Page 48 of Furious

I shove a few things into my school backpack. A jumble of toiletries scooped from my bathroom counter. A fistful of T-shirts and sports bras and socks. A pair of pajamas. My wallet. My postcard collection. I hover over the retainer case on my nightstand, throwing it in at the last moment; I am who I am.

It’s easy enough to sneak out the sliding door in the kitchen, back to the shed where the R1 waits. I already have the keys, and among Max’s bagged-up gear in the corner where I expected to, I uncover a pair of helmets—hers and the spare she kept for me—along with her hard-shell motorcycle backpack. My school bag squeezes inside it with the spare helmet. I put on my sister’s helmet and backpack, and then comes the first tricky part: walking the R1 down to the street, where I have a chance of starting it and taking off without my parents hearing. From the left side of the bike, I pull the clutch in and use a foot to put it in first, then lift the lever with my toe to put it in neutral. I push it forward with a hand on each bar, leaning it slightly toward me so if it falls, it doesn’t fall away. It’s tougher to muscle the bike across the grass, but I send a silent prayer of thanks to the Husqvarna for my upper-body strength. Once I’ve steered it around the house—it’s not far to the driveway—I push it all the way down to the street.

Out on Cider Lane, I pull my phone from Max’s jacket pocket, but I pause just a moment before I text Jo, to consider not texting Jo.

I could still put the gear and the R1 back. Go inside. Seethe in my dark bedroom. Wake up to a world where I have no parental trust, no job, no club, and no girlfriend (at least, not practically, because after tonight, Mom and Dad will hardly let Jo into the house while I’m grounded, which might be until school starts).

And absolutely no chance to find my sister and bring her home.

I press Send on the text.

Then, for the first time ever, I straddle the bike and shift it into drive without my sister’s watchful gaze nearby. Panic flares up in me, but I push it down, deciding to be fearless instead.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

JoJo

We stop for gas about an hour after we leave Dell’s Hollow. El pulls off the highway and steers us through a small town whose name I forget immediately. We pass rows of Victorian houses with peeling paint and wide porches and several trailer parks before reaching the edge of town. A streetlight illuminates a two-pump gas station under a broad metal awning and a falling-down motel next door.

I haul myself off the bike as soon as El parks. My back and legs ache from sitting behind her the whole way, holding her waist, but I have zero regrets. The feel of her body in front of me and the smell of her hair has fully wrapped me in a delectable cocoon of full-on crush, hunger, and exhilaration. I take off my helmet and stretch. The sound of cicadas fills my ears, dense as the summer night air. “Nice driving,” I say to El.

“Nice hanging on,” she says, lifting her visor and grinning at me. There’s a wildness to her right now, a recklessness that was clear in how quickly she hit the throttle on the bike as we pulled away from my house. She was still safe enough on the road as we drove—because you can take the honor student out of the volunteer club, but you can’t make her totally rash—though there were definitely some turns where I held on tighter than others.

It’s nearly midnight according to my phone, and there’s no word from Dad yet. Around my neck sits Mom’s necklace, cold and comforting at the same time.

“I’ll get gas,” I offer, pulling my debit card out of my wallet. All my many years of race winnings are in this checking account, and I know El makes almost nothing at Putt by the Pond.

I slip my card into the machine, and El takes off the gas cap and sticks the handle into the bike. As she’s pumping gas, I stretch again and look around.

The gas station would be sketchy if there was anyone in it, but it’s empty. Likewise, no cars drive through the tiny town’s main street, and there’s not even a dog barking. We’re out of the mountains and nearly into Virginia, but my phone says Richmond is still at least two hours away. A huge yawn—the kind that makes my ears pop—splits my face.

El’s looking at me and my yawn snares her, making her do the same. We both laugh through our yawns, as nerves, elation, and the thrill of the unknown yawn back at us.

A light rain has started since we pulled into the gas station and it whispers against the metal overhang above the pumps.

“So, what now?” I ask, looking up at the rain and the dark road in front of us. Suddenly, the thought of my warm bed feels incredibly enticing. The race, kissing El, the fight with my dad, and now this surprise road trip have left me exhausted. I’m not sure I can hang on to the back of El’s bike for another two hours as we drive to Richmond. Not to mention we have no plan for what we’ll do once we get there.

El looks up at the sky. “Can you check the weather? I looked before I left my house, but it didn’t seem too bad—”

Of course she checked the weather before sneaking out and stealing a bike, because El Blum might be a wild card, but she’s a prepared one. It’s a little thing, but one I adore about her.

I swipe to my weather app. “It looks like it’s going to rain for the next three hours, maybe more. And there’s a thunderstorm warning.”

El swears softly. “That’s what I was worried about. I’d hoped we’d avoid it, but I think we’re going to get drenched.” She finishes pumping gas and puts the handle away.

I look over my shoulder, at the small roadside motel next to the gas station. There’s one car in the parking lot, and the neon sign by the office says IT‘LL Do MOTEL.

You’ve got to be kidding me.

As if hearing my skeptical thoughts about the “It’ll Do,” a crack of thunder splits the night and the rain goes from a whisper to a roar.

“Well, we can’t stay under this metal awning for the next three hours,” I say. “Unless we want to get hit by lightning. And I don’t think we should drive in this storm.”

“Are you seriously considering the It’ll Do Motel?” El says, looking around like a better plan will materialize in the night.

“How bad can it be?” I ask. “It’s probably like the motel in Schitt’s Creek.”

El darts another nervous glance my way. “This place makes that motel look like it’s four stars at least.”