Redline by Alex Van Tol Page B

their math. I’m no nerd: it’s grade-five stuff. Anybody could do it. And the money is pretty good. There’s not much else a person my age can do that brings in $25 an hour. Not much that’s legal anyway.
    I knew I wanted a Mustang GT. My dad and I looked on the AutoTrader website until I found the perfect one last week. Low mileage. Recent year. A nice loud yellow.
    Va room .
    Dad offered to come with me to help me buy it. “Close the deal” were his words, I think.
    I said thanks, but no thanks. Standing on my own two feet and all.
    A few days ago I went to meet the guy who was selling the car. Dmitri. He had beautiful eyes. He was handling the sale for his older brother, who was away on a navy mission in Somalia, where all those pirates have been hijacking cargo ships.
    We took the car for a test drive. I was totally well-behaved behind the wheel. I wanted him to see that his brother’s baby was going to a good home.
    Dmitri and I talked for a long time. Mostly about cars and pirates, but also about our jobs and school and stuff like that. He goes to Geoffrey Marshall. It’s pretty close to my school, Margaret May. But Marshall’s a lot bigger. And their teams always kick our teams’ asses, so nobody talks them up too much.
    I could see the car was in amazing shape. I bartered him down by a thousand anyway. I think he was surprised.
    I surprised myself by holding it together under that gaze of his.
    As I drove away, I glanced in my rearview. He was standing in the middle of the road, watching me.
    My phone pinged five minutes later, while I was making a left onto Leach. I grabbed it—forget those stupid new laws—and keyed in my password.
    My stomach performed a full front flip.
    It was a text from Dmitri. How…? Then I remembered. I’d put my contact information on the bill of sale.
    My thumb hovered over the Reply option. But in the end, I didn’t answer him.
    There’s no point. There’s nothing left of my heart. Nothing left to give. Nothing left to receive.
    Nothing left to break.
    I’ve got 260 “horses under the hood,” as car freaks would say.
    But I’m not a car freak. I don’t care about its torque or its compression ratio or even its fuel economy. I just care that it’s fast as a lighting bolt, and can carry me away from my living nightmare for even just a little bit.
    Dad took the car out for a test drive when I brought it home. He was clearly impressed. When he handed me the keys—like it was actually his car, as if he had anything to do with it—he made me promise I’d drive responsibly. I swore up and down that I would.
    I wasn’t so much lying as I was screening him from the full facts. Just like the times I’d taken his Audi out on the freeway when he was sleeping off a boozy night with the fat cats downtown at the Ranchmen’s Club.
    But now that I’ve got my own car, I don’t have to steal Dad’s keys. I can keep it on the up. Makes me feel a bit better about myself.
    For a second or two.
    I kill the engine and sit in the driveway for a few minutes, looking at the darkened house. The thought of going inside, of washing my face, brushing my teeth and climbing into bed makes me even more tired. Briefly, I consider putting my seat back and just bagging out here. Dad wouldn’t even notice I was gone. But it’s cold, and I guess I’d rather spend the night in my bed.
    Maybe, if I’m lucky, I won’t dream about Ade’s accident tonight.

Chapter Three
    I dream about Dmitri instead. It’s a good dream. I wouldn’t mind having it again. And again.
    I wait for my breathing to return to normal, then open my eyes slowly.
    The bright sunlight of early spring fills my bedroom, making the walls yellower than they really are. My eyes fall on a photo of me and Adrienne. We’re standing in the doorway of the Palm Springs gondola. I remember that afternoon. How