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ever had a chance to really look at a Corvette up close before.
    I ask, “What year?”
    Don says, “It’s a 1976.”
    1970s Stingrays have that long, sleek Coke bottle shape—high curved fenders over the wheels, low to the ground. Don’s has what looks like a custom paint job, white on top and a teal blue-green all along the lower section.
    Almost against my will, I walk over to where Don wipes a soft cloth over the shiny hood. The closer I get, the prettier the car is. The white upper body is metallic, kind of cream colored with little flecks of silver in it. The windows are tinted dark, smoky gray, almost black. The tires are big, wider than the tires on normal cars, and there are bright chrome hubs.
    I blurt out, “Man …” but then shut up, managing not to suck up too much.
    I mean, I could care less whether Don likes me or not, in fact I hope he doesn’t —I’m just having this weird reaction to the car.
    He smiles. Don moved into our neighborhood about a year ago, bought the Andersons’ house on the east side of Northridge Road—the view side. It’s a large, family-type home, but he lives there alone and keeps to himself. I had spoken to Don maybe two or three minutes in the whole year he’s lived three houses away from ours, right up to the day he came to pick up Mom for their date. Truthfully, I wouldn’t say more than “hi” right now if it weren’t for the Corvette.
    But the car is so beautiful, so sleek and powerful looking that it seems to call me over to it. All those times my dad put down cool cars, I’d never thought much about it—until now. Realizing I’m being kind of rude, I hesitate before staring into the windows, which are tinted too dark for me to see inside anyway—rude or not, I can’t stop myself. I’ve gotta see more.
    Don says, “Open the door if you want to take a look.”
    I don’t even answer; I just swing the heavy door open. The interior is outlaw black.
    â€œCool,” I say softly, talking to myself.
    Don laughs. “Yeah, she’s my baby.”
    â€œIs it as fast as it looks?”
    Don says, “She was built back when there were more stringent emission controls, so she’s no monster. But compared to everything else built in ’76, she could hold her own. Plus I’m doing some tweaking here and there, juicing her up. So, yeah, she’s plenty fast.”
    â€œYeah,” I say, not really understanding what he’s talking about.
    â€œYou wanna go for a spin?” he asks.
    Like I mentioned before, I’ve been pretty much out of it since my dad died. What’s Don thinking? That he can win me over just by taking me for a ride?
    I look at the car again and can’t stop myself from asking, “Really?” I feel weird.
    Don smiles again. “Every guy in the world who buys a ’Vette is dying to show her off.”
    I ask, “Where?”
    â€œJust a quick run up onto the prairie. I’ll show you what she can do.”
    My dad would have disapproved, would have warned me against taking such a chance. Dad never took a chance in his life, ever ! Then again, what good did that do him?
    Before I know I’m going to say it, I hear words flying out of my mouth, “Sure, let’s go.”
    I glance at his license plate:

    I wonder, Who the hell is Nos?
    I shouldn’t be doing this, I think as I climb into the Corvette and buckle up. If Don Lugar thinks he can buy me off this easy, he’s dumber than he looks.
    But what the hell.

TWO
    He fires the engine, and a soft rumble, deep and powerful, vibrates through my whole body. I’ve never heard or felt anything like it before.
    We back out of the driveway.
    As we move forward, it’s like we’re bumping over the surface. This car is nothing like my mom’s Honda or any of the other newer rigs in which I’ve ever ridden. Riding in the Stingray is