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I’m on the south side? Why I’m drag racing? Even worse, how do I explain why I wanted to be drag racing?
    Isaiah turns sharply to the left. His brake lights never appear. I reach for the gearshift and switch pedals in order to make the turn. My back wheels slide out from under me and both hands struggle with the wheel as I fight to keep the car from spinning into a Dumpster.
    Claustrophobia consumes me as the buildings gradually close in, making the road narrower and almost impossible to navigate. Garbage covers the roadway, and my stomach sinks as I realize there’s no way to avoid the debris. Isaiah runs over it and so must I.
    Isaiah’s lights flash off and I follow his lead. The glow of the full moon is the only pathetic light leading us. His Mustang pulls farther away from mine, and I shift into Fourth. We’re going too fast. Too fast on a too-narrow road. I shudder as the wheels roll over trash and a clink from under my car makes me cringe. Did something hit the gas tank? The transmission?
    My heart pounds out of my chest when my car becomes airborne through an intersection. From the corner of my eye, I spot police cars running parallel to us on a street much wider than ours. Sirens scream into the night and as my car hammers back into the ground, I wait for that sound to shriek from right behind me.
    Darkness envelops me again and I drop gear as Isaiah takes a last-second right. He’s too fast, which is impossible because my car is better than his. I shake my head as I understand the difference: he’s a better driver. It’s not hard to imagine. I’m not good at anything.
    Isaiah’s car fishtails and I slam on my brakes to keep from crashing into his rear end. My breath leaves my body in a hiss. On either side of my car, metal warehouse walls threaten to scratch my side mirrors. He slows, and thanks to the dim security light hanging over a bay door, I see the reason for the reduced speed: shredded rubber spikes out from his front driver-side wheel. Isaiah destroyed the tire.
    Crap. I’m going to jail and my mother is going to freak. She’ll cry and then she’ll know I’m nothing like the daughter she really loves—that I’m nothing like Colleen.
    Isaiah’s arm extends from his window, waving me on as he eases his car into a space between Dumpsters. I pull alongside of him and he hops out. “Two rights. One left. Then hit the freeway. Watch the cops. They’re running on the streets to the left and right of us.”
    My throat tightens. To the left
and
the right? “Come with me.”
    Isaiah places his hands on the top of my car and leans over so that his head is level with mine. The strong scent of dark spices tickles my nose and I inhale deeply. A brief calm washes through me and somehow I know Isaiah will get me out of this.
    “They’re pressing hard to find the racers, meaning us. If they pull you over—” his eyes trail over my hair then over my clothes “—they’ll probably let you go, but not if you’re with me. Especially if you’re with me. Go. Now.”
    I nod and stare at the road in front of me. Two rights. One left. And if I get caught, they’ll probably let me go. I glance at Isaiah. He’s touching my car and I don’t even care. Which tells me I’m either beyond freaked or I like him. I flex my hands, which are sweating on the steering wheel. I pick the first option. I’m definitely freaking. “What will you do?” I ask.
    “Walk.” His silver hoops glint in the moonlight as he performs a half shrug. “Go. I can take care of myself.” Isaiah steps away from the car, taking the dark scent of calm with him.
    I put the car into First, and a fresh wave of adrenaline floods my bloodstream when a cop car speeds across an intersection two warehouses ahead. Isaiah falls into the shadows with his back against the warehouse wall. His eyes travel back and forth down the alleyway. An hour ago, I never would have thought that someone like him would be my savior, but he is. What type of