Redline (2 page)

When I came back in January, I started looking for a car. You would think that as the only child of an oil baron, I'd have gotten a free ride. That my father would have just bought me a car with the wads of money he's got lying around. But there's no sugar coming from this daddy. He grew up in a regular family. He says hard work got him to where he is now. Calls himself a self-made man. And no self-made man is going to buy his kid a car if he knows that she can do it herself. He's all about self-reliance. He “sees the value” in making me work for what I want. Or something like that.

Obviously, I don't see quite as much value in it. But arguing with my dad over money is like bashing your head against a brick wall. It doesn't get you anywhere, and at the end of it, all you're left with is a headache.

I'd been saving for two years for my car, working at the tutoring agency. I help kids with 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 Ade and my mom were freaking out as I bounced the tramcar around, trying to see how much I could make it move as we rode over Chino Canyon. How my mom jumped out as soon as we slowed down, turning around to catch a photo of Ade and me as we crawled over each other to get out.

I turn my eyes away. The pleasure of my dream dissolves.

Shitty. I thought it might have been a good day.

“Small coffee, please,” I say. I push a handful of change across the counter toward the tattooed, pierced barista.

Coffee dude nods and counts the coins, his dreadlocks swinging in time to the music drifting through the speakers above us. I count nine earrings jammed into a single hole in his ear. I wonder if that hurts.

“Medium roast?”

“Dark,” I say. “Thanks.”

“Nah. Go medium,” says a familiar voice. I turn to see Dmitri grinning at me. He shrugs. “The lighter the roast, the more caffeine.” His eyes are even darker than I remembered. And they're fixed on mine. Intently. I think of my dream from this morning. Suddenly I feel hot.

My tummy does a little rollercoaster thing under his gaze. I hope he can't read minds.

But then I realize if he could, we sure as hell wouldn't be standing here making conversation about coffee.

The barista pauses, watching me with one eyebrow cocked. I realize he's waiting to see whether I'm going to change my mind about my coffee.

“Dark is fine,” I say. He nods again and drops my money into the change drawer. I flip a quarter into the mug where they collect tips. I turn back to Dmitri.

“Actually, I usual ly drink Americanos,” I say. “And you? Triple-shot espressos?”

He laughs. The sound is warm, and it travels through my body, making my fingertips tingle. I can't help but look at his mouth, which was a key part of my dream.

“No triple-shot espressos for me,” he says. “Not after dinner anyway. Keeps me up.”

My mind grabs on to his last words, making them into something he probably didn't intend. I suspect there are things besides coffee that would keep him up. I smile a little.

“What?” he says, watching me.

My smile vanishes, and I blink. “Uh, nothing,” I stumble. “It's just…” I make a show of looking at the clock behind the bar. “It's just that it's only, like, nine o'clock. On a Friday night. Are you going to bed soon?” Jesus, I'm not having much luck steering this conversation out of the innuendo zone.

“Not for a while,” he says. “Plenty of night left.” He smiles again. My stomach goes all funny. I'm not sure I should give it coffee right now.

“But you can't drink coffee,” I say.

“Well, lives depend on me. I can't be tired when I show up to work on Saturday morning.”

I raise my eyebrows. “Lives depend on you? What are you, a firefighter or something?”

He laughs again. “No. I'm a lifeguard. At Irvine. Friday nights and weekend mornings.” He nods his head in the direction of the rec center. I'm surprised I haven't seen him there before. I take my little cousins swimming there sometimes. Then again, it's not like I have much time to look around me when I'm trying to keep an eye on two preschoolers.

It takes me a second to realize I've fixated on his lips again. He must think I'm crazy. Or a really bad conversationalist. “Cool,” I say, pulling my eyes up to meet his. “Yeah, Irvine's, like, just up the road.”

Good one, Jenessa. You're a small-talk superstar.

I try again. “I work next door. At Campbell Learning Centre. I tutor kids in math.”

“So, this is your after-work party joint?” he asks, motioning around us.

“The only one.”

“And what else do you do for kicks, besides order dark-roast coffee when you'd really rather have an Americano?” His words are teasing, but there's a smile in his eyes.

Without warning, that last day of snowboarding wells up in my mind. What do I do for kicks? My throat tightens and I bite my lip. I feel tears welling up. What the hell?

I swallow down on them, hard. I turn away, picking up the hot cup of coffee that Dreads has set down on the counter for me.

“Um,” I say. I step to the side so Dmitri can place his order. I take a deep breath and shove the sudden sadness away.

Dmitri meets the barista's eyes with a smile as he takes his change. He smiles a lot. And it's so friendly. “Thanks,” he says to the guy. He turns to me again. “So? In your free time, you…?”

“In my free time?” I repeat. “I, uh, I…I drive,” I stammer. Wow, that sounds lame. I drive?

Dmitri studies me. “You drive.” Then he nods. “That makes sense,” he says. “You
did
buy a flashy yellow Mustang from me not too long ago.” The corners of his mouth turn up.

I find myself staring at him again. What's going on, Jenessa? Get a grip, girl. He picks up his coffee and takes a step toward me. Like a frightened rabbit, I dart backward toward the little stand that holds the sugar and napkins. I'm not ready for this. Not prepared to have someone actually look me in the eye and treat me like a human being instead of a murderer.

But then I remember.

Dmitri's only being friendly because he doesn't know. As soon as he finds out what I did to Adrienne, the party's over.

He follows me to the coffee counter and helps himself to a lid. He presses it down around the lip of his cup, watching me. I realize he's waiting for me to say something.

“Yeah, the flashy yellow Mustang,” I stammer. “It's parked right outside.” I gesture toward the door, as if he might need help locating the parking lot.

“I know. I saw it when I was driving by,” he says. “Figured I'd come in and see if you were here.”

I nod like this makes sense. But I can't say anything. Why does he want to see me? I look for a way to close out, to finish the conversation. It's nice enough to think about Dmitri. Maybe even dream a bit about him. But I don't want to spend any time with him. I can't afford to care.

I feel myself tightening up. The walls of the coffee shop start to press in. I fight the panic that rises in my chest.

Suddenly a blast of cool air hits my face. I can breathe again. Dmitri's holding the door open for me, a smile on his lips.

“Come on,” he says. “I'll show you
my
car.”

Chapter Four

A car. Okay, a car. I can handle that. It gets me out of the coffee shop. I'll go see his car. I like cars.

And then I'm calling it a night. Dmitri can go his way, and I can go mine. This will be our last meeting. My life doesn't need any more complications, thanks.

We step out into the quiet parking lot. All my dark thoughts vanish when I lay eyes on his machine. It's black, with a shiny vent-like thing mounted on the hood. White racing stripes travel the length of the car, from the hood to the tail. Every inch of chrome sparkles in the light thrown down by the streetlights. It takes my breath away.

Dmitri watches as I walk around it wordlessly, taking it all in. Flawless paint, tinted windows. Shiny chrome dual exhaust. This bugger must be
loud.

When I've completed my circle, he grins. “You like it?”

I glance at him, then back at the car. “I do like it,” I say. “What is it?” I have to ask. The model name isn't on the back. And somehow, with Dmitri, asking a stupid question seems okay.

“It's a '69 Camaro. I bought it off a guy last year and fixed it up. I've added some stuff, like the air intake,” he says, nodding at the thing on the hood.

“How fast?” I ask. To me, that's all that matters.

“Five hundred horses,” he says. “Top end?” He shrugs. “I don't know. I've never taken it all the way up.”

Five hundred horsepower? Holy shit. My car 's a Tonka truck in comparison.

I point at the intake. “How do you see around that? Is it even legal?”

Dmitri shrugs and smiles a little.

“What do you do when you get pulled over?” I ask.

“Pay the fine,” he says. “I'm not a jerk about it. It's only happened once. This isn't my regular car,” he adds. “Usually I walk or skate. Sometimes I take my dad's Volvo. I don't drive this thing much unless I'm out at the track.”