JAINA
Today has been such an emotional day. Nathan made it out of surgery. The doctors were able to remove the clot and he is back in the ICU. I wonder about what it will be like for him if he wakes up. I wonder if he will remember anything that has happened to him while he was in the coma. I brought him his letters and read a few before I felt so exhausted I couldn't keep going. It's as if my adrenaline of the day finally wore off and left me tired and unable to concentrate. I also felt a sense of peace. He made it out, and even though I preferred he never had to go through anything else, it showed me he is fighting.
I didn't want to leave him, but I have another mission to see to. I grab my hoodie from my closet and make my way back downstairs. My parents know I'm going out with a friend, and they didn't really ask me much more than that. Tonight could have been very difficult and maybe they felt a sense of relief too that we all got through the day and this monumental
occasion won't always be linked to the loss of my friend.
"You look great," Elijah says as he opens the door for me.
"You're into hoodies?" I ask him sarcastically.
"I'm probably into whatever you're wearing," he says. He's cute and charming.
"Thanks for going out tonight," I tell him.
"No problem. It's a big night for you, right?" he asks.
I nod.
"Hey, are you not doing Grad Night?" he asks.
"No. I didn't want to go without Nathan."
"Understandable. I heard they are all lame around here anyway. Last year one of my friends said they got locked into a mini golf until 4 am," he says.
"Yea this year the plan is to do something equally as terrible. I might have gone if it was something Nathan wanted to do, but right now I would rather go to LA with you." I tell him.
He nods. The car fires right up and we take off down my street. I texted him the first meeting earlier. I wasn't sure which was acurate since there were two different accounts posting different locations. I asked Elijah about it and he said different clubs might start at different locations. So he told me to pick one and I did.
"How's Nathan doing?" he asks.
"Better," I say. I can't help but smile. He isn't doing awesome or even good, be he is doing better. For sure better than he was the first night, and also better than he was this morning with the clot. It feels good to be able to answer that.
"Good," he says.
We drive along the freeway without saying much. It's warm outside so with my hoodie on, I can sit with the windows down and let the night air flow into the car like we are driving in a scene from a teen movie. The traffic is light, which is rare, but it's later than most people need to be traveling. I watch as Elijah drives with skill. His eyes are always focused on the road, but his hands maneuver the mustang as if we are on a track.
As we pull off the freeway, I can hear the cars honking and the sound of tires spinning. We park as close as possible to the end of the congestion. There are no cops on scene.
"Cops probably have more important things to do tonight," I say.
"Maybe. But this shit will get out of hand without them," he tells me.
"I wonder why they don't arrest everyone," I say.
"For what? Watching isn't a crime unless we are blocking traffic or something."
"I don't know. It just seems like they should be doing more," I argue.
"Look how many of them there are compared to how many of these people. It's not safe for anyone," he says.
Tonight the spectators are standing in groups. As we pass one, Elijah fist bumps a few of the guys. I don't know if he knows them for this lifestyle, or if they are also part of the world he and his dad work in. I don't think it's the right time to ask, but I don't have to.
"They are Bryant's club," he whispers close to my ear. We stand, him slightly in front of me as we watch the air fill with smoke. I know he wants to be there in case something happens. He seems very protective, and I am comforted by that. Even though there won't be much he could do if one of these car people goes off the rails and spins out into the crowd, and yet, I trust him to get us out of there. It's like he has a sixth sense for what a car and driver will do. He has manuvered us into a position behind another parked car. For now, we are protected.
His hand reaches behind him in search of mine. The adrenaline from what we are watching and risk we are taking just being here has my heart thumping away in my chest. He holds my hand tight, his focus locked on what's taking place in the intersection. Because of his protection, I feel safe to scan the crowd. I look at each car. It's a weird mix that these take-overs bring out. A lot of cars are older, but the others are brand new. I'll never understand why someone would take a new car out and do something so reckless.
I take my phone out and snap some pictures of cars with front-end damage. There is one in particular that has my attention the most. It's a black Honda Civicâan older model with lots of visible modifications. It's parked behind the group of men we walked past from Elijah's friend's club. The damage is to the driver's front fender. In my head, the damage that was done to Nathan's car should make the damage on the other car easy to spot. It's not the truth. The car that hit us waws able to flee which means it was in a lot better shape than ours. If the driver just clipped our bumper in the right spot at the right time, maybe it will only have a little damage.
I move towards the group, releasing Elijah's hand to get closer.
"Where are you going?" he asks.
"I want to check out the damage on that car," I tell him.
His eyes lift to the Honda and then he scans the crowd. "Not a good idea," he says. He reaches for my hand again and stops me.
"I just want to get a closer look."
I know it can be dangerous wandering through this crowd while everyone is still focused on the spinning but to me that sounds like the perfect moment to see it unnoticed.
"Jaina, it's not a good idea." His eyes tell me he isn't messing around.
"Why?" I ask.
"He's the president of Bryant's club," he says as if that's explanation enough.
"Well I'm not going to talk to him, I just want to see the car," I explain.
As we stand there, an older man steps out from the crowd and whistles loudly. His face is harsh and scarred. He never smiles, just motions with his head that it's time to leave. And with that, the group clears out and heads back to their vehicles.
Sirens sound a second later, followed by the reflection of red and blue lights off of the cars and people around us. The car spinning finds an open space and flees the intersection. At this moment, the cops couldn't even get to the center of the circle if they wanted. The late spectators have blocked off the street and now they slowly start turning around I a way that makes passage impossible. They have no fear of being caught. It's a chain of bad circumstances that makes the whole thing frustrating.
We head back to the car. Elijah holds on to me as if I'm his most valued belonging. He weaves us in and out of other people and cars. We stop quick, his attention peaked and I follow his gaze to another small sedan in the gas station next to the intersection. It's 2000 model Mazda with front end damage. He looks at me and then back to the car and we walk slowly but with purpose int hat direction.
"Get your camera out but don't be obvious," he tells me. "Just video it as we go by."
The front end is taped together suspiciously. I film as we pass it. He opens my car door for me and then runs around to his side. The cops have lined the street now and are letting cars leave in one direction.
"Take a screen shot of the video and zoom in on the damage for me," he says.
We pull back onto the freeway, following many of the other cars. I should be looking for the next intersection, but instead I zoom in like he asked, hopeful we have a good lead. I show him when we get caught up in traffic. His eyes flick from the road ahead to my phone. What's crazy is just minutes ago, this side of the freeway was moving quickly, but now it is a sea of red lights.
He looks at the picture closely and then shakes his head. "I don't think it's that one." He tells me.
"Why do you think that?' I ask.
"There's rust on the damage. And some mismatched paint on the Bondo," he says confidently.
"What does that even mean?" I ask.
"The damage is from a while ago. Rust wouldn't happen that fast, and it would be weird to have Bondo showing and mismatched paint if they were trying to cover something up. They aren't doing a very good job. It's more like a work in progress, or a hold-them-over type of fix," he explains.
I move the video of the car into a rule-out fold I created on my phone. I know I can't see every car and rule them all out, but it helps to keep track of the cars in the clubs I already looked at.
The traffic is being directed down to two lanes. We can now see the firetrucks and cops lining the side of the freeway. My heart begins to race in my chest and I feel sweat bead on my forehead. Nausea overwhelms me and I squeeze my eyes shut to ward it off. The sound of men shouting drives its way into my ears and the familiar sound of firemen at work excavating passengers of a car brings me right back to a place I hadn't seen so vividly in my mind since the night we got into the accident. I can't control my breathing. The world around me starts to fade out.