Page 118 of So Thirsty

“Fuck! Fuck. Where did he come from?”

“Sloane…”

“We’re in a stolen car. You’re clearly injured. What do we do?”

“You could…pull over…and…take care of it…” she says. “Temporarily…incapacitate. Or have…the…whole…tall drink…”

“We shouldn’t have separated from the others. I’m sorry. I thought I could…I don’t know. I wanted to believe I could do this. Be this.”

“Or…” she says. “You can drive.”

We look at each other. I don’t see her as she is now. I see her as the fourteen-year-old girl who sat across from me in the food court of a New Jersey mall, fidgeting with her straw. Smart, and stunning, and funny, and cooler than anyone has any right to be. Who chose me to be her best friend. Who sees me when I can’t see myself.

I slam my foot on the gas.

The acceleration is better than I expect, and we fly.

“Told you,” Naomi says, “you’re…the engine-…revving type…”

“I don’t know about that,” I say, watching the cop car in the rearview. It’s catching up.

“Hiding away…in the burbs.”

“Shh, shh,” I tell her. “Save your energy.”

“For…what?” she asks, giving a weak laugh.

The cop is on us. He tailgates me. He’s at the back bumper. The road is covered in snow, and I can’t go any faster. This is it.

“Hang on,” I say, drifting over into the other lane and then hitting the brake. The cop clips us, and Naomi gasps.

“What the…hell was that?”

The cop gets on his PA. “Engine off! Out now! Hands where I can see them! Hands! Hands!”

“Don’t move,” I say. “Three, two—”

“What…happens on…”

“One!” I shift into reverse, sliding my foot off the brake and onto the gas. I smash into the cop car’s driver’s side. Take off its mirror, dent the door.

I shift back into drive and spin the wheel hard, and we slide, the snow squelching under the tires. I regain control and pass the cop going the opposite direction. Sixty miles per hour. Seventy. Eighty. Ninety. So fast that the convertible top rips back, that the duct tape fails and the side-view mirror dangles free.

We approach a four-way stop, and I blow straight through it. The cop hasn’t caught up to us yet, but it’s only a matter of time. I hear the sirens. More are on their way.

There’s snow in my hair, piling up in my lap. I look over at Naomi. She’s quiet, slouching against the passenger-side window. Her eyelids wilt.

“Nay?”

We reach a fork, and I take the left. There’s some traffic on this road, which isn’t good. Other cars. Obstacles. Witnesses. I clench the steering wheel. It’s a two-way street, and we’re now stuck behind an SUV going so slow, I could scream.

Its driver is smart to be careful in this weather. But I’ve stopped being careful, forfeited the game and all rules along with it, and there’s no going back now. So I speed into oncoming traffic to pass the SUV.

The driver of an approaching sedan hits their brakes, avoids hitting us but spins out, colliding with the SUV. There’s an ugly crunch, followed by a screeching, an awful sort of music. It’s a fender bender. An inconvenience. For them. Not for us. The accident will cause a roadblock. Another distraction for the cops.

I listen, though, and the sirens are drowned out by fierce wind. The visibility gets worse, oncoming headlights merely faint smears. The snow falls harder. The road gets messier. I’d be grateful for this storm if I thought I could continue to drive through it. The tires lose traction, and we start to skate all over the road.

“We might need to find somewhere to pull off,” I tell Naomi.