A yawn slipped past Chris’s best attempts to stifle it behind his clenched fist. The warmer it got outside—the more evident Summer’s approach became—the longer church services dragged on. They weren’t actually longer, of course, but they felt like it. Chris felt restrained within the old church, and the weather was too perfect to be spent lined in pews listening to a sermon. He blinked stiffly, trying to keep himself from looking as bored as he felt. His mind wandered away from whatever Bible passage they had started on and went to what was going to take place after the sermon was finally over. He turned his head to get a look at Randy, who was sitting across the aisle with his family.
In contrast, Randy was wide awake, looking up at the minister with zealous focus. But Chris had a feeling that his mind wasn’t on the words coming from the pulpit. He could see it in his clenched jaw and overly stoic fixation. No teenager was that intense in church. Least of all Randy. No, he was thinking about what would happen after church too. Chris was almost intimidated by the fierce look. Almost. This wasn’t his first time, he’d been doing it since he got into high school, but when his opponent was psyched up and he was still waking up, Chris felt a tinge of concern. He turned his head forward, trying to imitate the same intensity Randy had. He’d be ready by the time the final hymn had been sung. Not that winning really mattered in the long run.
Chris rose the moment the service was over, making his way toward the end of the pew.
“Christian! Where’re you off to in such a hurry?” his mom asked, making sure to increase her volume so he’d understand she expected an answer.
Chris looked back, his eyes flicking once to Gina, his younger sister. She wouldn’t tell.
“Me and the guys had something planned,” he replied with as little emotion as possible.
“Oh yeah?” she asked, her eyes searching his for a better answer. She’d been this way for a while, and Chris had the impression that she was beginning to question his Summer Sunday escapades. “What’s that?” she asked.
“Just messing around,” Chris replied, his tone expressing his disdain for her persistence.
“Well, unfortunately, we—” before she could probe deeper, little Johnathan started to fight with the toddler next to him. Something about a stolen fruit snack. That would require her attention for sure. “Jonathan!” she snapped, fixing him with a warning gaze. By the time she turned back to continue interrogating him, Chris was long gone.
He descended the steps casually, but with an empowered gait. Each step brought him closer to the sun, closer to the wind, closer to freedom. All the high-schoolers knew what was going to happen; Chris and Randy were the centers of attention. Whatever they or their parents had planned for the afternoon no longer mattered, the first race of the Summer was about to take place.
Chris stepped out of the church and into the sunlight, golden rays hitting his deep blue straightjacket. His heart rate quickened as he saw some of his peers loitering in the parking lot. They were ready, excited, but not nervous. Neither was he, and neither was Randy.
Randy let the corner of his mouth curl into a half-smile as Chris approached.
The others quickly gathered around. They circled Chris and Randy, looking from one to the other.
“You ready for this?” Chris asked with a confident grin.
“You know I am,” Randy answered, and the two moved to their cars.
They then drove to the scene, a small caravan of their peers following to watch. The track was an old country road, too far from civilization to attract any unwanted attention. It wasn’t completely barbaric, however. Unlike most of the country roads, it was smoothly paved. What made Sunday races so thrilling was that the track was completely straight. For five miles, not a single curve or hill made the road extraordinary. This meant that you couldn’t rely on slip-ups or taking advantage of turns and knowing the track better than your opponent. It was speed against acceleration, the ability to control a straight road against the ability to sneak around the leader. A one-on-one shot of gasoline adrenaline toward a free horizon.
They stepped out of their cars, the tension surmounting as the small crowd of high schoolers gathered. Randy removed his suit-coat and rolled up his sleeves, already beginning to sweat underneath the stalling sun. Despite the heat, as well as how much he despised wearing it to church, Chris kept his suit on. It made him feel powerful, calm, and confident. It was a different feeling than wearing it in church; here it wasn’t decor, here it was filled by someone else. This someone had sharp eyes, a quick mind—this someone could race.
The two joined up along with Doug, a recent high school graduate who had skipped college and joined the workforce.
“Alright gentlemen,” he said, placing a hand on their shoulders. “Are you ready for the first race of the Summer?”
“You know it,” Randy said, and Chris nodded in agreement.
“Good,” Doug said, patting them both, “because I’ve been bored outta my brains. Now, I know you know the rules, but let’s go over ‘em again, just because it’s the first race of the Summer.” Doug walked in between them, raising his voice so the audience could hear. On top of being the most successful Sunday Driver to date, Doug was charismatic enough to hold attention and respect. “No dirty driving: ramming and pushing is strictly forbidden. This is based on your ability with the car, not on who bumps off who. If you drive dirty, you’ll be banned from Sunday races indefinitely. A racer is not crowned unless he competes according to the rules.”
Chris didn’t hear the rest. He was looking at the track behind Doug, at the horizon as it stretched away from him. It was open, empty, ready—waiting for him. He was going to reach it, there was no doubt about it.
“Alrighty, gentlemen, trade keys and get ready.”
Chris and Randy held out their keys to each other, the last and most thrilling aspect of Sunday racing. Before he’d gotten involved, when the races were only hushed Sunday School rumors, Chris didn’t understand why someone would trade cars for a race. After all, it seemed like they would be more comfortable in their own car. But after he’d been in a few races, he understood the purpose of the rule. The community was too diverse financially to make a fair race. If someone had enough money to buy a power car, there’s no way anyone else would stand a chance. That’s why—to all the high schoolers who invested Sunday Races—had each bought sturdy and reasonable cars rather than going over or under-board. They scraped by to get that perfect car that may not have looked like much but could get them further below the mile-a-minute mark. This resulted in relatively fair races and no fancy cars. No one wanted to waste time and money on a car if they weren’t going to be able to drive it. But there were rules about that too. Each car had to be maintained and properly fit for a race. If someone wasn’t taking care of their car, they wouldn’t be allowed to race. This was only fair, as their opponent would be the one to drive it.
An additional benefit of the trade was that it showed the skill of the driver. If you could win in a beater, you were better than a good driver with a fast car, and everyone would know it. Nothing felt better than being an underdog, nothing felt better than proving yourself on a level playing field. That was the highlight of Sunday Races.
“Alright, shake on it,” Doug said after he’d finished going through the rules.
They stretched out their hands and shook firmly, the tension finally taking its place. Randy, though he’d been a long-time friend, was now the enemy. As soon as their handshake was broken, Chris saw only the two cars and the five-mile road.
Randy’s car was well-kept, just like Chris’s. Leading up to Summer, they spent the majority of their time working on their cars together and getting them ready for the races. Chris knew the vehicle almost as well as Randy. The topic of whose car was better often came up, but neither had budged on which one could hold such a claim. The irony is that the car meant a lot less in the end; it was the driver who won.
Chris started the engine, smiling as the car eased to life. It wasn’t a loud car, very few of the Sunday Drivers had anything boisterous. But it could race—Chris had seen that first hand.
His own car started up, a little louder than Randy’s. Chris turned and saw his opponent looking at him through his open window. Chris rolled his window down and nodded as Doug motioned for them to pull forward. Doug put his hands up when they’d reached the battered stop sign. He then removed a pocket Bible.
“Know ye not that they which drive in a race drive all, but one receiveth the prize?” He looked up at Chris and Randy, whose hands were gripped tightly but calmly on their steering wheels. He smiled, and—as the engines began to rev—said, “so drive, that ye may obtain!”
And with that, white smoke and the smell of burnt rubber filled the air as the two cars jerked from the line. The observers cheered and clapped before running to their cars.
“They’re off,” Doug said through a radio to the watchers at the finish line. The next several minutes were filled with anxious waiting and eyes fixed on the horizon. But not for Chris and Randy. For them, the minutes passed like seconds, and the horizon sped toward them.
Chris’s heart began to rupture, his spirit freed by the screaming of the simple engine and the smell of burnt rubber. His hands felt light, yet they had never been more in control of anything. Every movement was true and every calculation perfect. His mind and body were moving in fluid harmony, entirely absent of fear or uncertainty. It didn’t matter who won, this was what Chris raced for.
Randy had gotten a better start, only by mere fractions of a second, but it was going to count. He was pulling ahead early, but Chris had expected this. His car was quicker, acceleration was one of its strongest points. But if you didn’t know what to do with a lead, however big, it didn’t count for much against a car that would match it in speed once its acceleration was built up. Randy did know what to do, however; he’d been racing long enough to learn from both victory and defeat. The moment he was far enough ahead, he pulled sharply into Chris’s lane, hoping to trigger a short pedal brake. Such a mistake would be fatal, as Chris would have to build up his speed all over again.
Instead of slowing down, he moved to the other lane, almost in sync with Randy’s movement. It was a bit of a risky move, but if he did it right, Randy wouldn’t be able to cause any more problems. He kept his speed and pulled far enough forward that another lane change would be dangerous for Randy. Now was the time to hammer in his acceleration build. His foot struck down hard, and the car began to growl. Chris smiled at the sound. Things were picking up, but he knew better than to get too excited. Randy was a formidable driver and knew how to handle a neck-and-neck race. Consistency, a cool head, and a mind focused on the car was what won a race. In the end, it was as much a mental contest as it was one of speed. If you didn’t have the confidence to go all-in, to push your car to the limits, you wouldn’t win. There was no playing it safe in a Sunday Race, only confidence in the car and faith that the other driver wouldn’t do anything stupid. Neither Randy nor Chris was stupid, neither were they desperate enough to do something stupid.
They were almost even now, with Randy only inches ahead. Chris wanted to look to the side, to see if Randy was still level, but he didn’t dare. Randy was fighting the same urge, and the first to show any kind of distraction from the road would be the one to suffer. Chris kept his eyes ahead—the end was almost in sight, and he was ready to take the lead. The tensity peaked, and Chris began to breathe heavily as the finish line appeared on the horizon. The small crowd watching began to scream and jump. Chris tightened his grip and lowered his breath rate. Only a few seconds more.
In a sudden moment so quick it was almost startling, Chris gained the lead. His eyes widened, and exhilaration poured over him as they crossed the finish line—Chris ahead by almost a whole foot. A foot was enough, although it cut pretty close to an undetermined winner.
There was a minute of frenzied cheering and excited crowding before Doug entered the scene.
“Chris Lenam!” his voice echoed through the crowd as he pulled up in his car, “the winner of the first race of the Summer is Chris Lenam!”
The high schoolers gathered around Chris after he’d slowed down and circled back. Chris stepped out of the car, appearing calm and confident despite how stirred, thrilled, and shaken he was inside. To race was to be alive, to win was revel in being so.
“Cheat!” a voice called from behind.
Chris turned, stunned and appalled by the accusation. Randy was storming out of Chris’s car, keys buried in white-knuckled fists.
“You cheated!” he shouted as he threw the keys at his opponent’s feet.
“Cool it!” Doug shouted, taking a few steps toward him.
“You cool it!” Randy said behind clenched teeth as he gave the older teen a shove. Doug grew defensive but didn’t act as Randy continued toward Chris. “You broke the rules, Chris,” he insisted, his eyes still ablaze with adrenaline. “You did something to your car so I wouldn’t win.”
“No I didn’t,” Chris answered coolly after picking up the keys. He had to keep a good composure, otherwise, his peers might believe Randy. But inside, he was furious that the first race was being sullied by an accusation.
“Yes you did, you liar!” Randy countered with a quick scoff. He then turned to the crowd, and to Doug. “You guys telling me you didn’t see how he got ahead of me at the last second?”
Some of the high schoolers lowered their brows, but none spoke up.
“Come on, Chris, that race wasn’t fair and you know it,” Randy said, his voice becoming lower, almost pleading. He wanted a response, needed it. “Own up to it,” he said after a moment of silence. “Own up to it and we can race again to see the true winner.”
In any other setting, Chris might have yielded. He wasn’t an overconfident person—especially not in public. But here, on the racetrack, he couldn’t bury himself.
“You own up to it,” Chris answered, letting a bit of his own temper slip through but remaining the calmer of the two. “You lost fair and square, own it.”
“You’re full of it Chris,” Randy said, a bitter chuckle creeping out from his tight jaw. Chris took a moment to respond, he could have handled accusations and defamation from anyone else, but it made him sick to hear it from Randy. Whatever he did, he committed to keeping his composure.
“I think you’re full of it,” Chris replied calmly, “you lost your cool and hurt your pride. Now you don’t want to admit that I’m the better driver.”
That tipped Randy over. Maybe Chris should’ve expected it, maybe he deserved it, but he didn’t have time to evade the sudden fist launched at his cheek.
Chris fell backward onto the ground, one hand going to the side of his face and the other to steady himself. A warm thick liquid coated his tongue, and he gave a livid chuckle as another emotion surfaced. It may have been Sunday, but it sure felt like any other day of the week at that moment.
Randy was quicker and stronger than Chris, as well as more prepared for a fight. He evaded Chris’s attempt at a hook to the face and planted one of his own on Chris’s good cheek. Again, Chris was sent backward, but he didn’t fall this time. He steadied himself and prepared for another blow. He didn’t have a chance to try another swing because Doug quickly stepped between the two, a Bible in his hands.
“Snap out of it,” he shouted, “both of you!”
“He cheated, Doug!” Randy protested.
Doug answered by impatiently tapping the Bible on Randy’s puffed-out chest. Although the gesture infuriated him, Randy knew better than to resist the touch of the Bible.
“Jeez,” Doug then murmured, glancing at Chris’s face. “You got whipped.”
“Just turning the other cheek,” Chris said, nodding to the Bible. This issued short and uneasy laughter from the onlookers but did nothing to satiate Randy.
“Yeah well ‘love your enemies’ is only a few verses after that,” Doug retorted. “And I’m not seeing a lot of love from either of you.”
There was a stiff silence then, Doug the only thing stopping the two from continuing their brawl. Sunday Races were rarely this interesting, and everyone who’d shown up was glad they had. This race would be talked about in Sunday School for the rest of the Summer.
“So what are we going to do about this?” Doug asked, turning from one to the other. Neither answered or looked at him. “These races are supposed to be civil, pure competition without the drama. God knows we all have enough drama to deal with.”
Both Chris and Randy were suddenly a little more invested in what Doug was saying. At the moment, neither of them had thought their actions were extraordinarily out of line. But now that Doug—who managed the races—was making a big deal of it, they saw that there could be some dramatic reprimands.
“A month-long ban,” Doug decided, “for each of you.”
“Come on Doug,” Randy immediately protested.
“No cuts, no butts, no coconuts,” Doug replied firmly, giving him a warning finger.
Chris chose not to say anything, but his soul began to crumble.
Doug looked them over a moment before saying anything more.
“Now go on, get out of here and clean yourselves up. You guys sweat enough to drown a tick.”
Chris handed Randy his keys. Randy gave an unforgiving glare and then snatched them from his hand. The two walked toward their cars, the crowd awkwardly watching as the tension followed them. Randy was the first to pull out, revving his engine and driving off with as much emotion as he could put in his wheels. Chris drove off much more calmly, but—once he was out of sight—pumped the pedal with equal zeal and clenched teeth.
He was furious, outraged that Randy’s immaturity had cost him a whole month’s worth of racing. He throttled the wheel, recalling every glorious second of the race. He’d never even considered cheating, it would’ve destroyed the whole purpose of the races. It sickened him to think that the races would be forever tainted by the idea of an unfair race. Chris was breathing hot fumes by the time he reached his family’s gravel lane.
He remembered then that his cheeks hurt, and looking into the rear-view mirror saw that they were both red. They weren’t turning blue or swelling yet, which was a blessing, but his parents—especially his mom—were sure to notice. A bit of blood gave his teeth a pinkish hue, and he spread as much saliva as he could across them to wash it off. By the time he parked the car and stepped out he was physically put together, but not in the mood to talk to anyone. But the moment he entered the door, he knew it would be hard to avoid a confrontation.
“You weren’t gone very long,” came the voice of his mom from somewhere further back in the house. She had an uncanny talent for knowing exactly who was coming through the door at any given time. She could probably tell each individual ladybug apart that came in through the open windows. “Usually your little escapades last till past dinner.”
“Everyone else had dinner plans,” Chris answered flatly while moving away from the voice. If he could get to his room and clean himself up a bit he might be able to put off her questioning his red cheeks and bloodied lip.
“Well that’s good, because we do too,” his mom said, her voice getting closer. “I was going to tell you but you whipped off right after the service.”
“I’ll be up in my room,” Chris said when he reached the stairs. He could tell she was just a corner away and began to climb the stairs when a hand caught his suit coat.
“Christian Lenam!” she gasped as she studied a small tear and white gravel dust. “What were you and your friends doing?” she asked, her brows raised and her head leaned slightly forward in anticipation.
“Nothing,” Chris whined as he turned around, “just messing around.”
And that was when the game was up, the first mistake Chris had made all day. His mom saw the red cheeks and dried blood, and her complexion shifted from suspicion to horror.
“Oh my—”
“I told you, we were just messing around,” Chris said before she could unload on him.
“Messing around?” she scoffed as she pulled him down the stairs and toward the kitchen. “You know I was a teen once too, I know what that ‘messing around’ means.”
“Mom, I wasn’t—”
“You don’t get to talk right now,” she cut him off and held a warning finger up as they reached the kitchen. She directed him to a seat while she got a wet towel and an ice pack. Chris grew anxious the longer she was silent. He knew that she wouldn’t do much to punish him, but it never felt right when she was quiet.
“Mom—”
“Shush,” she said as she placed an ice pack on his cheek. He grimaced slightly and she let up after a moment. “Alright Chris, what happened?”
Chris was silent now. He kept his eyes away, knowing that connection would break his resistance. The races had to be kept secret; if the church found out, they would do something to stop them. And then every high schooler in the church would be after him. Worse still, he’d lose every reason to look forward to Sundays.
“Okay then,” she added a little pressure to her care and Chris lowered his brows in pain. “Who were you with? Can you at least tell me that?”
Chris hesitated here, considering whether it was safe to answer. None of his friends would rat him out; if they did, they’d be ratting themselves out as well. She would need some sort of answer to be satisfied, and this seemed like a safe place to compromise.
“Randy, Doug, and some other friends,” he answered.
“Doug Reeb?” she took off the ice pack. “Isn’t he working?”
“I think so.”
“Where at?”
“I don’t know.”
“Well,” she looked him over and then returned the ice packs to the freezer. “I take it Randy didn’t say anything about tonight?”
Chris’s eyes widened.
“He probably ditched his family right after the service too,” she concluded, her tone stinging just a bit. “Anyway, his family’s coming over for dinner.”
Chris was deathly silent, but he managed to regain a bit of his composure. It wasn’t enough, however, and his mom—as quick as any mom—caught on.
“Randy wouldn’t have any part to play in your balloon-shaped cheeks, would he?” She gave a confident tip of her chin, reveling in her victory. “So, you two have a bit of a fallout?”
“Something like that,” he confessed after a deep sigh.
She nodded and then sat down beside him.
“Well, tonight’ll be a bit awkward then. But it might be a good opportunity to set things right.” She wasn’t gentle yet, but more sympathetic than she’d been a minute ago. Chris shook his head.
“Maybe he won’t come,” was the most optimistic outlook he could muster.
Chris’s mom was silent a moment, her brows furrowed as if in thought. She looked at Chris intensely, her mind far past him.
“What makes Randy Lenam think he can sock my kid?” she suddenly asked herself. Chris gave her a startled look. In most circumstances, he’d be grateful she was so ready to stand up for him. But he knew that she couldn’t fix what Randy broke. He’d proven himself to everyone at the races, and her stepping in would only muddy the waters.
“Mom,” Chris’s stomach began to drop as she picked up the phone. “What are you doing.”
“I’m going to make sure Randy comes tonight,” she answered, defiant of any counterargument.
“Mom—”
“No, Chris, there are a few things I’ve been wanting to say to Liz for a while.” She was too far gone now, and Chris sighed heavily as the call was sent.
“Hi Liz,” she said, grinning violently. “I was just talking with Chris, and he said he’s excited for tonight and hoping Randy can make it.”
Chris put his head in his hands.
“Great, see you in a few hours,” she gave one of those short polite giggles and then hung up.
Chris didn’t say anything, he knew it wouldn’t change the evening. His mom stood triumphantly over her defeated son.
“Where’s your dad?” she then muttered as she left the kitchen.
It was over. The whole highlight of summer, the most freeing moments of his high school career—it was all going to erode in one fell swoop. All because Randy lost his temper. Chris could see it now: going into church on Wednesday night with everyone under the age of twenty glaring at him and Randy. Doug would be much more devastated. The prospect of Summer races was his therapy, he’d talked about nothing else ever since he’d graduated. He’d disown the both of them and never involve them in anything ever again. Chris sat down against his bed and lay his head back.
As he watched the ceiling fan spin in lazy circles, he decided two things. The first was that—whatever happened—Randy would end up in the same boat as he was. No one liked to be shoved under the bus, but Chris would die before letting Randy walk away without having to pay for his outburst. The last was that this wouldn’t be the end of his racing. Even if he couldn’t compete in Sunday Races, he’d find a way to race. He had to.
Dinnertime came much quicker than Chris would have liked, and his cheeks hadn’t healed as much as he wanted. They were still somewhat red and inflated when the Herbert family came to the door. He smiled and greeted them politely, shaking hands with Ed and Liz, and then giving a convincing nod to Randy. Convincing to Ed and Liz, at least. There was a silent understanding between them, however briefly they had locked eyes. Neither had changed stances from several hours ago.
“Thanks for making the time to come over, I know Sunday evenings can be reserved for staying at home,” Randy’s dad said as he looked across his table once everyone was seated. He loved having people over and embraced every aspect of social courtesy. His wide grin and welcoming eyes were enough to ensure anyone that his home was theirs. “Before we start, I’ll lead us in prayer.”
The two families bowed their heads in prayer. Randy had been seated across Chris, and neither paid any attention to the other. Apart from the bruises forming on Chris’s cheeks, they were the perfect images of two good Christian boys.
Chris was tempted to open his eyes and glimpse up at Randy, just to see if he was doing the same. But he knew it would lend a point to his opponent and make him look like the weaker one. So he waited patiently for the duration of his father’s eloquent prayer. When the word “amen” finally crossed his lips, Chris looked up at Randy. He was looking back, with an expression only he could read. It was one of commitment as well as despair. A desperate man is dangerous, a committed desperate man even more so.
“Chris, serve the vegetables,” his mom said lightly, ignoring the tension between them.
Chris obeyed without hesitation, taking Randy’s plate first.
“Tell me when,” he said as he began scooping mixed greens.
“When,” Randy said flatly after two spoonfuls. Chris gave him an extra scoop and handed back the plate. Randy gave a silent scoff and took the plate.
The beginning of dinner went smoothly, with the adults ignoring the presence of Chris and Randy for the most part. Chris and Randy ignored each other as well, pretending to be interested in the adult’s conversation. But eventually, as he knew she would, Chris’s mom turned the conversation to them.
“Randy,” she began. He turned to face her, equipping a polite and attentive expression. “I couldn’t get Chris to tell me what you two were doing this afternoon.” She then waited expectantly, her eyes piercing him but her smile masking any cruelty. He hesitated, glancing once at Chris before answering.
“We were just messing around,” he said with an unconvincing grin.
“I never understood that answer,” she replied thoughtfully, her coy smile working away at Randy’s confidence. “I mean—and I’m sure you’d agree,” she nodded to Liz, “—I always get the impression that something bad is going on when Chris tells me he and his friends were ‘messing around.’” She chuckled lightly as she waited for a response from Liz.
There was an awkward silence as both parents lowered their brows and Randy tried to decide whether to defend himself or remain quiet. Before he did, Liz spoke up.
“Anne, are you trying to insinuate something?” she asked, politely but implying that she too had a lot she wanted to say.
“I’m just curious what goes on when our kids ‘mess around.’ Aren’t you?”
“Well, I’m not concerned that Randy and Chris are getting into anything,” Anne replied with a bit of a scoff. “I think they deserve the benefit of the doubt, don’t they?”
“Yeah,” Liz nodded, and then looked at Chris. “I guess I just get a little concerned when my son comes home after ‘messing around’ with Randy and Doug with two puffed-up cheeks.”
All eyes went to Chris. His cheeks got redder, and he averted his eyes to Randy. A mental deadlock ensued, with the both of them realizing that they would both be exposed. But there was still a competition to be had between the two of them, as well as between their mothers.
“If you’re saying Randy did this—”
“I’m not saying that,” Anne quickly clarified.
“It sure sounds like it!” Liz said, her dainty brows now lowered.
“Well what would you think?” Anne retaliated, leaning forward angrily.
“I’d look at my own son before I start blaming someone else’s,” she scoffed.
“Oh I bet you would,” Anne muttered with one corner of her mouth twisted upward.
“What was that?”
Anne was quiet a moment, and both husbands looked at their wives anxiously. Neither one thought it was necessary to step in, as this wasn’t the first time they’d let loose on each other. And it wouldn’t be the last. If they’d remained friends so far, they wouldn’t be broken by one more argument.
“If you have something to say, why don’t you say it?” Liz persisted. She leaned back in her chair, arms crossed. She’d been waiting for this moment as much as Anne had.
“Alright,” Anne answered calmly. “I will.”
“Good.”
Anne breathed in and then sighed before beginning.
“Who do you think you are?” she asked.
“Excuse me?”
“You prance around church like you’re the Good Samaritan, soaking up everyone’s praise, but you never show up to a single community outreach.”
“I can’t be everywhere,” Liz scoffed, “and I do a lot of work inside the church. I notice that you don’t attend any of our meetings.”
“Meetings?” Anne retorted. “Oh please, half the time you’re just talking about whether or not the Sunday School should sing hymns or contemporary songs!”
“That’s not fair—”
“And you know what?” Anne stood up now, her full frustration being brought to the surface. “I never liked your casseroles.”
Liz gasped.
“You add way too many vegetables.”
“You don’t add enough!” Anne shot back.
By this time, both of the husbands had retreated to another room, knowing their wives well enough to know they’d calm down before long. This sort of thing had to happen sooner or later, and they’d talk it out eventually. As the argument raged on, Chris looked at Randy and gestured toward the window.
“I’ve never seen your mom like that,” Chris chuckled after they’d sat in silence for a moment. The porch was quiet as the sun began to retire, and the crickets began to lull the world to sleep.
“I’ve never seen yours like that,” Randy replied flatly.
There was another long break, during which neither looked in the other’s direction or hinted at any desire to communicate. Chris was just as upset as Randy, if not more. But he knew that he couldn’t lose his competitor. If he could turn Randy around, they could still race. So finally, Chris spoke up.
“I swear I didn’t cheat,” he said as earnestly as possible.
Randy didn’t say anything.
“Why would I sabotage my own car for a race? I still have to drive it.”
Again, Randy didn’t say anything.
“Look, it sucks that we’ve been kicked out for a month,” he paused. “Actually, probably longer now. God knows what our moms will do. But we don’t have to be enemies, do we?”
“I can’t be friends with a cheater,” Randy muttered.
“How about we stay opponents then?” Chris said, his attempt at friendliness being replaced by determination. He needed to race, and Randy was the only one who’d race him now.
Randy turned to look at him, and the two connected eyes.
“You said earlier you wanted a rematch, right?”
Randy nodded.
“Well, how about it then?” Chris gave him a short nod. “Make our own rules and race until we’re satisfied?”
They both understood that they couldn’t stop competing that easily. And they each knew that there was no person they’d rather compete with than each other.
“Name the place and time,” Randy said as they shook hands.
Summer’s brightest rays struck the windows and illuminated the church as the sermon continued. Chris could feel Doug’s eyes penetrate the back of his head. He could feel the entire youth group’s focus. They were fixated on him and Randy. They’d all seen or heard about the race—and more importantly, the fight. And, in a statement of public defiance, Chris and Randy had chosen to sit in the same pew. Several rows behind and to the side, off the wing and in the main body of the sanctuary, the Herbert and Lenam families sat together. Despite that explosive Sunday, they had all come together and formed a tighter bond than before. Chris and Randy especially.
Randy nudged Chris, offering a mint in his open hand.
After the service, Chris and Randy made their way through the doors and out into the sunlight. A circle of high schoolers were forming around Doug as he made his way to his car. Chris and Randy could guess what was being discussed as well as where they were going. Despite the church’s—as well as each individual parent’s—condemnation of the after-church practice, many of the high schoolers hadn’t stopped racing or watching those bold enough to trade keys. Doug certainly hadn’t.
“Nice day for a race,” Chris said as they watched the group pull away. “You got dinner plans?”
“Not that I know of,” Randy replied. Chris grinned, and they made their way to their cars.
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