Playlist for the Dead(61)

I heard the shrill blare of a whistle, and then both trucks were off. They had a few hundred yards to get going, from what I could tell, and for that stretch Ryan was ahead, though not as much as I’d expected given how much newer and nicer Trevor’s truck was.

It soon became clear, though, that the speed they’d built was only going to be so helpful once they reached the muddy part of the track. Both trucks hit the mud with their front tires spinning wildly, throwing mud on the throng of people who’d moved up to watch on both sides of the track. Rachel was right; within seconds just about everyone was covered. We all smelled like pig shit, which was completely gross at first, until my nose got used to it.

Once the trucks’ back tires hit the mud, though, it seemed like the front tires became almost irrelevant as the trucks fought to keep their forward momentum. It was almost as if the mud was trying to actively slow them down and suck them under; the only way to get through was to maintain speed, but it was clear how hard that was to do.

This, I could tell, was where Eric had an edge—probably from driving in mud on the farm. “Trevor usually drives in these things,” Rachel yelled to me, and I could see it—Eric obviously knew how it handled better than Ryan did. Ryan was trying to force the truck to move through the mud by going as fast as he could, but all he was doing was moving the mud around; the wheels spun and spun but the truck’s progress was minimal. He wasn’t stuck yet, but he wasn’t moving very fast, either.

Eric’s truck, in contrast, seemed to be gliding over the mud. It almost looked like he was doing an extended wheelie—the front wheels were almost off the ground, and the back wheels were the ones propelling the truck forward. It took me a minute to figure out why, partly because my eyes were half full of mud: Eric was subtly steering the truck left and right as he moved forward. Barely enough to be noticeable, but apparently enough to ensure the wheels had traction and to keep them from spinning out.

Eric’s truck passed Ryan’s just seconds before it became clear that Ryan had actually gotten Trevor’s truck stuck in the mud. By the time Eric crossed the finish line Ryan hadn’t managed to pull himself out, and finally he just killed the engine and got out. Eric and his crew celebrated at the finish line, whooping and singing and being silly in complete unabashed triumph. I watched them for a while and debated going over, but I didn’t want to interrupt their party, and I didn’t want to join it, either. Astrid was singing just as loudly as the rest of them; I looked as closely as I could for some sign that she was suffering, like I was, but I couldn’t see any indication of it now.

A group of jocks had gathered around Trevor’s truck, helping Ryan get it out of the mud. By the time they pushed it over the finish line, Eric and his friends had calmed down a little. Ryan leaned on the truck, covered in mud; Eric was the cleanest person around, other than spatter and handprints on his shirt from his friends hugging him or patting him on the back. I could see Eric and Ryan make eye contact as I walked toward the finish line—I was curious to see what would happen next.

For a while, neither of them said anything. It was like a game of chicken. Eric had won, and Ryan was obviously upset about it, but the pissing contest wasn’t quite over. Whoever spoke first ran the risk of looking weak. From the look on Eric’s face, I could tell he was fighting with himself. He wanted to say something, to force Ryan to acknowledge that he’d been beaten, that Eric had beaten him, but he was trying to be patient.

And then, to my surprise, Ryan stuck out his hand. “Good race,” he said.

Eric cocked his head and stood there for a minute, clearly not sure what to do. He looked over at Astrid, who, I was surprised to see, was smiling. Why was it so important for everyone to get her approval? But that’s what it must have been; Eric shook Ryan’s hand and said, “You too.”

From my perspective, it was a relief—it seemed as clear a sign as any that the war was over, that I didn’t have to worry about revenge plots anymore. I didn’t have time to be relieved for long, though, because Ryan had left the finish line and was walking right toward me.

I’d been right; he was wearing Hayden’s Smiths T-shirt. Funny how it fit him perfectly; I hadn’t thought for a long time about how he and Hayden basically had the same build, though Ryan had converted his thickness to muscle. They even looked alike, though Ryan’s features were sharper and handsomer than Hayden’s. “Can we talk?” he asked. He sounded just like I had, when Jess came up to me—a little nervous, but determined.

I shrugged. I wasn’t about to make things easy for him, whatever it was he wanted to say.

“We’ll be here whenever you’re ready,” Rachel said.

We walked a few feet away; the next race was starting, so no one was paying any attention to us. “I’ve been thinking a lot about what you said at the funeral,” Ryan said.

Seriously? Jason had practically dislocated my shoulder when he knocked me down. “You have a weird way of showing it,” I said.

“My friends are very protective of me,” he said. “They know I’ve been going through a lot.”

“Sure you have,” I said, feeling the anger rise up in me again. “Your life was pretty close to perfect, and now your geeky little brother won’t get in the way.”

He looked like I’d slapped him, and I wondered if I’d gone too far. “Look, I know you’re Hayden’s best friend, so you see things how he did. But did you ever think that maybe it was just one side of the story?”