Blind Curve Page 3

  The next day I persuade Bee to let me drive his car to school.

  “You said you’d help me practice for my test,” I say sweetly.

  I park his Nissan where I’ll be able to see it throughout the day. When I look out the door before lunch, it’s gone. I curse. I don’t know when he left so I don’t know what to do.

  It’s like a cat-and-mouse game the rest of the week. I try to get the rhythm of when Bee’s leaving, but it’s not predictable. I keep telling myself he could be skipping to do lots of things besides racing. Most racing happens on weekend nights, right? But I can’t think of anything good he can be doing.

  I’m obsessed. And I’m itching to drive the Teg again alone. I could skip out of school any day and go do it, but I won’t let myself without a good reason. Keeping Bee here and out of trouble is a good reason, I tell myself.

  It’s time to try some other things, things I thought I’d never do. Snooping and Johnny Xiong. Snooping’s easy since Bee trusts me with his school stuff and thinks I leave his private things alone. I shake out every notebook and textbook and go through his bag. I find a few notes from girls and I read them, looking for any clues. Nothing, except this in a note from Lucy Lor: I heard you’ve got a hunny in Cali—true?? Too bad 4 all the MN girls …

  Bee hadn’t written anything back on her note.

  I think about getting his phone to go through his texts, but that would be harder. So I talk to Johnny.

  My brothers are overprotective, but I do think they’re right about Johnny. Pakou says he stares at me all the time in class, so maybe he does like me. He sure spends a lot of money to copy my answers. And he is in a gang.

  On Monday Johnny comes to my locker before school to borrow my math notebook.

  “Is there going to be a rematch?” I ask casually, taking his smoky, cologne-y smelling money.

  Johnny looks confused. “What?”

  “You know, between Bee and Chai,” I say, my heart thudding.

  Johnny rolls his eyes. “Chai’s gotten beat three times, so you’d think that would be enough, but it’s turning into a grudge match. That’s a sweet car your brother’s got. I hear you’ve got an even sweeter one, though.” He grins, leaning closer.

  I blush. Most people don’t know the Teg is mine. Bee must be talking.

  “So, I’ve been there,” I say, looking in my locker. “But I don’t remember where you go after you get off the highway.”

  “It’s easy,” Johnny says, turning my math notebook over and sketching a map on the back. “Why? You going to the one today? I could give you a ride.”

  I shrug as the bell rings. I hurry off to homeroom to get marked present for the day. During passing time, I walk out the door and catch the bus home.

  As I drive out to the race site, I keep glancing at the map on my phone, studying the area around it. I need a place I can watch from. After I exit the highway, I circle around, getting to know the area, avoiding the street Johnny put on the map. There is a little subdivision of identical houses but, after that, just county roads surrounded by fields.

  It’s deserted, no other cars once I’m past the houses. I circle closer and turn off onto a road parallel to the one used for racing. The road I’m on is on the top of a hill. The racing road is down below. I pull the Teg off onto the shoulder and get out. I walk into a field until I can see the racing road below.

  There’s nobody here. I sit down in the dirt, wondering what I’ll say if a farmer comes along in a tractor. Just run for it, I guess.

  It’s breezy and still cold. Spring in Minnesota. But the sun feels warm on my shoulders as I rest my chin on my knees, hugging them to me. Maybe the race happened already. Maybe Johnny was wrong about it being today.

  I check my phone. Only 9:40. School starts so stupid early it’s easy to forget that most people are just starting their day now. I bet Chai Xiong doesn’t get up at 5:30.

  Then I hear them, the farting grumming noise of the exhaust and engines. I almost jump up, but then I realize I need to stay out of view. If I don’t do anything stupid, they shouldn’t see me.

  I pick out Bee’s Nissan right away. There are six other cars I don’t recognize. One of them’s a Teg, different color than mine though. They stop below me, and some people get out. I can’t hear them, but I can see Bee leaning out of his window, the hat he always wears. One of the cars takes off again down the road. To block the other end? It sinks in as I look at the road. One of the cars will be driving in the oncoming traffic lane. I suck in my breath.

  After a few minutes of people milling around, Bee’s car and a sweet Toyota Supra move up. Bee’s on the wrong side of the road. A girl stands between the cars, her hand up. Her long hair blows in the wind, and she drops her hand.

  The Nissan and the Supra shoot past her, the Supra a little ahead. I jump up to see better without realizing what I’m doing. Trees and a curve block my view. The other cars are pulling out now too, following the racers.

  I hold my breath long after all the cars are gone. I can barely hear them. I don’t hear any crash sounds. Would I? I wait a long time. They must have just left by the other end of the road. I slowly walk back to the Teg.

  Now I’ve seen it for myself. Bee’s racing. Bee’s racing during the day. Bee’s racing during the day on regular roads in ways that he or other people could get hurt.

  Now I know. He could have been one of the racers the day the kid got hit on Lexington.

  Someone has to know who was racing that day, I’m sure. I could ask Johnny, but that doesn’t feel right. Those other people who came to watch the race, they might know. Like I said, most races are at night and lots of people come just because it’s the fun thing to do. But these races in the middle of the schoolday and workday, way out of the city—they seem like something different. And the people there must be the hard-core street racers. I guess that includes my brother now.

  I push the thought away. I need to find those people. I’m not too worried about talking to them. It’s not my style usually, but I can BS. Especially if I can see these people without Bee around. But in case he is, I’m going to need a disguise.

  It takes the rest of the week to get everything together.

  “You have any lipstick and stuff I can have?” I ask my oldest sister when I’m at her house on Sunday. If I can avoid spending any of my money on this stuff, I want to. It’s not like I’ll need any of it later.

  Sherry (as she calls herself these days) acts like she’s going to fall over.

  “Are you really going to start acting more like a girl than a boy now? No more hiding in the garage?” she screeches. “Who’s the lucky guy? Wait, it isn’t Johnny Xiong, is it? You know he’s in a gang, right?”

  I roll my eyes. She’s been bugging me to let her do a makeover since I started high school.

  “I can make you look so different,” she says, pushing me into a chair. Her kids crowd around, giggling. Normally I would be insulted but that’s exactly what I want.

  Before I leave, I rummage in Sherry’s closet for some clothes. She’s got so many, she won’t notice.

  “What are you doing?”

  I jump, my face is totally guilty. I drop the skirt I’m holding.

  Sherry picks it up. “You want this? Who are you, and what did you do with my sister?”

  “Uhhh, uhh, it’s for …” Why can’t I think of a lie??

  She outs her hand on my arm. “You could just ask. It’s totally time you start thinking about these things even if Mom and Dad still think of you as a little kid.”

  I mumble something and get away as fast as I can, clutching the clothes.

  I wash my face as soon as I get home and hide all the stuff in my underwear drawer.

  Pakou, wide-eyed, hands over some boots on the bus.

  “Are you really going to wear them?” she asks. “You just always wear sneakers. Is this because of Johnny? I heard he might ask you to prom.”

  I stuff the boots in my backpack. Johnny and prom is bad ne
ws, but I don’t have time to think about that either.

  Now that I have everything, it’s time to get sick.

  On Monday morning I don’t get up. I have my eyes closed when I feel my mom touching me. I moan.

  What’s wrong?! she asks.

  I don’t feel good, I say, sighing. She calls my dad in. Wait! I say, sitting up a little. I don’t need the shaman or anything.

  She’s never sick! Mom says to Dad. Do a soul calling.

  My dad finishes buttoning his shirt and nods. It takes some fast-talking to convince them I’m not that sick, but I can’t go to school either. Finally, they decide to leave me home, but my mom’s getting herbal medicine for me on the way home. Whatever.

  As soon as the door closes after my parents, I throw off my pajamas. I yank on the short skirt and T-shirt I got from Sherry and top it with one of her sexy little jackets. I stick my feet into Pakou’s boots and zip them up. So far, so good. I already look like a stranger.

  I heat up my mom’s curling iron as I put on makeup in the bathroom. Good thing Sherry doesn’t go for a natural look. I paint my eyelids green with a little streak of pink thrown in. Eyeliner changes me even more. Blush and then some plum-purple lipstick. I draw a mole on my cheek with the eyeliner. I’m getting carried away.

  I brush out my hair and start curling pieces for that loose, long curl look. (I usually wear my hair in a ponytail.) I wish I could have orange streaks—it seems like the kind of thing this girl I’m dressing up as would have. I’ll just say I’m too traditional, I think, giggling. It’s weird to admit, but I’m having fun.

  I close my eyes as I walk into my room. I open them when I think I’ve shuffled in front of the mirror. Wow. WOW! I look pretty. Well, not exactly pretty because the makeup is freaky and the skirt is a little skanky for me but … I’ve never looked so girlie or at least not since I was a kid.

  I’m satisfied Bee will never recognize me, maybe not even if he looks right at my face (which I’ll make sure he doesn’t do). First, he’ll never expect to see me there. Second, I know it’s a racist thing that people say all Asians look alike. That’s stupid, but there ARE a lot of short Hmong girls with long black hair. In different clothes with a different hairstyle, I’ll blend right in.

  I’m giddy as I run out the door. I’m saving so much time by not going to school. Plus my mom called in a real excuse for me, so I don’t even have to worry. As the Teg roars to life, I think I can feel her excitement about what we’re going to do today too. Maybe the Teg’s wanted a bad girl all along.

  We fly down the highway, changing lanes just for the fun of flashing around other cars just like Bee does, even though it’s rush hour. Things slow down around downtown. I drum my fingers on the steering wheel as I think about my strategy. I look at the map again on my phone, looking for good stakeout positions.

  I end up on my high road again, farther along. I sit in the car for a while, listening to the engine tick. Was it stupid to rush out here? I didn’t want to miss my chance. I listen to music for a while, keeping it down. I’m straining to hear their engines.

  I get out a couple of times to stretch my legs and because it’s sunny, but the cold air creeping around my shivering knees and thighs drives me back in the car. How do girls wear these kinds of skirts all the time?

  Finally I hear it, the grumble, the fart, the gearshifts. I start the Teg, foot ready as I watch. As soon as they go by, I shoot out, skidding onto the county road. I catch them before they turn onto the racing road. I don’t see Bee’s car in the five ahead of me. My hands are sweating as I pull in right on a Civic’s tail.

  Doors open immediately and people spill out. More than last time maybe. I take a deep breath. Someone here knows about that day. I get out.

  I walk up to one of the groups of people. There’s a girl—good.

  “Hi!” I say, trying to channel Pakou through her boots. Bee’s right—she talks a lot. She’s very bubbly, and that’s what I need now. “I thought Mai was going to be here,” I chatter to the girl. Mai’s a super-common Hmong girl name, so it seems safe. “I thought she said Pao might race today.” I’m getting into it—I can already picture Mai and Pao, my imaginary cousins.

  The girl looks me over. “You know Mai?” she asks.

  “I’m her cousin from Wisconsin,” I say, giggling.

  “Where in Wisconsin?” she asks. I can tell we’re about to play “do you know … ?” so I’m relieved when I hear another car coming. I hope it isn’t Bee.

  “There’s Mai,” the girl says as a Teg pulls up. It’s the one from last time.

  “Oh, that’s the wrong—” I start to say, but the girl doesn’t hear me.

  She asks, “Is it because she’s your cousin that your car looks exactly like Mai’s?”

  “But it doesn’t,” I say stupidly. “Mine’s red and hers is black.”

  The girl raises her eyebrows. “She just got hers repainted a few weeks ago—didn’t you know?”

  I shake my head trying to clear it. I have to keep a handle on this. “Oh, and, I mean, that’s not my cousin. Wrong Mai!” I giggle nervously.

  The girl’s still looking at my Teg. She starts to walk toward it.

  “Can I see?” she says over her shoulder. “What’s on the harness? Oh my god, is that embroidery?” She pulls the door open. “Wow, you are so good. My mom tried to teach me, but I suck. Who’s that guy in the pictures?”

  My mouth is hanging open, and my brain is filled with every swear word I know in Hmong or English.

  “My, my boyfriend. I mean, it’s not finished,” I say. Now others are coming over, including Mai.

  “Pop the hood,” a guy says.

  I never thought about the show-off-your-car part. My hands are shaking. I’ve got nothing to be ashamed of. I know this car. I’m just having a hard time being the me who worked on the Teg and the girl in the tight skirt and Pakou’s boots. I glance at Mai—she seems to be both kinds of girls unless her Teg is her boyfriend’s project.

  I try not to stand like I’m giving a school report as I answer people’s questions. The girl I was talking to is showing Mai the harness. Mai is frowning.

  The guys agree I should get nitrous, and then they pull away to talk macho smack before racing. Some of them get into a car and take off down the road, just like last time.

  I drift over to the girls again uncertainly.

  “What are they racing for?” I ask, trying to think of a way to bring up the hit-and-run race on Lexington.

  “Slips,” the not-Mai girl says as two cars pull up into the starting spots.

  “Angie!” one of the guys yells, waving her over. The not-Mai girl (Angie) saunters over to stand between the cars as the guys gun their engines. She knows how to wear a short skirt and not feel stupid, you can tell. I tell myself to stop pulling on mine.

  “So, do you race?” Mai says, all snotty.

  “Uhhh—” I don’t have to answer because Angie drops her hand and the roar from the cars is deafening. The guys start piling into cars. “Don’t we go to see the finish?” I ask.

  Mai flips her hair dismissively. “They’ll be back.”

  We’re quiet a minute. I’m scared of her, but I came here to find out what happened that day. And a Teg that used to be my Teg’s twin …

  It’s like she can read my mind. “You’ve got Pirellis too,” she says, still sounding aggressive. “How’d you get the idea to do that needlework on your harness?” She takes a step toward me, getting in my space.

  “Uh, I just, just thought of it,” I stammer. “Why—” But then over her shoulder through her driver’s side window I see something on her harness. What the—?

  Angie’s sauntering back toward us, laughing over her shoulder at one of the guys who’s still here. I wish she’d hurry up. I feel like Mai’s about to hit me. I’ve never been in a fight before and while wearing these clothes doesn’t feel like a good time to start.

  “And that’s Bee Lee in those pictures, isn’t it?!” Mai hisses
in my face. I take two steps back until I stumble into my Teg.

  Angie glances in the window of Mai’s car as she comes toward us.

  “Oh my god!” she screeches again. “Why didn’t you say that you’re embroidering your harness too, Mai? Is this like the new Hmong girl thing? How come nobody told me? Just because I suck at sewing doesn’t mean I couldn’t get a homie to help me out, make me cool …”

  “You know Bee?” I ask Mai quietly, my heart pounding.

  Mai shrugs, smirking at me. “Maybe.” She raises a penciled eyebrow.

  But I already know the answer—the similarities between our cars can’t just be coincidence. Bee must be the connection. I have to know what she knows.

  “I’ll race you,” I say, hardly believing the words as they come out of my mouth. “For information.”

  “Done,” Mai says, tossing her keys at me and catching them on one long fingernail just as I flinch. “Whoever wins asks the questions and gets the answers. No lying.”

  “No lying,” I agree, my entire body buzzing.

  “What are you—” Angie’s words as she walks toward us are drowned out by the returning cars.

  I get in my Teg, trying to take deep breaths as Mai explains to the others what’s going on. I don’t know what reason she gives—she laughs as she talks, but the look she gives me as she gets in her Teg is pure and serious hate.

  The other cars move out of the way as we pull up. I’m already on the right side so I stay there. If we meet an oncoming car, it won’t really matter where I am, but it still feels safer.

  One of the guys knocks on my window. I lower it.

  “T’s down at the end making sure it’s clear, and you gotta hope no one comes out of a driveway. You know the road?”

  I shake my head.

  He lets out a whistle, and his eyes widen behind his funky glasses. “OK, you should just know it curves twice. The finish is the red mailbox on the right side, about half a mile away. Mai said it’s a grudge match between Tegs. You know the terms you’re racing on?”