Free Fireworks by Riley Clifford Page B

leather driving gloves that still carried the scent of her perfume, even more than a year later.
    Gentlemen
, Dan thought as he put the key into the ignition,
start your engines.
    Dan always won the races in video arcades, but this time he was racing himself. As if he could work up enough speed to travel back and undo all the bad stuff that had happened.
    Dan pulled the seat up so that he could be close enough for a firm grip on the wheel, but far enough away to lightly drape his arm over it, like dudes in music videos. He checked his mirrors, put the car in reverse, and pulled out of the garage onto the driveway.
Sweet!
he thought. Even Amy would have to admit his driving had improved. He was a pro.
    Dan fiddled with the old-timey radio dial until he found a rap station. It would be a good sign if Jonah came on the radio right then, hammering out his latest platinum single. Dan turned up the volume knob as high as it would go. Nellie would be asleep. There was no way Uncle Fiske or Amy could hear him when he was all the way down on the driveway. The mansion was too big, the roads too wide.
    It was a clear, cold night, and the moon cut like a wafer. Dan cranked down the top of the convertible so he could get the full effect — the wind in his hair, tires giddyupping to life on the icy driveway. To counter the cold air, he blasted heat from the old vents. The Mustang drove smoothly for such an old car, and the wheel felt good in his hands; his foot on the gas, he was in control.
    Buckle up
, Dan told himself,
you’re in for a wild ride.
    At the end of the long, long driveway leading away from the mansion toward the road, the gate opened slowly, slowly. The wheels skidded slightly on the ice from the recent storm.
    He turned the wheel arm over arm in a laid-back, chill kind of way, as if he’d been doing this his whole life. The Mustang made a right turn. Then, when he was headed away from the mansion, he pushed the gas pedal until he could hear the car start to roar. He shifted up into second, grateful that his instructor had taught him how to drive a stick. The roads were empty, there was nobody awake or around for miles, and Dan pressed his foot down hard on the accelerator. Third gear.
Time to see what this baby can do.
    The road ahead curved sharply. Dan knew he was supposed to slow down before going into the turn, but he sped up to fourth gear instead, taking the turn at the last possible moment, the car fishtailing to the other side of the street before Dan could straighten out. The car righted itself, sliding only slightly on the ice, and Dan laughed out loud. He could take down anything. Faster. Fifth.
    There
, he said to the road,
you like that?
    Dan was pushing a hundred now, the needle pulsing down into the red. He’d never gone this fast in his whole life, even as a passenger. It felt amazing — everything a blur as he blew right past it. The cemetery, the woods. Acres and acres of the Cahill estate that normally would have taken five times as long to navigate. The night was cold, especially with the top down, but Dan couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt the wind on his face like this, the race of his heartbeat, hair flapping about wildly, his mouth breaking into a grin. Dan pushed the car faster still.
    The radio station switched to a commercial. Dan took his eyes off the road to channel surf for a better song. When he looked up, it was too late. There was a fallen tree as wide around as a barn fully blocking the road, its roots tangled and huge. Getting larger and larger by the second.
    Dan slammed on the brake with both feet, one on top of the other to try and force the car to stop, the tires squealing hideously, the smell of rubber rising up from the road. Dan’s body shot forward toward the windshield, the seat belt barely keeping his small body in the car. He couldn’t downshift — there was no time. Dan was headed straight for the tree, full force, like a roller coaster off its