Free Drag-Strip Racer by Matt Christopher Page B

they had gotten to like each other and had gone out a couple
     of times a month. She lived alone in a one-room apartment on Casey Street.
    He arrived there shortly, left his bike in the driveway, and walked into the apartment building and up the stairs to the second
     floor. He knocked on her door, tap-tippy-taptap, a sound that had become their signal.
    A few seconds later the door opened and she was there, staring at him, her blue eyes shining.
    “Dana!” she said. “What a surprise!”
    “Yeah, I imagine it is,” he murmured. “Can I come in?”
    “Of course, silly.”
    He entered and tossed his helmet on the couch.Then he sat down and sprawled his long legs out in front of him.
    She closed the door. “What happened? You look as if someone’s put you through the wringer.”
    “You’re right. My brother.”
    “Ken?”
    “Yes. Ken. Got any beer?”
    She didn’t drink the stuff, but she kept a few cans of it in the refrigerator for the times when friends dropped by.
    “There’s some left. I’ll get it for you.”
    “Never mind. I’ll get it.”
    He rose, went to the refrigerator, and took out a can. He cracked it open, carried it back to the couch, and held it until
     Sally placed a coaster on the coffee table. He set the can on it and looked with disinterest at the moisture that was forming
     on it.
    Sally sat down on an easy chair across from him. She was wearing a white blouse and blue slacks with tiny anchors down near
     the bottom of each pant leg. A Saint Christopher medal hung on a slim chain around her neck.
    “Want to tell me about it?” she said.
    “I don’t know,” he said. “I just had to get away,and this is the best place I thought of getting away to.”
    She didn’t press him. She just kept looking at him as if in hopes that if she looked long enough she could figure out why
     he needed to be there.
    He liked that about her. She was no gabby-mouth, nor was she inquisitive.
    She reached over to the coffee table, opened a silver-plated case that was on it, and took out a cigarette. Then she picked
     up a small, plastic replica of a Civil War cannon, flicked the back end of the barrel with a finger, and lit the cigarette
     with the flame that burst forth from the front end of it.
    She took a drag on the cigarette, then handed it to him. He took it and automatically placed it between his lips.
    “Would you like to stay for supper?” she asked quietly.
    He shrugged. “You sure you want me to?”
    “I wouldn’t ask you if I didn’t, would I?” she said.
    He smiled, took a long drag on the cigarette, held the smoke in his mouth for a while, then blew it out. It hit the coffee
     table, then began a slow, lazy ascent toward the ceiling.
    There was the sound of a car outside. Dana’spreoccupied mind caught a familiar, subtle
ping
in the sound of the motor, but he dismissed it.
    He leaned over, picked up the can of beer, and took a slug of it. How many cans of beer had Ken drunk in his life? he thought.
     Not many, I bet. Heck, by the time I was sixteen…
    Someone was coming up the stairs. Someone with crutches.
    Ken, Dana thought. What the heck did he want?
    There was a knock on the door.
    “It’s Ken,” Dana said thickly.
    “Ken?” Sally frowned as she rose to answer the door.
    She opened it, then calmly greeted Ken and invited him in. Dana didn’t bother to look around. He didn’t glance up until Ken
     came within his line of vision.
    Before Ken could open his mouth to speak, Dana snapped, “Who invited you here? Get out.”
    Ken stood there, his hands gripping the handles of the crutches. “Dana, I’d like to speak to you a minute.”
    “Why? You got more insults you want to hand me? No, thanks. Sally, show my brother—”
    “Dana, you’ve got to listen to me,” Ken interrupted. “I’ll only be a minute.”
    Dana’s eyes narrowed. “How’d you know I was here?”
    He saw Ken glance at Sally and then realized that Ken didn’t need a dozen guesses to figure it out.