Runaway “Their Moment in Time” (17 page)

“What?” She looked at him incredulously. “Why in the hell would we do that?”

“I don’t know,” he said. “I think you’d do anything to have an advantage.”

“Right back at you.” She glared at him.

“That, and only an idiot would assume a picture would somehow be advantageous,” I heard Stephen quietly say.

“What’d you say, pinhead?” Bret now looked at Stephen.

“Nothing.” His face was complacent as he went on, “Simply musing on your inferiorities and my giftedness.”

I knew Stephen well enough to know he would never let Bret live that down.

Bret stepped quickly toward Stephen.

Runaway quickly intervened and put herself between Bret and Stephen.

“Besides, authenticity is the least of your concerns,” she snapped at Bret. “If I were you, I would just worry about getting your picture up there in the first place.”

Bret stared hard at Runaway and said, through clenched teeth, “What else?”

“We race on Fridays.” She now looked at him directly, showing no emotion. “No cheating, no pranks, no wimping out. This is purely for the win, to see whose car is better. We draw names to see who we race. Mr. Thompson—Brandon’s dad—will see to it.”

“Got it.” Bret looked at all of us like he wanted to leave. “We’ll be at The Oasis… what time?”

“Eleven o’clock—we have to wait for Grant,” Runaway said flatly.

Bret nodded. “We’ll be there.”

Chapter Ten

The second half of the game wasn’t any less of a struggle than the first half. Grant was clearly exhausted. Every time we scored, Bonita answered it with either a touchdown or a field goal. We held our breath as we watched Grant hold the line on Glendora’s defense, stopping Bonita from gaining a final touchdown.

In the last few minutes of the game, Bonita was awarded a first and goal on the nine-yard line. Grant’s line held that position for four more plays. Even the attempted field goal was blocked. Finally, the game was over and we watched him walk off the field, slowly but happily.

Grant had played his heart and soul out, and the scoreboard reflected that, with Glendora’s thirty-seven to thirty-five victory.

“I don’t know whether that was a good game or not,” I said, as I stretched out the stiffness in my back.

“How do you mean?” Brandon asked.

“Well, I don’t know if it was good because the score was so close all the time, or if it was bad because the score was so close all the time.”

“Huh?” he looked at me, bewildered.

“It was an evenly matched game,” Stephen added. “Both teams equally competitive and, at this point, equally exhausted. I don’t see Bonita walking off the field any faster than us.”

It was true. Both teams walked or limped with exhaustion off the field, and neither was in a hurry to go anywhere.

We quickly left the stands and headed to the main parking lot. It was easy to find our cars and get out before the football buses were even loaded.

We thought it would be best if we waited at school to tell Grant that he had to race, rather than meet him at The Oasis—I was sure he would want to know all about our meeting with Bret at half time.

We quickly drove over to Glendora High School before the buses, and then were left to bide our time until the football team arrived. Standing outside the locker room, we felt the cool of the evening and the approaching nerves of anticipation. Many people streamed past us and offered up idle conversation. Finally, we saw a worn out and exhausted Grant walk through the doorway.

“Man, you look like hell,” I said, upon seeing him.

He looked at me. “Thanks.”

Although just recently showered, his hair was disheveled, his clothes were wrinkled, above his left eye was a cut being held together with butterfly bandages, both eyes were red and swollen, and he walked with a slight limp.

“Right back at you.” He let a small, tired smile cross his lips.

“Aw, man, are you okay?” Runaway asked, concerned.

“Nothing two double cheeseburgers and about twelve hours of sleep won’t cure,” he replied, winking at her.

“Well,” she began sheepishly. “I can’t guarantee you’ll get either one real soon, but I promise you will get them.” Her eyes were bright with excitement.

Grant looked at her with a parental stare.

“What have you gotten me into this time, missy? I know it’s something, because I saw Bret at half time as I was headed to the locker room.”

“Yeah,” I said. “We saw your reaction.”

Grant listened intently as she began to explain about how Bret had shown up with his new club, The Rebels, and how they had “thrown down the gauntlet,” according to Stephen.

“Gauntlet, huh?” Grant’s eyebrows were raised.

“Yes, apparently Bret has some sort of apprehension about the authenticity of pictures…” Stephen began.

“What?” Grant looked really confused.

“It’s nothing,” I said. “Just ignore him—it’s Stephen showing his…”

“Disdain,” Stephen interjected.

“…for Bret,” I finished.

“Moving on…” Runaway said.

I then told Grant about how I had laughed at Derrick’s Corvair, at which Grant himself snickered, and then how they would be waiting for us at The Oasis at 11:00.

“Doesn’t really give me time to eat, now, does it?” He stared at her.

She smiled and said, “It’s only five races, and you can eat after. I’ll even buy.”

“Good—I want fries—and a malt, too.” He let out a heavy sigh. “Well, let’s go and get this over with—I’m starving.”

That was one of the greatest things about Grant—he was so easygoing. For such a big guy, he never did use his size to push others around. He was a real teddy bear. Yet, on the other hand, if he was pushed too far, he could get pretty mad. He was like a volcano—his eruption was severe, but he spent most of the time silent. If Brandon had been in the same situation as Grant, we would have heard about it for sure. His constant whining and bellyaching would have driven us all crazy.

Runaway was obviously happy with how things were turning out—she practically sprinted to her car. We followed her the seven miles to The Oasis, and arrived at about 10:45. Her enthusiasm was clearly visible as she waited for all of us to park.

When we entered the diner, Mr. Thompson was the first one we met. Brandon immediately walked up and told his dad what was going on.

“So, Dad, can you draw the names?”

“Sure, but what happens if the cops stop by?” he asked.

“We can’t really get in trouble for that, can we?” Runaway asked. “I mean, the quarter-mile is off of Foothill, and no one uses it.”

“What if we contacted them first and asked for their professional assistance?” Stephen suggested.

“Well, aren’t you the consummate law-abiding citizen?” I said, as sarcastically as possible. And in return, I received a menacing glare, to which I replied with a wink.

“That might help,” Mr. Thompson replied. “Perhaps they would feel as if we were trying to be as legal as possible. I’ll go and make a call, and when you need me to, I would be happy to draw the names.”

Mr. Thompson walked out of the room toward his office. As soon as he was gone, we began talking about the race. Soon we heard cars driving into the parking lot. Looking through the front glass doors, we saw at least thirty cars trying to get into the parking lot. Although not large, it was able to hold that many cars, plus the crowd.

Within three minutes of the first arrivals, The Rebels pulled into the lot. They didn’t even attempt to park—they left their cars in the middle of the lot, stepped out, and walked to the doors. By this time, people were standing in and near the diner, as they knew what was coming and they were trying to get the best view.

Mr. Thompson had returned from the back office. He gave us a smile and nodded his head toward the front door. We next saw a police car enter the parking lot, stop, and park. Out stepped a gentleman as old as Mr. Thompson, with graying hair and a wrinkle or two visible on his face.

“That’s Dave Tessler—he and I went to high school together.” Mr. Thompson nodded Tessler’s way.

We stared at him as if to say, “So what?”

“Ah, I can tell you don’t trust him.” He looked away and began walking toward the farthest wall. “Look over here.”

Our eyes followed him as he approached the Wall of Fame and pointed to an old, yellowed picture of a kid standing next to a 1940 Mercury convertible. Runaway followed him. I could see she was squinting to read the name.

“David Tessler, The Imperials.” She smiled.

Officer Tessler walked into the diner and straight up to Mr. Thompson, they shook hands and grinned at each other.

“So,” he said. “You all are going to attempt to race on my old quarter-mile, are you?” He looked around at everyone. “Aw, hell, it’s just as well. At least you kids are staying out of trouble, and that’s more than I can say for most.” He looked in Bret’s direction. “Where are the clubs?”

He was very matter-of-fact and assertive. We liked him instantly.

“Here,” Runaway answered, introducing us.

Officer Tessler looked at her with an air of uncertainty. “Nice to meet you,” he said.

“Same here,” she smiled.

By this time, Bret and his club were standing just inside the doors. “Over here,” he said.

Officer Tessler turned around and looked at Bret—it was clear his mood had changed. “Well, Mr. Johnson,” he said flatly. “I am glad to see you have found something worthwhile to do with your free time, rather than indulging in your previous habits.”

Bret glared at him.

“Here are the rules,” he stated dryly, still looking at Bret. “No racing for pink slips. Races will be timed, and not eyeballed.” He winked at Mr. Thompson. “And under no circumstance is anyone allowed to be on the street while the cars are running. You may have someone begin the race, but only with a white towel, as it is better for seeing. There are no lights on the quarter-mile, so you can park your cars along the sides and turn on your headlights for viewing.”

I suddenly wondered if perhaps he might have heard about Runaway and Bret’s previous race.

“If I understand correctly, the winner simply gets the bragging rights. This will be a controlled race, folks—if not, then we will shut the whole thing down and you’ll be spending your evenings eating hamburgers and sleeping.”

Grant groaned from over in the corner booth.

“Do I make myself clear?” He looked around the diner. “There will not be any kind of fighting, at any time.” He stopped when he got to Bret and then he stared squarely at him in the face—Bret simply stared back at him.

“All right, I have a cup here with The Rebels’ names in it.” Tessler turned his attention back to everyone else. “Since the Shakers are the hosting club, they will draw the Rebels’ names. Obviously, whoever’s name is drawn will be that person’s opponent—there are no ‘do-overs.’ Okay, Runaway,” he shot her a look. “You go first.”

She quickly walked up, put her hand in the cup and drew out a name. “Kevin,” she said.

I stole a glance over to where Kevin was standing. He looked as if he thought he had gotten the best end of the deal. I saw him whisper “easy win” in Kurt’s ear.

They didn’t say it out loud, but I could tell that the Rebels were full of a newfound attitude. They seemed to think that because they had entered into our world of old cars, that meant that they were now unbeatable.

Perhaps after Runaway beat Bret that first time, he just figured it was because of the car, and not her driving, when in fact, it was both. It is one thing to own a fast car—however, it is entirely something else to drive it well. Simply flooring the gas pedal is not a sure-fire way to win. This is what the Rebels failed to understand.

And again, without being told, I knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that none of the Rebels had ever practiced, raced or attempted a quarter-mile. It wasn’t as easy as it seemed.