Saving Grace

5

Grace erupted into hysterical laughter as the car pivoted right, tires screeching against the asphalt, leaving a trail of black lines.

"Left!"

The steering wheel jerked left and the car followed, its black-rimmed wheels hitting the gutter and narrowly missing two pedestrians taking a midnight stroll.

"Faster!"

My foot pressed down on the accelerator, lips curling into a wild grin. The mirrors filled up with smoke, the air with burning rubber.

"Right!"

Her voice was drowning under the aggressive gangster rap thrashing against the radio. When the car spun right again, I felt the million dollar machine tremble. My knuckles whitened on the wheel, adrenaline coating my veins.

"Where are we going?!"

"I'll tell you when we get there!"

I looked back at the speeding street. A coffee place swept by us in an instant. Recognition flourished. Grace called another right and my polished, mediocre high school peeked over the horizon, curious eyes gleaming in the night.

"School?"

"Yep."

"Why?"

She shrugged.

"Seemed right – putting the thing he loves most in the place he hates most."

The buildings dispersed around the structure as we approached, giving us full view of the main building – Bayton High School, painted creamy-white with black windows and a trimmed lawn, most of which was irreversibly crushed under the enormous weight of an industrial crane, looming over us like pale beacon in the night.

"I hope you enjoyed the ride," Grace said as I stared up in wonder, "because in ten minutes, this car is going to be on top of that building."

***

The car squealed to a grinding halt outside the school's front lawn.

"What do you mean it's going to be on top of the building?"

"Well, what do you think the crane is for?"

My vocal chords locked up, cramping in my throat. Before they could unwind from one another, two black figures popped up out of seemingly nowhere and approached the car. One of them, slightly shorter and thinner than the other, skipped like a schoolgirl across the grass while the other walked with a discernible authority, either granted or taken, while a cigarette smouldered in one corner of her mouth. Both came into a dim yet focused light and Grace greeted them fondly. The schoolgirl – who looked about five years too old to be called that – was a pretty little thing with ordinary brown hair and freckled cheeks. The other was a stocky blond, smoke-stained and tensed-up, as if she were awaiting some sort of violent quarrel to be sprung upon her. Numbly, I stepped out of the vehicle and stood aside as Grace hugged the petite one. The fighter looked at me coldly, and I felt like one of those poor creatures awaiting dissection in a tenth grade biology class.

"Richie, these are my friends, Fiona and Shelley."

Fiona, beaming with a foolish intrinsic light, leapt forward and grabbed me tightly around the neck, hugging me for barely a second.

"Hi!"

I backed away, surprised.

"Sorry," she chirped. "I'm a hugger."

Shelley stepped forward next, stuck out her hand and took a long drag of her smoke.

"Shell," she said, the word weaving past the burning fag and out of her weathered lips.