One Week - By Nikki Van De Car Page 0,49

have to wonder why everyone doesn't go this way.

Mr. Mackey never stops talking. It's hard to hear him over the roar of the engine, but the gist seems to be the good old days of driving around the country in VW buses—it's unclear whether he ever actually did that or whether he just knew it would have been a good time—and how he wishes he'd never sold out and bought a house and got a job. Jess and I make appropriate noises in the few pauses for breath. He's very nice, really; it's just that I've gotten used to not having to talk all the time. Although I guess I'm not actually talking all that much now, either.

“I bet you kids are wondering how it is a guy like me ended up driving one of these babies,” Mr. Mackey says, patting the steering wheel.

I nudge Jess. It's his turn to chat. “Uh, yes,” Jess says. “I did wonder that.”

“I got into drag racing about fifteen years back,” Mr. Mackey explains. “Just small-time stuff. Now there's a thrill—biggest natural high you'll ever have. The moment you take off, pow! The speed hits you like a sledgehammer. You want to take a turn at the wheel, kid? See how it feels?”

Jess shakes his head. “I don't have a driver's license,” he says.

“What?” Mr. Mackey is scandalized. “What about you, Bee?”

“I don't have one either,” I say, somewhat regretfully. It does sound like fun.

“Where y'all from, you don't drive? I've never heard of such a thing.”

“Well, I'm from New York City, and Bee…” Jess trails off. People drive in Los Angeles; they have no choice. Most people, anyway. “Bee is too,” he finishes.

“Well, you ever get out of the city to a place where you can move around, take a spin in a Mustang,” Mr. Mackey says. “It'll be the ride of your life.”

Mr. Mackey is silent for a moment, then without warning he pulls over. Jess and I look at each other in consternation. The last town we drove through was over fifteen minutes ago, and there's nothing around except corn and more corn. Why are we stopping?

Mr. Mackey checks the rearview mirror. I turn around and look—there's nobody coming. Mr. Mackey's got a manic look in his eyes, and suddenly Jess clutches my arm. I turn to look at him, and he's turned pale. I remember how freaked out Jess was about riding in the back of Joey and Sean's truck, and I try to head this off. “Uh, Mr. Mackey, I don't think—” I start.

He ignores me. He guns the engine, but keeps the brakes on. “I'm going to show you kids what driving's really all about,” he says.

“Mr. Mackey, honestly, you don't need to—”

Mr. Mackey releases the brake and the car lurches forward. I am shoved backward into Jess, who wraps his arms around me as tightly as he can. The two of us are sharing a seatbelt, which probably makes it completely ineffective. The wheels are still screeching and I can smell burning rubber. The rows of corn are flying past in a blur, and it's only been a few seconds. I'm breathless and terrified, but I have to admit that I can kind of see what Mr. Mackey is talking about.

I don't think Jess feels the same way, though. “The car is on fire!” he shouts. “It's burning!”

I squeeze his hand to reassure him, and start to tell him that the smell is just from the tires, when suddenly I see what he's talking about. There's smoke coming from underneath the hood of the car. Mr. Mackey doesn't seem to notice—he just keeps driving. I hear a terrible sound coming from the engine, and then without warning the car dies. Mr. Mackey swears as we skid sideways across the road and I scream and cover my eyes as we go off the road and into the cornfield.

We jerk to a stop and I peer through my fingers. I'm okay. I turn around and check Jess, who is rubbing his neck but seems otherwise fine.

Mr. Mackey lets out a breath. “Well!” he says. “That was sure exciting!”

I feel Jess prepare to explode at him, and squeeze his hand as hard as I can. Jess is shaking, he's so angry. I think Mr. Mackey is just stupid and harmless, but we are now stuck out here in the middle of nowhere, and I don't really want to get into a fight with a guy who has so little impulse