Fastback Beach by Shirlee Matheson

Chapter One
    The Mustang convertible sits in the parking lot of the ten-story apartment building, nicely hidden from view by a huge leafy poplar tree.
    â€œLike it, Miles?” asks Larry the Lark.
    â€œSweet,” I say.
    Black paint gleams in the moonlight, shiny and sleek. I look up at the apartment block. Blinds are closed on most windows. The others are in darkness. No one is sittingout on balconies. It’s 11:00 at night. All good people are in their beds.
    Spider throws down his smoke and grinds the butt with his heel. “Let’s move.”
    There’s no backing down. Larry is already checking the doors. “Locked,” he mutters.
    â€œNo problem.” Spider pulls a tool from a duffel bag he’s carrying.
    â€œHe’s got a Slim-Jim,” Larry whispers for my education.
    â€œForget that!” Spider says. “It’s a
ragtop
, man!”
    He is holding something in his hand. I hear a click and a long thin blade flashes out. Spider leans over the roof and I hear the rip as he slashes the tight canvas top. He reaches in to pull up the lock and in a split second he’s yanking the door open.
    Larry spins around the front of the car and jumps into the passenger side.
    â€œIt’s Clubbed!”
    â€œNo sweat. Good scouts come prepared,” says Spider. He grins — the firsttime I have seen a smile crack his face. He yanks up his sleeve and rips off a hacksaw blade that is taped to his forearm. He starts sawing at the wheel. There must be only a thin circle of metal under the padding. After just a minute of intense work, Larry spreads the wheel apart and Spider removes the Club. They work like a team. They must have done this before.
    What am I doing here? I stand in the shadow of the tree. My mind is racing. My heart is pounding. It’s happening. And I’m in.
    Larry reaches over to the steering column with a screwdriver and breaks the ignition lock. Spider flings the Club into the backseat and slips the five-speed gearshift into neutral.
    â€œPush!” Spider hisses. I go around to the back. Together we roll the car out of the parking lot and into the darkened alley. “Get in!”
    I scramble into the backseat. Spider and Larry jump in the front. Before the doors are closed, Larry sticks the screwdriver into theignition switch, the engine roars to life and we’re spewing gravel.
    When we’re a couple of blocks away, Spider screeches to a stop. “Let’s get some moonshine.” I think he means booze, but his plan is to lower the top. Moonlight suddenly washes over us in a silver glow.
    â€œBeauty!” Spider says as we hit the freeway. “No more second-rate junkers for us!”
    I sit forward and watch the speedometer climb. Then Spider floors it. I fall back onto the leather seat.
    â€œHey, slow down!” I shout.
    â€œYou
like
speed!” Larry yells back. “Your old man’s a racer.”
    â€œYeah, but on a racetrack. This …” Another acceleration throws me back again.
    How did I get into this? How do I get out?
Will
I get out? Spider is screaming and yelling like some freak, which he is. Larry has been my friend since first grade, even though he’s gone a bit crazy since his parents split up. His mother moved off and took his little sister. He lives with his dad who lets him run wild.
    â€œGo, man!” Larry yells and taps a drum- beat on the dashboard with his fingers. It drives me crazy when he does that, as if he’s some kind of rock band drummer.
    At the turnoff to Fastback Beach, Spider stomps the brakes and the car fishtails. He straightens it but we’ve passed the turnoff, so he cuts a U-turn in the middle of the highway, laying rubber that smokes around us. Then we’re on the gravel trail leading down to the beach.
    Below us, white in the moonlight, stretch miles of sand. This is a perfect place for drag racing. Spider steps on it and the car jumps ahead. I put my