No Right Turn Read Free Page B

like being strapped onto the back of an animal, maybe an oversized cheetah. It feels like the car has a mind of its own. It’s taking us for a ride, not the other way around.
    We reach the stop sign at the end of our street.
    â€œYou ready?” Don asks.
    I’m not sure what he means, but I answer, “Sure.”
    Don cranks it through the turn, and then he punches it.
    The jolt is unlike any rush I’ve ever felt before. The car shoots forward, and the back of my head slams against the tall bucket seat. A roar replaces the soft animal rumble.
    I glance at the speedometer and notice that it isn’t working, but in only a few seconds we’re flying. I grab the black vinyl handle on the door. A hundred yards ahead is a sharp curve, a ninety-degree turn to the left where Cedar Road turns into Strong Road. As we get closer to it, I squeeze the door grip even harder.
    Don barely eases off the gas as the ’Vette screams into the turn.
    Everything moves incredibly fast. In half a second we’re through the curve and pounding along the straight stretch ahead of us.
    I start to ease my hold on the door grip when Don guns it again. In a few seconds we’re going really fast. The rush is incredible: the rumble of the engine, the deep vibration of the car, the way that every bump and dip in the road registers through my feet and legs and ass.
    Trying not to sound too scared, I say, “We must be going a hundred.”
    Don glances down at the tachometer on the dashboard and says, “Oops … more like a hundred and ten.”
    He immediately backs off the gas and smiles over at me. “Sorry about that.... She kinda likes to go.”
    I say, “No, this is great.”
    As the ’Vette slows down, he asks, “Is she fast enough for you?”
    I laugh and answer sarcastically, “I guess.”
    Don laughs too. “You like it?”
    I don’t hesitate. “I love it.” Then I ask, “Is your speedometer broken?”
    Don says, “Yeah, I’m waiting on a part for it, a new head. But you can tell your speed by the tach. Every line mark on the tach is a hundred rpms, which equals five miles per hour … a thousand rpms is fifty miles per hour, fifteen hundred rpms is seventy-five miles per hour, and so on.”
    â€œAnd we were going a hundred and ten?”
    â€œYep, pretty close to that.”
    Unable to stop myself, I ask, “Did you drive like this when my mom was with you?”
    Don laughs out loud. “Shit no!”
    I laugh too.
    We cruise on for a ways at a more sane speed, not even talking. Although only five miles north of Spokane, the prairie is mostly fields and pastures and old farmhouses, horses, a few cows. It feels like we’ve gone backward in time. I wonder if my dad, who grew up a few miles from this same neighborhood on Spokane’s north side, ever flew down Strong Road at 110 mph. I can’t imagine it.
    Don suddenly asks, “You wanna drive her?”
    I feel a jolt of adrenaline. “Me? Drive? I’ve never driven a car like this.”
    Don, I think teasing me, says, “No kidding? Well, there’s always a first time. You drive your mom’s Honda, right?”
    â€œYeah,” I answer, not mentioning that Mom’s Honda has nothing to do with this Stingray—they’re not just different machines from different times, they’re in different universes.
    A few seconds later Don pulls over to the side of the road, onto the dirt parking strip. There are no other cars in sight.
    A rush of crummy thoughts races through my head again. Why would this guy let me drive his cool car? What’s he want from me? These thoughts aren’t in my dad’s voice, but they might as well be. Does Don think that he’s going to take my dad’s place? The last thing I need is another dad—the last thing I need is to go through something like that again....
    I try to push these thoughts away