can't. An official-looking letter from the bank catches my eye. When I skim its contents, my blood stops.
I read the letter twice to make sure I understand. But there's no mistaking it. Mom's borrowed against the house.
“You saw that letter from the bank,” Mom says when Cam finishes. “I'm way behind on the mortgage. If I don't come up with five thousand dollars by the end of December, I could lose this place. Selling is my only choice.”
Sweat beads on my forehead. Mom's selling the house? Because of me? No way. I can't let that happen. I won't.
I have to go back to racing.
The thought needles me as I go upstairs, log on to the computer, surf Facebook and check my email. I can make money racing. Lots of it. Except, I made a promise. And racing is wrong.
Or is it? Stealing is wrong. I'm not sure racing is. Not if it's done right. Not if there's a good reason for it.
After a while, Cam's footsteps echo down the sidewalk outside. His truck pulls out of the driveway. Mom comes upstairs and turns on the shower.
You usually regret the things you don't
do more than the things you do.
I'll regret it for the rest of my life if I don't help Mom. And I'm sick of having regrets.
I have to go back to racing.
As the idea grows, my appetite roars to life. I head downstairs to nuke the lasagna. While it heats, I grab the pad of paper Mom left on the table and I begin to write.
No racing with passengers.
No racing while drunk, stoned or
tired.
No racing someone who doesn't want
to race me.
The microwave
pings
. I pull out my pasta, fork up mounds of noodles and meat and cheese, and study my list. After a minute, I add:
No racing someone
who has passengers, or is drunk, stoned
or tired.
By the time I've finished my second helping of lasagna, I have my rules and my game plan figured out. I need to talk to Ray. He needs to agree to what I want.