‘Ready,’ Landon’s friend calls over the noise.
With my tyres already warm, I take the revs to the limit; the other drivers do the same. The sound of engines echoes all around.
‘Set.’
My nerves are screaming at me louder than the revs can reach. When do I pull the handbrake? Is it before or during the corner? Do I take the inside or outside edge of the race line?Fuck.I don’t know a thing about drifting. I take a steady breath. Corners may not be my strong suit, but Icansmoke them all on the straights.
What if you’re not fast enough?
I don’t entertain the question. I can’t. The only thing I can do now is try.
No. Win.
Just follow the damn blue line.
‘Go!’
I’m quick off the line and the Mustang surges forward, taking the lead. I upshift to second, then third, all whileLandon remains behind me. His headlights are looking pretty in my rear-view mirror.
When I look back to the blue track line, I turn the wheel in a hard right for the corner that’s coming up. I rip the handbrake to take the tight turn, but the back fishtails out and I hit the pillar.
My body jostles in the seat from the impact. ‘Shit!’
My hands fumble, releasing the handbrake and changing down to first gear. To my right, Landon’s headlights are coming at me fast. Right when I think he’s going to smash into me, he corners with precision, leaving black tyre marks on the concrete through a haze of white smoke.
The Civic flies around the corner, and I hate how beautiful it looks. It’s like a slinky coming down stairs; I can’t help but watch. As his window lines up with mine, it’s as if time slows, right before his tail-lights come into view and he takes off up the ramp.
I’m not giving up.
I chase after him, slipping into second place as the Silvia gains speed behind me. But I’m faster. I watch Landon take the next corner, studying when his brake lights come on. The red halogens flash right as his tyres turn to take the corner. That’s where I brake too.
The handbrake failed on the last corner. I have to clutch kick.
I turn my wheel, starting the corner, keeping my foot down on the throttle for speed. Then I give the clutch a love tap. The rear tyres break traction and the ass of the Mustang glides beautifully. A hypnotic squeal fills my ears as the rubber kisses the polished cement in a perfect line. I keep the wheel left, controlling the angle of the drift. I’m almostout of the turn when the Silvia smacks into me, sending me off the race line.
I’m thrown in my seat when the entire back panel collides with another pillar. This isn’t high-class motorsports. There are no penalties, no rules. Dirty drivers are everywhere in the street scene. On this track, you have to fight your own battles, and you have to fight hard.
Hands shaking, I shift back to first, but my tyres are stuck in a spin. The back panel is lodged in the pillar.
Please.
I give it more, pressing down on the accelerator.
Please, please, please …
The Mustang revs … and it finally comes free.
Thank god.
The blue Silvia edges in front of me and the red Evo is approaching. I expect the Evo to roar past, but then the driver stops beside me.
The window rolls down slightly. I double-take when I recognise the face I see every morning at the garage. ‘Renny?’
I’m about to roll down my own window and ask him what he’s doing here. My fingers wrap around the window crank just as he lifts a finger and presses it to his lips. His eyes widen in a clear warning as he shakes his head and mouths the words, ‘Go home.’
What?
I cock my head, unsure why he’s here and why I have to pretend I didn’t see him. There’s a look on his face I can’t place, like worry mixed with something more. Sympathy? Sadness? Whatever it is, it’s a plea so strong that I can taste it, and it’s so out of character for him. When he rolls up his window, I’m met with my confused reflection in the black tint before he takes off, claiming third place.
