Page 13 of Until The Lights Go Out

My father studied me for a moment, then nodded once.

“Good.”

I had just stepped off the podium, ready to walk through a back room and back to where my father sat from the benches watching the race. He hadn’t bothered to come to the podium. I didn’t win, so what was the point? I placed second again, which wasn’t bad, all things considered. Just a failure in my father’s eyes.

“Hey! You killed that race! Congrats!” a bright voice called out. I turned, seeing the same girl from earlier bounding toward me, braid bouncing behind her. I glanced left. Then right.

No one else was nearby.

“You mean me?” I asked cautiously.

“Yeah, you!” she said brightly.

“Uh…thanks?”

“No, really,” she continued, undeterred. “That turn always gets me. It’s so hard not to oversteer there.”

I started walking again, picking up my pace.

I wasn’t supposed to talk to her. My father had been pretty clear about that.

But she had just…appeared. Surely, I couldn’t get in trouble for that.

“Yeah,” I said, trying to sound polite while also attempting to escape the conversation.

I stole a sideways glance at her.

She was pretty, I guess.

Her bright red hair had been braided tightly down her back for the race, practical enough to tuck under a helmet. She fiddled with the braid as she walked beside me, tugging at the ribbon nervously. That small act surprised me. On the track, she looked completely fearless. I had barely beaten her today—and only because she locked up on the final lap and dropped a few positions.

If I were her, I’d be furious.

I wouldn’t want to talk to anyone.

Especially not the kid who just took second place and beat her.

But she didn’t seem upset at all. If anything, she seemed…excited.

“Do you ever feel totally constricted in these suits?” she continued, tugging at the collar of her racing suit. “Like you’re wrapped in bubble wrap all the way up to your neck? I hate it.”

I blinked.

She didn’t stop talking.

“Sometimes, when I’m driving, I forget where I even am. Like I totally zone out of the world. It’s kind of the coolest feeling ever. Do you ever do that?”

I opened my mouth to answer, but she kept going, rambling on and on as we walked. When she finally paused to breathe, I stopped walking and turned toward her. She stopped too, planting her hands on her hips and looking at me expectantly.

“Sorry,” I said slowly. “What’s your name?”

She gasped dramatically.

“Oh! Sorry! I’m Maisey Andrews.” She stuck out her hand. Her skin was pale—almost porcelain—with bright bubblegum pink nail polish and a stack of braided friendship bracelets around her wrist.

I stared at her hand. What was I supposed to do with that?

She sighed loudly, then rolled her eyes and grabbed my hand herself, shaking it twice.