Spinning Out

Chapter 2

ELIJAH

Broken. Fucking great. I thought maybe I had gotten lucky with just a sprain, but the X-ray clearly showed a hairline fracture of my wrist. My dad is going to be pissed that I won't be able to help out as much with the cars. The soft cast will serve as a splint until I can meet with the orthopedic doctor and then hopefully he can put me in something a little more practical for wrenching on motors. We have two more Chevys to turn over to make room for the Dodge he wants to fix up before the next meet. This injury has really been slowing down our progress.

I toss the prescription of pain meds onto the passenger seat of my mustang. I've been swallowing handfuls of Motrin in an attempt to tamp down the pain for days. Last night, however, I realized using the impact wrench with this injury was torture and something I couldn't push myself through. The vibration of the tool in my hand shot pain straight up my arm like a hot knife.

My fingers grip the steering wheel as I try to push the sight of the girl in the elevator from my head. Even with the stitches, she was still the hottest girl I've seen. If we weren't in the hospital lobby I would have tried to get her Snap. I guess somethings aren't meant to be.

I turn the keys and listen as the engine fires up. Perfection. This car is my baby and even with all the time I spend helping my dad fix up cars and sell them for some of the biggest names in street racing, I still find time to work on this one every chance I get.

My hands and the ER doctors were so different. I noticed the way his eyes took in the permanent black around and under my nails. No matter how hard I scrub, engine grime is tough to get off and since I'm just going to shove my hands back under the hood again, it doesn't seem like a good use of my time to try and make it disappear each night. I'm proud of the work I do and don't give any fucks about what my hands look like. I bet that MD with all the initials behind his name thinks he's better than me. But who would he call if his Mercedes broke down? I would wager my entire savings he can't even change a tire.

I check my phone for messages and find none. I'm fucking pissed that Bryant hasn't returned my texts in two days. I know he needed a little time away, but cutting off friends isn't going to solve anything. If he doesn't check in soon, I'll have to go looking for him.

There's already someone waiting for my spot. Man, this parking lot is a nightmare. As I drive down the large lane, headed for one of two exits, I scan the cars looking for which might be the girl's. I know it's crazy. There's no way to know, but I love cars and trying to match a car to a person is a game I've played since I was young. If I had to guess, she either drives the small Jetta, or the white jeep. Of course, there are many more options, but I'll never be able to confirm it anyway. This isn't a hospital close to my house, it's just one I was told had a quick ER and I needed to be back home to help my dad and to finish my Government final online before the 12pm deadline.

My phone GPS tells me which way to turn as I head back to the freeway. I almost feel guilty cutting down residential streets this early, waking up the neighborhood with the roar of my engine. Being that it's a Friday, the traffic should be light, but I send my dad a text that I'm on my way home anyway so that he can get started without me. I won't mention the Gov final, but it shouldn't take very long. It's my final class before I officially graduate and as soon as I click submit, I'm free. High school will be behind me and I'll be able to focus on the family business full-time.

ME: On my way home. Be there in 15

DAD: Hurry. I need this tranny back in

ME: Pinning it

DAD: Your mom would kill me. Just get home safe.

I tap his text and give it a thumbs up as I wait at a red light, then I toss my phone into the cup holder and watch the traffic signal as if it's the start of a race. I think of the way I want to accelerate and take the on-ramp like a turn on the track. I know my car like the back of my hand and run through the gears at the light pretending I'm on the straight-away. If laws did not apply to me, I'd be home in five minutes. However, this isn't the world I live in.

The light switches to green and I press down the gas petal, gently and controlled. BORING. I use my blinker to switch lanes and for all intents and purposes I'm a good human and fellow citizen. But inside—inside there's a need to stomp the petal. Inside, there's a boy that grew up on the racing track with his father, then on the side lines of some of the most famous streets in LA, wrenching on cars late at night. My dad his built a reputation for us, the father-son team that can fix anything, and I'm grateful for that.

I want so badly to make him proud. Is he? Would he still want me working under the hood with him if he knew what I got up to on the weekends? His generation is so different than mine. I don't know if he'd ever really understand me even if I told him everything.

The chime of a text blasts in my car above the music. I won't chance looking at it while I'm driving, but it makes my pulse pick up. I'm hoping it's Bryant. I never thought I'd have to worry about the kid I grew up with drinking himself to death, but here we are. Usually, I can see his car parked across the street at night and it gives me peace knowing he's home safe and unable to be obliterated while staying with his parents. However, he dipped out of town to his grandparent's house and is playing a terribly anxiety proving game of hide-and-seek I did not agree to be a part of.

Once safely in my driveway, I hold the phone up and let my face unlock the screen.

BRYANT: I'm alive

ME: When are you coming home?

I watch as the little dots dance across our thread, waiting for his answer. It's either the longest paragraph ever, or he is thinking very hard about his response. After a minute, the dots disappear and my question goes unanswered.

"FUCK!" I shout into my empty car.

I look over my shoulder at his childhood home. I don't know if he and I are going to get through this. I don't want years of friendship to slip down the drain because he is choosing to drink himself away. Every memory, every moment we've shared seems to get further and further from us as he spends his time washing down regrets and fears with vodka and beer. He's eighteen, but drinks like a forty-year-old alcoholic.

I wipe my good hand down my face and bring up his mother's contact in my phone. I could tell her. I could text her and let her know that her son's drinking has gotten out of control—but I won't. It keeps me up at night, this thin line I walk between being a good friend that holds his secrets, and getting him some help by finally calling him out. In the end, I slide my phone into my pocket and promise myself that I'll tell his parents if it gets bad enough, for now it's something we can handle.

I know I'm lying, but I'm just a kid in an adult's world. These are fucking problems I can't fix with a wrench and a YouTube tutorial.