This is what rich kids do? I’m somehow both curious and completely uninterested.
“Uh,” I tap the edge of my fork on my tray. “I should probably catch up on some of my homework. I’m a little behind.” Understatement. Freshmen like the twins are probably learning shit that I would have been taught this year, had I gone back to my old school. Things here move so fast that it makes my head spin.
“Aw, come on,” Georgia pleads. “Didn’t you say you came here for the new experiences?”
I chew the inside of my cheek. “Partly.”
“Well, this is one of them!” She looks around, prompting other nods of encouragement. “Sneaking out of the dorms, heading off campus, participating in borderline illegal behavior.” She lists them off like it’s a badge of honor. “It’s fun, seriously. Total Preston rite of passage.”
It doesn’t sound particularly fun. Honestly, it sounds exactly like the kind of dumb shit the kids back home would do. But my new roommate looks at me expectantly and it feels wrong saying no to someone making an effort to include me.
I mean, how bad can it be?
The thick stench of sulfur and the sound of squealing tires meet us as we get to the overpass. Down below, on the state highway, a barricade of cars has blocked the road in both directions, headlights illuminating the area. The harsh scent of chemicals—spray paint, I realize—hits me. On the other side of the street is a kid in a black sweatshirt, hood up over his head, tagging a cement pillar.
“So this is what rich kids do on a Friday night, huh?” I lean over the rail, looking into the street below. Georgia is on one side of me, Caroline the other. Vandy and a few other people from the lunch table are milling around. There are other kids, but they’re the kind who don’t seem like they go to Preston. They’re more like kids from home. For the first time in my life, I feel weirdly split between two worlds, even though neither of them are actually mine.
“I’m sure some kids are partying tonight. I think Miranda Bradshaw is having people over,” Georgia says with disinterest. “Things have kind of been weird around Preston since homecoming.”
“What do you mean?” I have to shout the question since one of the drivers below decided to open their trunk, revealing a massive stereo system. Rap music bounces off the cement, deep bass reverberating through my chest.
“There was a huge prank at the dance,” Caroline says, “that basically revealed that this secret society that’d been kicked off campus for inappropriate behavior was back in action. The school flipped out because it’s a direct violation of policy, and it made the administration look like total dumbasses. They’ve been cracking down on parties and stuff.”
“You don’t think they’ll find out this is happening?” I ask, watching as two cars pull into the middle of the circle.
Georgia shrugs, chomping on a piece of gum. “Most of these kids are from North Ridge or farther away. It’s kind of underground. Not exactly on their radar.”
“How did you even find out about it?”
She nods toward the circle and I see a familiar blue muscle car. The driver leans out the window gesturing wildly with his hands. My reaction is visceral, low in my stomach. Deep in my throat.
“We used to go to Bass’s fights, but after the concussions he got a new hobby,” Caroline says. “The fights weren’t exactly the healthiest thing—” she and Georgia share a meaningful look, “—so we’re being supportive.”
They talk about him like a brother. Like someone they care about. Like someone they don’t want to get hurt. It’s baffling. He doesn’t even really run in their circles during school. Sebastian seems to have his own circle of friends, his own lunch table, his own extracurriculars. What is it that binds them all together?
Down below, I see his blonde hair duck back in the car and hear the rumble of the Ford’s engine as he revs it up. Georgia grins, “Say what you want about Bass, but he’s always up for some crazy fun.”
Because he’s crazy, I want to say, unable to keep my eyes off of him or his vehicle. The Shelby gleams, shiny like a sapphire in the other cars’ lights. From above, I have a perfect view of the white racing stripes that arc over the top of the car. The energy in the crowd shifts and everyone huddles together down below or gets a spot on the bridge. Someone lights a bundle of fireworks, sending smoke and sparks into the air. The back lights on Sebastian’s car pulse red and the sound of the engine is commingled with the squeal of tires. A moment later he’s in motion, peeling away from the others and spinning terrifyingly fast.
I honestly have no idea what I’m watching, other than a boy who obviously has a death wish. But he’s not the only one. Like the fireworks, the crowd hovers too close, and the Ford drifts nearer, spins closer, with every turn. Through the window, I see his hands gripping the wheel, never once losing control. My heart pounds, terrified of watching a tragedy unfold, and my hands clench around the railing. Just when I think he’s lost it completely, the back tires getting precariously close to the crowd, he straightens out, shifting in gear and speeding down the road.
All he’s left is the scent of burnt rubber and my heart in my throat.
“Holy shit,” Georgia cries. “That was crazy! Right?”
I can’t find my voice to answer, but yeah, that was crazy as fuck. He’s deranged. Full-speed chaos. I find myself straining to hear the sound of a crash in the distance, evidence that trouble had finally caught up to him, but that doesn’t come. What I do hear, over the music and crowd, is the whine of a siren. “Is that…” I start, looking down the road, away from where Sebastian had just gone.
“Fuck,” Georgia mutters.
“Police!”
The cry comes from the crowd and the whole place erupts into chaos. “Run!” Georgia yells, half-laughing. “Get to the car!”
I follow the girls, unsure of how to get back to the alley where we parked. We’re fine on the bridge—momentarily—but then the crowd runs up the embankment from the street below. It’s hard to hear with all the shouting and the squeal of the cars racing down the street, all muted under the pounding of my heart. I didn’t come all this way to get locked up for watching bullshit car theatrics. I keep an eye peeled for Georgia’s red hair and see her duck in the slit of a cut chain-link fence. I race toward her, but suddenly there are too many people, bodies everywhere, crushing, and pushing against me. Touching. Grabbing.
You’re nothing.
I freeze, body going stiff, lungs constricting with panic.