Not that I’m sitting around pining like some sappy-sentimental bitch, though. That’s definitely not my style. I’ve been working after hours on a special project of my own.
The roar of the engine doesn’t purr as it breaks the quiet of the garage. It growls, blub-blub-blubbing as it fights to idle because it was designed for speed.
My 1984 Ford Mustang GT.
Once upon a time, it was probably some douchebag’s version of a gas-guzzling, poor man’s sportscar to get to and from work. But it ended up in the junkyard, where it was waiting patiently for me to rescue it. I found it a couple of months after getting home.
I’ve worked on every bolt and bit of it now, customizing it for myself. That’s not to say it’s pretty. No, it’s not a trailer queen hot rod that never touches actual asphalt. But it doesn’t have to look pretty to go fast.
It’s got some of its original navy paint, but mostly, it’s washed out to gray and rust since I’m saving paint for last. The original seats have been replaced with five-point harness racing seats, and under the hood has been gutted and replaced with a custom Frankenstein of my own design.
And fast is putting it mildly.
My baby is a screaming demon that begs to be let loose even when I put the pedal down, and I’m not shy about pushing it to the metal floorboard. I can hit 120 by the time I hit third gear on a straightaway.
I yank the cover off Foxy and pop the hood, tinkering here and there. But I’m restless, have been all day.
That’s probably why I called Emily earlier and invited her over for a sister night, with ideas about ice cream and popcorn—yes, in the same bowl. Don’t knock it. Vanilla ice cream with the crunch of salty, buttered popcorn on top like sprinkles is divinity in a bowl. But you gotta eat it fast so the popcorn doesn’t freeze. It’s like racing but with food—who’ll win, you or the popcorn? Only the dentist bill will tell.
But she’d had plans with her friends. Oh, she’d invited me along, promising me a great time, and while I love my sister dearly, her friends are all just a bit much. So I opted out of it, even though it was my idea to hang out, with a ‘remembered’ engine checkup I needed to finish.
I look over the shiny chrome monster of an engine concealed by the rusty hood. Yep, engine check done. I already know I’m going out tonight so I might as well get gone.
I slam the hood, giving Foxy a pat. “In rust and Rix, we trust.” It’s my motto, a play on a common saying that probably needs work, not that it matters since it’s only between me and Foxy. A quick opening of the bay door lets me get the car out, and while I should probably turn her off while I lock up, I don’t. I love listening to the rumble, letting it wash over my skin and pull goosebumps to the surface. The neighbors? Not so much. But it’s barely past seven, so I’m not breaking any laws. Yet.
I pull out of the lot, and as soon as my tires touch city road, technically, I’m illegal. Foxy hasn’t seen the right side of an inspection in this century. We won’t be confessing to the legalities of what’s under the hood, either. Nothing’s hot—I’m always meticulously careful about that—but some of the imports under her hood do things the DMV doesn’t exactly approve of.
I keep it slow and safe through town, knowing exactly where I’m going. The track’s closed, but there’s a spot outside town where people drag race and that’s where I head at a respectful, responsible speed, using my blinkers and everything. I can’t get pulled over if I’m using my fucking signals to change lanes on a nearly empty road.
Once I get to The Mile, I drive it extra slow to check for any hazards. The stretch of road is long, straight, and flat, lit with street lights even though the sun hasn’t fully set yet. I swear whoever designed this road for the Department of Transportation had to be a racer him or herself because it’s damn near a perfect drag strip. It’s all clear, and I line up at the north end.
I complete my own mental checklist—seatbelt clicked into place, black-faced gauges reading correctly, pedals unobstructed for quick presses, road clear as a bell as far as I can see.
Three, two, one . . .
I slam the clutch in and hit the gas at the same time, the engine jumping at the demand and meeting it joyfully. A blink later, I switch to second, and as the engine whines, third. I hold, contemplating fourth . . . fifth. But I know I don’t have road space to hit those speeds and recover before the slight curve far ahead. So I do the responsible thing and slow back down.