Free The Pace by Shelena Shorts

thinking it was strange.
    “She was only forty-two.” He looked over and must have seen signs of thinking going on in my head because he clarified. “She was in another country when she got sick. They didn’t have the treatment we have here.”
    “And your uncle?”
    “Cancer.”
    “My grandmother died from cancer, too,” I added. He looked over at me with sympathetic eyes and said he was sorry. For the first time, I knew how he felt when he said it was okay every time I apologized to him for his loss. It wasn’t his fault that my grandmother died, and there really wasn’t anything for him to apologize for. It was just a part of life. I guess people feel the need to say they’re sorry when they hear about it. It was just a natural compassion, I supposed.
    “Do you have any more family in the area?” I asked.
    “No.”
    “No one?”
    “No.”
    I wasn’t sure how to respond to that, so I just sat quietly. We drove for a few more minutes until he broke the silence.
    “So, you live with your mother. Where is your father?”
    I’ve never liked answering that question before, but I didn’t seem to mind then.
    “He went back to Brazil when I was young.”
    “Do you still talk to him?”
    “No. Not really. My mom says he tried to keep in touch, but as I got older, he just stopped communicating.”
    “What brought you to California then?” he asked.
    “My grandmother got sick. She died earlier this year.”
    At least I was lucky enough to have a family member still living, but he had no one. I stared out the window, wondering how I would feel to be all alone, and it made me sad. I was sure I wouldn’t be as composed as he was. I was glad when he interrupted my thoughts.
    “Here we are,” he said, pulling into the parking lot of what looked like a field house.
    “What is this?”
    “It’s a race car track,” he said, pulling up to a side gate. He got out and manually pulled the gate open on each side. Then, he casually got back in the car and smoothly pulled in.
    “What are we doing here?” I asked, looking around. It didn’t look closed, but I didn’t see any people either.
    “You said you wanted to drive.”
    “You’re going to drive on here?” I pointed to the track.
    “No, you are,” he informed me, getting out of the car and walking around to my side. “Well?” he said, holding my door open, waiting for me to get out.
    “What?”
    “ You’re going to drive, on the track.”
    “Drive what?”
    “Drive this,” he clarified, motioning to his car. He was crazy. I shook my head.
    “No. I don’t think so. I can’t drive your car. I don’t even know how.”
    He leaned in the car and grabbed me by my arms. “Come on, up you go,” he said, pulling me out.
    “Would you stop it!” I said, swatting him away. “I’m not going to drive this thing. You just got it fixed. Are you nuts?”
    He laughed, shutting the door behind me. “No, I want you to drive it. I want to show you how. Besides, everyone should know how to drive a manual shift.”
    “But I’ll mess it up. I can’t.”
    He put his hands on both of my shoulders and leaned in. His eyes were that deep brown I loved, but I couldn’t see my reflection this time. “No, you won’t,” he said, pausing. “Please, I’m missing class for this. The least you can do is make this worth my while.” He tilted his head downward and looked at me through his long, dark eyelashes. I let out a big sigh and stared at him for a few minutes. He didn’t look like he was going to change his mind.
    “Fine.”
    He smiled immediately.
    I dragged myself around the car and slid into the driver’s side. I sat there, afraid to touch anything, and he was smiling the whole time.
    “Are you sure we can drive on this?” I asked, hoping for an out to my predicament.
    “I’m positive.”
    “How do you know?”
    He leaned back into his seat, completely relaxed. “Because it’s mine, courtesy of Weston C. Wilson II.”
    “I thought you said