Page 9 of Furious
El drums her fingers on Grandma Jolene’s desk. “This is different. Jolene liked Max—she helped her out a lot when Max came back to Dell’s Hollow. They were closer than just a boss and employee.”
I close the filing cabinet drawer. “There’s nothing in here and the rest of the drawers are locked. Sorry.” And I really am. I would’ve loved to see a smile on El’s face as I handed her a folder with her sister’s contact info.
El lets out a sigh. “It’s fine. I was just … hoping. Well, maybe you’ve seen a racing jacket around? I have a picture of Max wearing it.” She pulls up a picture on her phone of a girl with hair a shade lighter than her own and thick black eyebrows.
“That’s Max?” I ask, as El hands me her phone.
El nods.
Max is pretty, in an aggressive way. She stands with her hands on her hips in front of a bike. Her motorcycle jacket immediately brings visions of Letty from Fast & Furious to mind.
“I wish I’d seen that jacket lying around,” I admit. “I’d probably be wearing it now if I had, summer heat be damned.” My eyes linger on the asymmetrical zipper, the curved stitching, and the hood at the back. It’s the perfect badass don’t-mess-with-me jacket and far cooler than my green coveralls.
“Don’t,” says El, her voice sharp.
Because I’m an ass when I’m nervous, I laugh at her super-serious tone. “Relax. I promise I’m not going to steal your sister’s jacket. I’ve not even seen it. Do you want to stick around and ask Grandma Jolene about it?”
El glances at the clock above Jolene’s desk. “I can’t. I’m on my way to work. But maybe you could ask her for me? I can stop back by the shop tomorrow. Or I’ll be at Putt by the Pond till my shift ends at seven, if you find out anything.”
“I love that place. Maybe I’ll stop by for racing sometime.” I’ve been avoiding it since we moved back because Putt was where Mom and I used to race karts when I was a kid, but maybe it’s time. Time to see if I can still race a car. Or at least pretend I’m still on the right track. Or at least time to forget myself and my troubles in the roar of an engine and the smell of rubber on the road. Even if it’s just hokey go-karts at a local track.
“I never know where I’ll be working,” El says. “Maybe I’ll see you there.”
“Maybe you will. And don’t worry; I’ll ask Grandma Jolene about Max.”
El nods, then holds out her hand for her phone. Which I’m still holding after looking at Max’s picture. Like the world’s biggest dork.
“Right, sorry. Here.” I start to hand it back, but then I pause. “Want me to put my number in there? Just in case we don’t bump into each other again?”
El slides a quick glance my way and our eyes meet for a moment. “I never take a girl’s number until at least a first date.”
I blush redder than Jolene’s heels at that. At least I know El’s into girls, but that doesn’t mean she’s into me. Quickly, I shove the phone toward her. “Right, of course. Sorry.”
“I’m teasing,” she says. “But that’s okay. I know where to find you. And thanks for helping me look for Max.”
Still embarrassed by nearly giving her my number, I blurt out the first thing that comes to mind, which is, of course, a Fast & Furious quote because I’m still thinking of motorcycle jackets and pretty girls and feeling generally overwhelmed by the smell of coconut and motor oil. “No worries. Where you ride, I ride.”
El’s eyes widen at my words. “Furious 7, nice. Love a girl who can quote Letty Ortiz.”
“You have no idea,” I say, trying for a laugh and ending up with a small, weird cough. “Furious superfan here.”
“I bet I could beat you at F&F trivia.” A grin pulls at the sides of El’s mouth.
“Not a chance. I’m positive I could beat you at that and at go-karts.”
“Oh, that’s a bet I’ll take.”
El walks away with a wave, and once she’s gone, I collapse into Grandma Jolene’s office chair, my heart going faster than Dom Toretto’s signature 1970 black Charger.
CHAPTER FOUR
El
I know what they say about small towns and the kids who grow up in them. We’re supposed to feel trapped, like a goldfish in a glass bowl, just swimming tight little circles in our own crap till we bust out or die trying. But there’s a lot I’ve loved about growing up in Dell’s Hollow. Like sure, we’ve got one hair salon in town; Shelly Fry runs it out of the converted utility room in her mother-in-law’s house twice a week, and if you dared to drive into Deerfield and cheat on her with CostClippers, Shelly would hear about it before you made it back home. And okay, I’ve eaten everything on the menus of both of our town diners, neither of which have changed since before I was eating solid foods. There are no strange and unexplored corners, no uncharted alleyways to lead you someplace you’ve never been.
But that just means that every place is a memory.
Even Putt by the Pond, where Mom and Dad would take us to celebrate—a perfect test score for me, a track win for Max, an exciting Panthers victory, whatever. Aside from the Cineplex, and unless you count the Walmart parking lot where the “troubled” kids (never me) hang out after dark, it’s pretty much the place to be in Dell’s Hollow. It has a mini golf course, batting cages, a go-kart track, an arcade, and thirty-two flavors of sno-cone, all of which I’ve sampled. My paychecks are minimum wage–sized, so my car fund could barely fill a gas tank at the moment. Still, summer jobs demonstrate responsibility—to colleges and to parents. Plus I get free tokens to use every week, so I haven’t paid for a round of the Fast & Furious: SuperCars arcade game once this summer.
