Stitches

Story I wrote for school. Yes, I did turn it in and I got 31/30. Actual size: 20 pages. (double spaced. Stupid English teacher!)

The overpopulated college hallway buzzed with excited cheerleaders in their eye-catching uniforms, jocks with their expensive and over-acclaimed letter jackets, geeks and nerds huddled around a new piece of shiny technology, and Goths with their apathetic faces painted white and lined with black makeup.  Each clique had their own section of the sweeping hallway, and anyone to invad was shunnd or pushed roughly into a locker, which was why Bo Swenson and Jamie Hall stood awkwardly next to the school's bulletin board.  Bo, a gangly kid stretching up to 6'5" tall, topped with caramel-brown hair that was chopped short and hidden under a hat that should've been forbidden from the halls of the North Dakota State University.  Jamie, who only came up to Bo's shoulder, slouched against the cold brick wall next to the crowded bulletinboard, his signature bored face showing.  Jamie's hair, much unlike his friend's, flopped down to his shoulders and was continuously being pushed behind his shoulder.  Classes for the day had already ended; it was just a matter of getting home to rest until the next day.  As Bo waited for the hallway crowd to thin out and eventually fade, his deep brown eyes scanned the multicolored flyers and notices.

"Dude, I dont' even see why you keep reading those. " Jamie snorted, rolling his eyes. "It's not like they change them  every day."

"You never know." Bo replied as he did every day.  But, as his eyes flew over the familioar headlines, a new color caught his eye. "Well, well, well.  They've come up with yet another color," he mused, examining the printer paper. "Puce, if I'm not mistaken."

"You mean they actually came up with something else to advertise?" Jamei asked, pushing away from the wall to investigate.  Seeing the new flyer, he rolled his eyes and went back to checking out cheerleaders. "The regional race.  Figures you'd find something as lame as that."

"It's not lame," Bo insisted, rolling his eyes back at his firend. "Racing is fun."

"Maybe to you," Jamie said. "But to a city kid like me, it's as boring as Martha Stewart.  You can't seriously want to race in that.  You have no job, which equals no money, which also equals no car."

"You know, sometimes your equations give me headaches." Bo informed him, seriously contemplating kicking his protege. 

"You kick me, and I scream."  Jamie warned him, quite away what Bo was contemplating.  His hard blue eyes challenged Bo to just try it.

"You caught me," Bo shrugged.

"As I always do.  Anyway, what are you doing tonight?"

"My mom needs help with taking down Easter decorations."  The lie came easy.  Bo almost lied every day to Jamie to get him out of having to ask his parents to go somewhere.

"Dang, man.  You mom has you working like a servant." Jamie sighed. "Maybe some other night."

"Maybe," Bo agreed, nodding.

"Later, man.  You need a ride?"

"Yeah, sure.  Let's go."

When Jamie dropped Bo off, the smell of smoke rose from the kitchen window in strong puffs.  As Jamie's sleek yellow Ford Focus sped away, Bo threw the front door open and rushed into his mother's kitchen just in time to see his mother, a short woman with salt-and-pepper hair, put out the small oven fire.  Waving the smoke out of his face, Bo opened a window and coughed.

"Oh, there you are, Bo!" His mother exclaimed, whirling around with the fire extinguisher still in hand.  Her pink apron, singed from the flames, came along after her.  The small wrinkles under the old woman's face seemed more predominant now than ever before in the smoke.

"Hey, mom." Bo greeted, grinning. "How was your day?"

"Fine.  Yours?"

"Same old, same old." Bo waved it off, examining the oven. "What went wrong here?"

"Hm?" She turned around, smiling sheepishly. "Just dinner.  I think we'll be ordering some pizza tonight." Nodding, the short woman strode to the phone and punched the familiar numbers in.  Hearing the buzz of the dial tone, Bo turned on his heel to open more windows.  As he opened the window in his room, the North Dakota fresh air rushed at him, rushing into his notrils.  Suddenly, his mind was far away, his black, short, spiky hair battering against his scalp relentlessly, the waving green hills of North Dakota running past him.  The world turned into a blur as the russet-colored Audi TT drifted sharply around corners, raced over straight-aways in less than a second, and power-slid on wide turns, spinning him right around.  Bo was in his own world; a world where nothing mattered but speed.

Bo's thoughts were interrupted by the screen door smacking shut against the chipping door frame.  Dad's home, he thought, turning on the cream-colored ceiling fan and closing his whitewashed door.  On the back of the door hung an old poster of an '87 Chevrolet Camaro, painted sparkling silver with jet-black racing stripes, smoke flowing out from under its tires like a cape and the rough tires spun in the direction of the drift.  Bo's fingers curled as if he was clutching the sleek sterring wheel right there.  He'd had the poster since fifth grade, when his father had first taught him how to drive a stick shift.  the thought hurled Bo to when he was eleven years old, the oldest in his grade, and his father was adjusting his 2001 cobalt-blue For Mustang's black leather driver's seat to his height.

Shaking his head, Bo told himself to get back to what he was doing.  The memeor was old and faded like a picture that one leaves out for far too long.  Now his father looked at him as a nuisance; one who had to get out of the house before all his hard-earned money was wasted.  Sighing, Bo dog through his battered backpack and pulled out a collection of Edgar Allen Poe's poems that he had to read for literature.

Twenty minutes later, there was a knocking at his door, making Bo flinch and drop the old green book.

"Yeah?" He called, picking up the book and shoving it back into his backpack.

"Supper," his father barked, his voice harsh like that of someone who is only talking to you because they are forced.

"Coming," Bo replied, forcing himself to be cheerful. He is not going to get to me, Bo chanted as he followed his tall father, whose head had been shaved bald years before and now gleamed in the bright farmhouse.

At the table, the steaming hot pizzas sat in their box, and his mother sliced them into eight pieces.  Seeing the two come in, she sank into the wicker chair and sighed, her eyes closing automatically.

"You work too hard, Patty." Bo's father announced, taking his seat next to her.  Bo sat on the other side of the table, facing his father.  Examining his face, the wire-rimmed glasses, deep wrinkles, and the hard line that was his mouth, Bo decided that he should ask his parents about the race.

"Just enough to keep going," she replied, taking a slice of pizza for herself.  Smiling at Bo, she asked, "Did anything interesting happen at school today, Bo?"

"I heard about the regional race," Bo announced, taking care not to look his parents in the eye.  Instead, he focused on the neat floral patterns of the plasitc plate that held his slice of pizza. "I was wondering if I could enter it."

The silence that followed wasn't promising.  Both Bo's parents shot meaningful looks at each other, communicating in a way that Bo didn't understand.  Finally, Bo's father broke the silence. "You don't have a car, Bo."

"I know, but-"

"Until you have a car, you can not race."

"I know, but-"

"We are not paying for your car.  You will have to pay for your car yourself." His stern face turned into a sneer. "In fact, if you get a job of your own, I'll pay for your car's insurance.  Now get upstairs and work on that homework."

Before Bo could protest that he hadn't eaten anything, his father took Bo's plate, also taking his food.  Curling his fingers into fists, Bo turned sharply on his heel and stalked upstairs.

The last bell gurgled out of the loudspeakers, announcing the end of the day.  Almost immediately, the classrooms emptied and the hallways filled with excited college students.  Bo and Jamie met at the bulletin board again, as usual.

"So, dad says that I have to pay for my own car," Bo announced, holding up his hand when he saw Jamie's mouth open. "Which means I have to get a job.  And if I get a job, then he'll pay for the insurance." When Bo stopped talking, Jamie grinned.

"Sounds awesome," he agreed wholeheartedly. "Paying for insurance sucks!"

"You would know," Bo nodded, turning to read the flyers for the second day in a row.

"Again?" Jamie groaned, rolling his eyes. "Get a life, man.  they put up something new yesterday, so what makes you think that they'd do it again?"

"No clue," Bo admitted truthfully, trying not to stare longingly at the puce flyer about the race.  "Hey, a guy can hope, can't he?" He grinned, shooting a sideways glance at Jamie.

"Yeah, whatever." Jamie grunted, spinning on his heel to take a drink from the stainless steel water fountain.  As Jamie drank, Bo read the familiar headlines twice before finding a new one.

"They did post twice," Bo laughed, which made Jamie choke.  When Jamie was able to speak again, he olged at the flyer.

"What the heck?  What's it for?" He sputtered, wiping his dripping mouth.

"A truck driver's job," Bo breathed, new hope surgingin through him.  He imagined himself behind the wheel of the semi the flyer advertised. "I'll take it."

"What, driving for a living?" Jamie asked, incredulous. "Oh right.  This is the driving nerd we're tlaking about."

"Whatever, dude.  Can I hitch a ride?" Bo asked, suddenly thinking of his mom.

"Yeah, sure." Jamie agreed reluctantly. "What's up?"

"Can I borrow your phone first?  I have to call my mom." Jamie rolled his eyes and tossed Bo his smooth cell phone.

At the truck garage, Jamie pulled into one of the compact-car parking areas and Bo's warning.  Next to the huge smeis, the car seemed like an ant.  Stepping out of the car, Bo and Jamie gaped as two semis almost collided.  the two drivers, overly angry, rolled down their windows to curse at each other.  The two men watched as the drivers threatened and screamed until one (reluctantly) backed up and let the other pass.

"You're desperate, aren't you?" Jamie asked, raising his eyebrows.

"Maybe I am," Bo admitted, shaking his head. "Let's go."

In the main office of the garage, a burly man with a hat that read 'Jay's Deliveries' and soft brown eyes sat behind a small desk, pounding away angrily at a keyboard.  Bo, his head pounding inside of him, knocked on the door frame.  The man looked up, his eyes wide and turned his chair to greet them.

"Hey, boys." He grinned, pushing away from the desk and walking around to shake their hands.  "What can I do for you today?  Gotta haul something?  We're the guys to call."

"No, acutally." Bo politely stammered.  His friend was no help around strangers. "I saw your flyer at NDSU."

"So it's a job you're hunting for." The man asked, raising his eyebrows.

"Yes, sir." Bo replied. "Are you Jay?"

"Jay was my father," the man laughed. "I'm Emmett.  Answer some questions right, and I'll gie you the job.  First:  how old are you?"

"Nineteen, sir."

"Good.  Second:  how tall are you?"

"Six-foot-five, sir."

"And lastly, have you ever been in trouble with the law?  Any arrests, warnings, or tickets I should know about?"

"Psh." Jamie snorted. "Mr. Goody-Two-Shoes?  No way."

"And you are you?" Emmett asked, turning on Jamie.  Doing his best not to cringe away into his shell of a mind, Jamie looked away.

"This is my friend, Jamie.  He gave me a lift here." Bo answered. "And he's right."

"Good.  You're hired!" Emmett announced grinning.  Despited Jamie and Bos' confusion, they grinned at each other. "Just a few legal things to take care of, though." He added sullenly, sitting in the chair again. "Like social security number, liecense number, and all that jazz."  Before Emmett went back to poking the keys angrily, he reached into a desk drawer and flung a hat at Bo.  He caught it by the brim, reading the same sing that was shoing on Emmett's hat. "Welcome to the family."

Two weeks passed of Bo hitching rides to work after school and borrowing his parents' cars for over the weekend, and already he fit right in.  The truckers put him through the same initiation as always; pulling dumb pranks, sifting through his files and confusing him, and other tupid grade-school-caliber jokes.  But when the two weeks ended, they suddenly stopped bugging him enough to let Bo work.

"That kid drives like Dale Earnhardt," Bo overhead Emmett comment ot one of the veteran workers. "Ain't no way I'm giving him up that easily." Smiling, Bo crept past the offic and back to his truck.  Aloong the way, the closest trucker to his age stopped him.  His name was Kevin and his golden hair stuck straight up like Bo's, except Bo kept it cut short. 

"Hey, Bo.  Where're you going?" Kevin asked, pulling on his hat.

"Valley City," Bo replied, swinging over the metal railing of the steps and onto the concrete floor to look up at Kevin. "Emmett's got me delivering some desks to the University."

"Have fun," Kevin grinned. "I hear that the wind is absolutely horrible today and we're expecting a lot of rain."

"I'll be all right," Bo answered, spinning around to skip to his truck.

"Don't say I didn't warn you!" Kevin shouted after him, rolling his eyes and descending the stairs slowly.  Kid's got guts, I'll give him that, Kevin seethed.  But one day those guts are going to get him in huge trouble.

Kevin was right.  The rain came like machine gun fire.  On the road, Bo kept and easy pace of 60 miles an hour, with his hands gripping the sterring wheel steadily.  Even though the wind hollered and slammed against his truck like a football player does to a dummy and the rain pounded on the windshield almost hard enough to break it, Bo whistled to the song on the radio, durmming the beat out on the steering wheel. As the truck's tires started the steep ascent of yet another hill, bo stopped whistling and eased his foot off the gas just enough to keep climbing.  With his heart pounding in his chest, Bo's fingers clung harder and harder to the wheel as a drowning man clings to a life preserver.  When the descent of the hill could almost be spotted, a blaze-red Pontiac Trans Am sped up the other side, its driver side almost completely in the wrong lane.  Along the windshield as vast crack stretched form corner to corner.  As the Trans Am came closer, Bo realized that the driver wasn't righting himself.  with a split-second decision, Bo wrenched the steering wheel to the right, the gigantic tires skidding pas the rough shoulder and onto the coarse gravel beside the smooth asphalt.  As the driver passed, Bo spun the wheel back to the left and the front wheels swerved over the shoulder and back onto the saturated road.  Bo heaved a sigh of relief.

But, as the back tires slid back onto the asphalt, rain mixed with gravel had already molded themselves into the back tire's treads, making all the traction disappear in less than a minute.  When Bo realized that the tires weren't gripping and the trailer had already sung out into the street, he tried in vain to swerve the back out of the way of another semi that raced toward him noow.  Taking both feet and slamming down on the brake with all his strength, Bo's arms quivered as he clutched the sterring wheel.  the brake pads that desperately should've been replaced long before gave out as the truck sped faster and faster down the hill.  With one last, desperate attempt to save the driver's life, Bo closed his eyes and flung the steering wheel to the right again, sending the cab into the waterlogged ditch. 

The impact should've been enought ot kill Bo, but when he regained consciousness in the upside-down truck cab, it felt as if he was.  A searing pain ripped through his throat and head when he tried to move or call for help, but the flashing lights in his peripheral vision told him that 911 had arrived.  Bo wiggled his fingers, reassuring himself that his arms weren't broken.  Slamming his eyes shut and biting his lip, Bo unbuckled this seat belt.  Without the restraint, Bo fell through the shattered windshield and into the prickling weeds.  The throns cut more holes in his arms, staining blood on the once-clean hood of his truck.

Cleanliness was his smallest problem now.  The whole cab of the truck had caved in upon impact and the trailer stuck in the air like The Leaning Tower of Piza, the tires dripping mud as they spun slowly.  Letting his head hang, Bo's breath came in rasps.  As he stared at the dead crabgrass, crimson liquid dotted their stems.  Shocked, he passed his hand of ther tip of his nose where blood was dripping from.  Feeling no cut there, Bo felt along the front of his face until a sharp knife of pain seared through the top of his head.  Wincing as he swallowed the fear that crept up his throat, he let his hand carefully probe around his throat.  A long gash stretched across the front of his throat, falling just short of his jugular vein.  Bo stood shakily, internally running over his bones.  Thankfully, none stuck where they shouldn't stick.  When he straightened, more pain ran through his stomach.  Pressing his hand aginst his side, Bo staggered around the front bumper of the turck to see his mother sobbing into the shoulder of his father.  Immediately, paramedics stopped what they wre doing and started to desced the steep slope into the ditch.  Relieved, Bo turned and leaned his back against the trailer, letting his head fall back.

In the back of the ambulance, the paramedics hovered over Bo, patching up his gashes with thick stitches and stinging bandages.  Bo sat with his face the perfect imitation of American Gothic, only showing emotion when a paramedic pulled too hard or used too much antibacterial cream.  His mother, her face still running with tears and stained with worry, pursed her lips in an attempt not to burst out wailing.  His father, on the other hand, just sat across from Bo, the edges of his face hardly tinted with worry.  Bo met his gaze head-on, keeping the mask of his face apathetic and waiting for his father to say something.

Once the Swensons drove away from the hospital, Bo's father erupted.

"What were you thinking?" He almost shouted, forgetting to look at the road. "Do you know how much this is going to cost your mother and I?"

"I'm quite aware, dad." Bo replied stiffly.

"You should've stayed in the garage like a smart kid."

"Emmett told me to go.  I would've made it there safely, but-"

"I don't want to hear your petty excuses!" His father shouted, slamming his fist against the steering wheel, stunning Bo into silence.  As the rain sitll pounded on the windshield of the car, Bo, his mother, and his father sat in dead silence.

When school resumed, Bo and Jamie, instead of meeting by the bulletin board, met by the doors to the cafeteria, across from where the nerds congregated.

"Dude, that's some nasty crash," Jamie greeted Bo from where he leaned against the wall, his nose buried in a newspaper. "You made the front page."

"So I see," Bo replied curtly, examining the picture of his truck.  It still hurt to speak and move around too much, but Bo had attended school anyway.  Most of the day he spent physically restraining himself from pulling the stitches out from his head, neck, and stomach.

"What happened?" Jamie asked, his eyebrows rising.

"You have the paper," Bo retorted. "Read it."

"I did," Jamie insisted. "But they only have the other trucher's point of view.  What made you lose control?"

"It was a red Pontiac Trans Am," Bo whispered, his thoughts suddenly skipping back to that day.  The red car whizzed by his door, quite frankly not stoppin gor caring. "It was in my lane, so I swerved off onto the side of the raod to get out of the way, but with the rain and gravel, it clogged the treads and I lost control of the trailer."

"I know the rest," Jamie cut him off, waving the newspaper in front of his face.  "911 found you in a ditch, upside-down and bleeind like crazy." Tossing the newspaper in the trash, Jamie waved it off. "So a Trans Am, huh?  Weird."

"What's so weird about a Trans Am?" Bo asked, raising an eyebrow.

"Nothing.  I saw Lloyed Hughes drive away in a red Trans Am before you came."

"You what?" Bo whirled to face his friend, incredulous. "You've got to be kidding!"

"That, I am not." Jamie replied softly, looking back out the window. "Did you catch the license plate number?"

"No.  I was too busy trying not to kill myself or him," Bo rolled his eyes, rubbing his throat. "But I did catch a huge crack in the windshield."

"No kidding." Jamie whistled, facing Bo with a victorious look. "Because Lloyd Hughes' windshield is heinously marred with a crack." Bo couldn't answer.  His mind was rushing as fast as his truck had down the hill. "You think it's him?"

"I know it's him." Bo nodded.

"And how do you know that?"

"Because Lloyd's hated me ever since the first year we came.  He's hated the way I drive."

"Sounds suspicious," Jamie nodded. "But I have better news for you."

"Sarcastic?"

"Yup.  Lloyd entered the race."

"Oh, great." Bo groaned, letting his head fall back onto the wall.  Immediately he snapped his head up and rubbed his throat tenderly.

"Yup.  If you want to get him back, then you'd better get some cash."

"Way ahead of you," Bo grinning, his whole face lighting up. "I got the final paycheck.  I now have enough money to buy a car."

"Awesome!  When are you going?"

"I haven't told my parents yet," Bo admitted, pursing his lips. "I don't think they'll get me get a car."

"Why not?"

"Well, first, my mom is going ot be hysteric because of the accident and my dad's never going to trust me with driving anything every again."

"Good point," Jamie agreed as the clock struck 4 o'clock. "I'll come over and help you reason with them."

"There's no reasoning," Bo shook his head, following Jamie out to his car. "We might as well just go get the car and try again later.  when he looked up at Jamie expectantly to unlock the doors, Jamie's face was the pure image of shock. "What?"

"Nothing," Jamie huffed, shaking his head fast and openeing the door.

At the used car lot, Jamie and Bo looked over dozens upon dozens of cars before finding a dark, rusted, navy 1969 Dodge Challenger.  Upon seeing it, Bo turned to the salesman and held out his hand, saying, "I'll take it."

"Whoa, whoa, whoa." Jamie interrupted, stepping the between the two as the other man was about to shake Bo's hand. "A Dodge Challenger?  Dude, come on!  You're a paintjob away from copying the Dukes of Hazzard.  The doors don't even work."

"That's easy to fix," Bo told him nonchalantly. "It will be repainted blue.  Come on, Jamie!" He pleaded, seeing Jamies expression. "I need the horsepower.  Sure, it doesn't turn too well, but a little suspension tuning and more weight in the turnk can handle that."

Shooting his friend a sideways glance, Jamie rolled his eyes and laughed. "Fine.  Stop confusing me."

As soon as Bo and Jamie were through talking with the salesman, Bo climbed in through the window fo his new car and turned the key.  The enigine purred to a start and Bo almost forgot to push the clutch before jamming the gearshift into first gear.  Smiling at his forgetfulness, Bo drove smoothly home.

"What is this?" Bo's father asked from the proch as Bo pulled to a stop. Foleing his newspaper and standing, he ran his cool blue eyes over the Challenger.

"It's my car," Bo answered indignantly, facing his father at the steps of the proch. "I paid for it myself."

"But you dont have enough money." His father argued.

"I got the money yesterday." Bo informed him, pushing past his dazed father and opening the screen door. "And by the way, your first payment will be coming in a week." Inside, Bo's mother could barely be seen behind all the flowers that occupied the table.  With only a push of coral petals, Bo spotted his mother struggling to cut off the thorns of yet another rose. "Hello, mom." He greeted, grinning.  As she whirled around, the rose fell ouf of her hands and fell lightly to the floor.

"Bo!  How was today?" She smiled, retrieving the flower and placing it in one of his father's beer cups.

"Just fine.  I bought a car." Bo quickly told her, like someone would quickly tear off a band-adi to reduce the pain.  It took a moment for her to regain her compusure and Bo took that moment to take the phone off the receiver and punch the numbers from the flyer on the keypad.

"You what?" She demanded, whirling to face her son.

"Bought a car," Bo repeated. "I got the money yesterday."

"What are you doing?"

"Hello, Mr. Jeremy?" Bo asked into the phone to the head of the committee. "Yes, this is Bo Swenson.  I was just wonderinf if I could enter the race on Sunday...?  Great.  Thank you.  Bye." Hanging up the phone, Bo saw his mother's jaw drop as she looked out the window.

"Is that...is that a Dodge Challenger?" She gaped, incredulous.

"Yeah.  I have to fix some stuff before the race, though."

"Are you sure you'll be able to drive again, honey?"

"Mom," Bo sighed, placing his hands on his mother's shoulders. "The only reason that I got in that accident is because a jerk wouldn't get out of my lane."

"That doesn't ease my worry," she replied, her eyebrows pulling together.  Bo hugged her tight before opening the garage door and pushing the car inside next to his father's Infiniti.  Almost immiediately he delicately rolled under the car with a wrench.

The week passe,d and Bos' car's suspension was tuned like a piano.  The doors still wouldn't open; but it'd take too long for new doors to be made and the expense would take four months to pay for on his salary.  So, Bo waited and piled more and more weight into the turnk of his car to improve the handling.

Sunday dame sooner than expected, but the Challenger received a new coat of navy paint, a rust job, a thorough tuning, and two new spare tires.  The race began at 10:00 AM; it was 8:00 now and the Swenson family had congregated in their garage.  Bo sat with his legs inside the car and his upper body sticking out the window.  His parents stood together, their faces stern and their muscles tense.

"You shouldn't be racing, Bo." His father cautioned him.  Bo grinned and shook his head.

"Yes, I should, dad.  Driving is in my blood."

"I don't care.  I'm not allowing you to race."

"Dad." Bo snapped, racing his father full-on. "I don't care whether you approve of this or not, but I'm not you rlittle boy anmore and I can make my own decisions.  I made mine four weeks ago when I first saw the flyer at school.  You don't have to come if you don't want to, but I promised the committee and myself that I'd be there to race in the race today.  i'll be back as soon as the race is over."  With that, Bo slipped in, opened the garage door, and sped away while his parents stood stunned.

The car felt like a part of Bo as he slid to a stop behind a long line of cars waiting to receive the GPS that the committee provided for the race and their number.  Ahead of Bo sat a blaze red Pontiac Trans Am, its sleek enging sounding clear even when idling.  With his fingers curling and uncurling around the steering wheel, Bo tapped his finger rapidly on the gearshift as his eyes narrowed.  Peering through the back owindow, he noticed a large diagonal crack int eh windshield.  Shock, fear, and anger mixed together welled up insidehim as the Trams Am pulled  up beside the window and Lloyd Hughes leaned out the window to receive his GPS and number.

"I knew it," Bo hissed, his lips pursing as his unoccupied hand probed arnound the stitches on his throat.  As Lloyd pulled ahead, Bo lightly pressed the gas pedal down ot crawl up to the window.

When the opening acts died down and the races were told to take their position,s Bo took one last look into the crowd to see his parents making their way into and empty space in the stands.  Taking a deep breath in and slowly letting it flow out, Bo examined the sleek black 2008 Dodge Charger to his right with bright white racing stripes stretching from the front of the hood to under the spoiler.  Bo grinned at the driver, who in turn looked over his car.  Turning to his left, he caught Lloyd Hughes' deep green gaze and grinned triumphantly.

"Surprised to see me here, Hughes?" Bo called, revving his engine. "I hope your driving has improved!"

As Lloyd struggled to respond, the massive stop like suddenly turned form red to yellow.  Immediately, Bo clutched the steering wheel with his left hand, turned on the GPS and radio, and set his right hand on top of the gearshift.  The bass of the song pulled him into the car.  When the light flashed green, his foot, one with the pedal, pushed down to the floor.

The GPS guided Bo through the course of the race, but as he drifted around shapr corners, power slid through wide turns, and swerved around other cars, Bo found himself rarely relying on the system.  However, one car escaped his vision:  a blaze red Pontiac Trans Am with a broad crack stretching across the windshield.  Bo knoew that Lloyd had passed him at the beginning, his car more used to racing past people. 

Calm down, Bo.  Bo reapeated to himself, keeping his attention on the road ahead of him.  This is no time to look for revenge.  But half of his concentration fizzed away as the burgundy bumper unfolded into his vision.  Biting his lip and gripping the steering wheel even harder, Bo thrust the gear into fifth and floored the gas pedal.  The Trans Am drew closer and closer, and slowly Lloyd's head turned to see who was coming up beside him.  Upon seeing Bo, his face flushed pale and his eyes grew wide.

"Hello!" Bo yelled over the engines, grinning.  Shouting so much hurt his throat in a scorcing pain, but he had to convince Lloyd that he wasn't in pain.

"Nice car," Lloyd hollered back, grinning back just as wide. "Too back I can crash it just the same."

"You'll have to catch me first," Bo called, silently urging his car faster than Lloyd's. 

"Me?  Catch you?  Good one, Swenson!  You've always been the comedian.  It's a shame you won't be able to drive anymore!" As Lloyd roared, he slowly veered his car over th nick the side of Bo's car, leaving a red scratch.  Gritting his teeth, Bo shifted down to fourht gear to pull behind him.  A dominant smile spread across Lloyd's face as the Challenger desappeared out of his peripheral vision.  Bo reluctantly pushed the gearshift back into third gear. 

"Come on," Bo murmured, looking for the smallest openeing to pass him.  Suddenly, the pressure of having to pass Lloyd escaped his mind as his favorite song blasted out of the car's old radio.  Bo's face burst into the biggest grin as the car ahead of him took the last turn into the home stretch wide.  His feet and hands simulatneously snapped up two gears, his feet alternating between clutch and gas, and his right hand snapping the gearshift up.  The bass pounded through his chest, pressing the car on.

As the front wheels of the Challenger entered the turn, Bo wrenched the car into a drift, sending up a cloud of dust into Lloyd's open window and giving him an easy exit out of the turn.  In the rearview mirror, Bo noticed Lloyd coughing over his steering wheel.  With the crowd roaring loud enough to break eardrums, Bo passed the finish line, a huge grin passing over his face.  Bo followed a man with a green flag over to a platfrom where the local newspaper reporter and photographer waited.  Upon seeing Bo, the guy who'd made their front page last week, the reporter smacked the photographer to start taking pictures.  The flashes blinded Bo for a moment, but when he climbed halfway out of the car he was Lloyd jump out of his car and stalk away.  Shaking his head, Bo saw his parents standing in the crowd.  His mother smiled and waved, her face breaking out in a huge smiled.  Turning to his father, Bos' celebratory grin faded at his father's stern face.  Suddenly, the expression fizzed into an enormous grin; a grin that Bo hadn't seen since he'd driven his first stick shift.  Shocked into a grin, Bo held up his hand, his fingers curled into a fist.  Catching on, his father mimicked the motion.

Three weeks later, Bo, his parents, and Jamie sat in a bright hospital room, the doctor slowly (and painfully, Bo would soon add later) removed the stitches first fromr Bo's head, then his throat, and then his stomach, leaving only rugged scars.  when the stitches were out, Bo immediately took out his hat that still read 'Jay's Delieveries' and pulled it over his hair.

"Still fits," Bo reassured himself out loud, bumping fists with Jamie.

"I still can't believe you're going to keep working there." Jamie admitted.

"I've gotta make a living somehow," Bo shrugged, eyeing his parents. "I'm moving into my dorm next Saturday.

"Well, then you have time to come help me move in," Jamie jeered, elbowing his friend where the stitches had just come out and running away.  Bo grinned through the pain and hopped off of the bed, waving to his parents as he chased Jamie down the hall and out to his Challenger.

"Yep," Bo's father sighed, turning to his wife. "Just like The Dukes of Hazzard."

Author's Note

I typed this up fast, so there might be a few errors. Feel free to tell me where.