Chapter 2 #2
“The bus is better than jail, knuckle head. Get it together. Now, let’s get to the dorms and pack up. I told you we have things to do.”
I’ve done enough waiting the past few years; if they’re coming, they better hurry the hell up.
My boots hit the sidewalk as I turn toward the dorms, leaving them there until they decide to get with the program and catch up.
Zap appears at my side in a few strides with Wes shuffling behind him like some temper wielding pubescent child.
Did I say college is pointless? I mean, you have half-assed accolades but the rest of it is worthless.
It’s an overly expensive piece of paper that may, or may not, get you where you want to be in life.
Never met a professional racer with a college degree—pretty sure most are high school dropouts.
Doesn’t take a whole lot of ingenuity to press pedals, pop clutches, and downshift.
It’s the rest of the hard work and dedication you can’t learn that makes all the difference.
The trek across campus takes us little to no time, my long strides eating up the pavement like a starved man—in a way I am. Every step gets me closer to Hazelwood, and closer to the only girl I’ve ever wanted.
An hour later and we’re loaded, each of us tossing a single backpack in the trunk along with energy drinks and all the weed we can smoke before we end up blazed.
I’m not one for the hard stuff, cocaine, meth, whatever else is floating around but a fat joint does take the edge off.
Alcohol is alright too but I don’t drink much either.
It makes me feel out of control, like nothing around me is moving at the pace I need it to.
I like the control and the safety it provides.
After an unpredictable life with an absent father, having control means a whole lot more than what people give it credit for. That’s likely why I lead this ragtime bunch. I serve a purpose to people who look up to me, outside of my little sisters who would prefer me to stay out of their business.
My sisters are getting old enough to start dating and don’t want big brother ruining their lives by chasing the wrong boys off.
It’s our culture to marry early and start families but if there is one thing I’ve taught them growing up, it’s that we don’t have to follow a culture we may not agree with.
The younger one agrees and has told me on more than one occasion she’s more interested in women while the other is ready to get married at the ripe age of seventeen.
Over my dead body.
The boy she likes is part of the bike circuit in Detroit.
Typical squid, acting cool with a bike that’s too big for his skill level.
Hangs around in his helmet, makes riding his entire personality, you know prime husband material.
Now, I know cars are pretty much my only fall back, but there’s more to me than being elbow deep in engine gunk and burning rubber—can’t say the same for him.
We’ve run into one another a few times on the track and he always gets smoked, yet what sets me off the most with him is how often he entertains other girls.
In the beginning I told my sister about it but she became defensive and shut me out—I was only doing what was expected of me as a brother, protecting her and all that.
Unfortunately, she doesn’t see it that way.
Fingers crossed he isn’t in Hazelwood this week.
Shrugging off my jacket, I toss it into the back seat next to Zap and drop into the driver's side. I had the Civic fitted with bucket seats in the front so it always feels like I’m ready for race day.
There are special fittings underneath to revert back to the stock seats but I prefer the hard-backed ones with five point harnesses instead.
Not only are they for me, because this is my car and I’ll build her how I want her, but they’re also for my passengers. I want them to be safe as well.
Which the guys understand. They don’t hesitate to strap in when we go anywhere, letting me know they respect the danger that comes with riding in a car like Delinquent.
While she isn’t a drag car, and a roll cage isn’t needed, being secure is far better than sitting in a cushy stock seat and having a lower chance of survival.
Exiting campus parking is a task on its own, especially this time of year, so when I finally pull onto the highway I do what I always do and open her up. The torque forces her to bear down a fraction then a second later we’re zipping across lanes cutting through traffic with ease.
I love this fucking car, she’s so smooth and easy to maneuver.
It doesn’t take much to glide her from one position to the next, accelerate, or decelerate—she’s a hairpin trigger.
I built her that way to make racing easier and more effortless as if she’s an extension of me and not a machine.
Driving on pure instinct and autonomic behavior.
We’re several miles down the road once I make it past all the legal drivers, and the ones who should be in the slow lane rather than the first one, before I’m setting the cruise control at a whopping ninety-five. Sitting more comfortably in my seat, I allow my thoughts to drift.
Zap is silent in the back doing whatever on his phone, probably researching something to plug into the computer system while Wes is beside me flipping through the radio stations before a song could finish.
I find it rather annoying that he never lets one play through but it’s better than the bickering—what harm is there anyway?
It’s easy to focus on the road when Nadia comes to mind—she lives there, her personal haven deep in my cranium.
I don’t know if there’s enough time but I’d like to take her to see my mom this weekend.
It’s been a while since they have visited one another and my mom adores the hell out of her.
I think she asks about her more than she asks about me when she calls to check in.
Rude as hell, especially when I’m the apple of her eye. I’m kidding.
The first time I brought her home, my mom had plates of food piled in front of her, urging her to eat as if she were a stray picked off the road.
My abuela is the same way when I visit but between you and me, my mom is this way with Nadia because I opened my mouth one night.
There was a time in her childhood when she went without food because her piece of shit father told her it was to learn to cook or starve.
My girl went without food altogether or would choke down the meals she fucked up for weeks, just to have something in her belly.
She started with simple things like sandwiches and canned soup but when the supplies ran out, she was left with basic ingredients; throwing away more than what was consumable.
After that, I never let her go without. I even made it a point to take extra food with me in school: tamales, sopes, pozole, or some descada and tortillas.
When she began to put on weight, I eased off; pleased to see that something was working while she was still teaching herself.
She had to meal plan to stretch what she made—low and behold her father would consume what she created—but at least she isn’t underweight anymore.
Don’t get me wrong, I was happy with how she looked before too. She’s fed now; keeping her belly full is vastly more important than worrying about something as trivial as weight. She could gain an extra hundred and I’d still be in love with her.
My uncle, however, is a fucking pig. He is weary of Nadia, and says she is bad news.
He never goes into specifics but I’ve seen the way he scowls at her despite her manners and respect towards him as an adult and a police officer.
The fucker and I have nearly come to blows more than a handful of times because of the way he speaks of her and his glaring lack of respect.
Mentioning her father and her mom, how he’s abusive, she’s a whore, and the way it will turn out the same.
I beg to differ, if she becomes like either of them, I know deep in my heart she will see it before it’s too late and will change.
Us though? I stuck to her like glue after that fight.
There was something about her that held me captive and wouldn’t let up.
I found myself curiously sneaking glimpses of her in the hallway as she moved between her friends.
Always the quieter one of the four, hands and arms wrapped securely around her books as she held them to her chest, and her backpack hanging on one shoulder stuffed full of whatever secrets she kept in there.
Her grey eyes would snap from one face to the next as fellow students filed past her, pretending she was invisible, but as much as she might have been to them, she was increasingly becoming the center of my whole world.
By the time I finally grew a pair and asked her out to a football game I had already memorized her routine, making me a certifiable weirdo.
That night, she sat in the front row of the stands, trying to keep up with what was happening on the field and faking her interest. I can still see her, in my mind's eye, following the ball and jumping up to cheer for our team at the wrong times.
Poor girl was so embarrassed but I caught her attention and it boosted my confidence.
She made me play better, play harder, run faster, all while keeping those beautiful silver eyes focused on me.
Then came the last game of the season. It was out third or fourth down when I finally said to hell with my inhibitions and made my move.
Half time hit and I chose to join her instead of my team in the locker room.
Wrapped up in a jacket, black beanie that blended with her dark hair, comfortable and warm, she leaned over the rail and smiled at me.
She was so fucking stunning and I was already wrapped around each of her fingers.
I shoved the toe of my cleats into the fence under the bleachers and pulled myself up.
My gloved hands gripped the bar tight when she leaned further over, the tips of her toes barely keeping her grounded when I crushed my lips to hers.