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freaking great!” She wound up like a baseball pitcher and threw the corsage at Trace. The fastball of pink carnations was high and outside. It hit another girl’s tall, lacquered swirls of hair—and tipped the big pile sideways. The girl shrieked as the collapsing hairfell over onto her right ear; she whirled around, swearing, as she looked for whoever had ruined her hair.
    â€œPlus I hate these shoes!” Mel shouted. She took off her high heels and pitched them high and far, for maximum distance. First one and then the other crashed into the papered horizon of blue-green waves. Big sheets tore and peeled, falling of their own weight, revealing the concrete-block gym wall behind.
    Things went downhill quickly after that. Adults homed in, corralled Mel, and hustled her in one direction; other parents broke up the group around Trace, escorting him out into the hallway. Behind, on the sinking cruise ship, the music played louder and faster—something to dance to.
    â€œThis one is gone. He won’t be coming back tonight,” one of the adult blackjack dealers announced to the table of foyer guards.
    â€œI knew he was trouble!” the tidy woman at the table said. She narrowed her eyes at Trace.
    Beau, now dateless, said, “We came to steal your daughters, and we’ll stop at nothing!” He leaned in to make a face at the woman.
    â€œAll right, that’s it!” said a couple of dad types working security. Within seconds, Beau and Trace were pushed out the door—ejected into the cool spring night—and the door slammed shut behind them.
    Trace and Beau looked at each other.
    â€œAll in all, that went fairly well,” Beau said.
    â€œYeah, right,” Trace said. From inside the gym came the muffled disco beat, then the long, low sound of a ship’s horn.
    â€œSomeone must have seen an iceberg,” Beau said. “Céline Dion’s gotta be next up on the sound track.”
    They looked around. The parking lot was quiet; there was no sign of Mel.
    â€œWant to cruise for real?” Beau asked.
    â€œWhy not?” Trace said with a shrug.
    He squeezed into Beau’s tricked-out Civic, and settled back as Beau accelerated away from the parking lot. The exhaust pipe’s big collector can hummed
Wha—whaa—whaaa—whaaaaaa!
as he went through the gears. The stereo woofer in the trunk thudded like thunder.
    â€œI got a bottle in here, too,” Beau shouted.
    â€œI could use a drink,” Trace shouted back.
    â€œNot that kind of bottle,” Beau said. Watching his rpm, he reached down and flipped a toggle switch—and the Civic punched forward as if it had been slammed in the rear end by a logging truck.
    â€œWhoa!” Trace called.
    â€œNitrous!” Beau said. “Cold air intake, turbo, 4-2-1 header, custom can by Tenga—this baby’s got it all.”
    â€œWhat’s it do in a quarter mile?” Trace asked.
    â€œAround fourteen seconds flat,” Beau answered.
    â€œThat beats a lot of V-8s,” Trace said.
    â€œTell me about it,” Beau said. “Off the line, they hole-shoot me big-time—then think they’ve got it in the bag.About the time they let off, I get all ricey on them, and shoot past them like they’re standing still.”
    â€œSweet,” Trace said, “but don’t get us killed, all right?” They were doing ninety.
    â€œGood point,” Beau said, and backed off. “The goal in life is not to be a cliché.”
    â€œHuh?” Trace said.
    â€œLike stalling the car on the railroad tracks on prom night? That sort of cliché.”
    â€œOr being an Asian kid who drives a rice burner,” Trace said.
    Beau looked at him.
    â€œHey, it’s true,” Trace said.
    â€œYeah, well,” Beau said, cracking a smile. He down-shifted sharply into a U-turn, and headed back toward the city limits sign.
    â€œSo what else have you got