start the car,â said Coleman. âSheâs looking for something else to throw.â
Feet ran down the front steps.
âHurry!â yelled Coleman.
âThatâs not Martha.â
Nicole sprinted down to the car.
âWhat are you doing?â yelled Serge.
âComing with you. Iâm getting the fuck out of this hell house!â
âYour mouth!â said Serge.
She grabbed the passenger-door handle before Serge could hit the lock button, and dove in the backseat.
âGet out of the car,â said Serge.
She pointed up the street. âJust hit the gas.â
âOut of the carââ
Martha came running down the steps.
A cast-iron pressure cooker crashed and creased the Chevelleâs hood. âMy car! Itâs vintage!â
âTold you to hit the gas.â
Serge peeled out.
Martha ended up in the middle of the street behind the car, throwing her shoes.
Nicole was twisted around in her seat, looking out the rear window and giggling. She turned back around. âThat was cool.â
âThat was not . . . What do you think youâre doing?â
Nicole lit a Marlboro Light. âWhat?â
Serge snatched it away and threw it out the window.
âHey!â
âJesus, youâre just a kid!â said Serge. âWhat, sixteen?â
âFifteen.â
Coleman fired a new doobie and passed it back over the front seat. âWanna hit?â
âSure.â Nicole reached.
Serge slapped his hand. âColeman! Thatâs illegal!â
âSorry. How âbout a beer?â
âNo!â yelled Serge. âSheâs just a kid!â
Nicole pointed. âIs that a real gun?â
âWhat?â said Serge. âOh, this? Didnât realize Iâd gotten it out again. Something to keep my hands busy.â
âCan I hold it?â
âNo!â He stowed it under the seat.
Nicole slumped in disappointment. âYou guys looked like you were going to be fun.â
âWe are fun,â said Serge. âAsk anyone. Well, not anyone. You know how some people automatically donât like you for no reason?â
The Chevelle made a right for the Gandy Bridge.
âSo where are we going, anyway?â asked Nicole.
âWe drive around,â said Serge. âWaiting for duty to call.â
âI get it.â Nicole nodded. âYou like to go cruisinâ. Me, too. Driving around getting messed up. Then maybe street-racing on the Courtney Campbell or Twenty-second causeway. Some of those dudes have guns, too.â
âWhat dudes?â
âLike my boyfriend.â
âIâve been meaning to talk to you about him,â said Serge.
Nicole got out her cell phone. âYou mean Snake?â
âIs that a name?â
âNo, itâs just what the guys at work call him.â
âWork?â said Serge. âLike an after-school job.â
âNo, he dropped out his senior year. Has a job at the Gas-N-Grub.â
âSenior?â said Serge. âHow old is this Snake?â
âEighteen.â
Serge slapped his forehead. âNow we really have to talk. How many piercings does he have, anyway?â
âDonât be old-fashioned.â
âOh, I donât have a problem with it. Theyâre meant to attract attention, and they attracted mine . . .â
The Chevelle ramped up the bridge over Tampa Bay.
Serge glanced as the young girl tapped her cell phone. âNicole, what are you doing?â
âTexting.â Tap, tap, tap.
âBut Iâm talking to you.â
Not looking up: âI hear you.â Tap, tap, tap.
Serge yanked the phone away.
âHey!â
âItâs rude,â said Serge.
âEverybody does it.â
âAnd thatâs the whole problem with this country today. No manners.â Serge unscrewed a thermos of coffee. âPeople used to hang out and actually communicate. But today they head to
John B. Garvey, Mary Lou Widmer