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𝐂 𝐇 𝐋 𝐎 𝐄

I stand there, my arms crossed as we enter the Cranston Racetrack. Chuck and his gang are always trouble, and I hate how they can make any situation feel like a powder keg ready to explode. The scent of gasoline and rubber fills my nostrils.

"If that sh!thog tries anything, I'm gonna pound him," Willard mutters under his breath. I roll my eyes at him. He's always ready for a fight, and right now, I don't know whether to be glad he's on our side or terrified of what could happen if he actually goes through with it.

"No fighting, Willard," Rusty warns, but there's no real bite in her voice. She knows Willard well enough by now to know he's not likely to listen.

"No promises, Rusty," he shoots back, but even Willard seems to know when to stop pushing it. For now.

Chuck and his crew are still lounging by his truck, looking smug and relaxed.

"High school field trip's here," Caroline yells, her eyes flicking over Ren like she's already sizing him up. I can tell she's trying to play it cool, but she's more interested in causing trouble than she lets on.

Chuck's grin widens when he sees us approach. He gets up, striding toward him with the same cocky swagger he always has. "Twinkle toes. Watching you the other night, that was real entertaining. We thought we'd invite you out here. Maybe you could put on a show for us."

"Chuck, didn't you hear? He's real into gymnastics," Russell chimes in, and his voice oozes with sarcasm, clearly enjoying the moment.

Chuck's expression shifts for a second, but then he scoffs and shakes his head. "Gymnastics. Well... I thought only fags were into gymnastics." The words are out of his mouth before he even thinks, and I feel my stomach churn with disgust. It's not just the insult—it's the way he's so comfortable tossing that word around.

I can't help it. The scoff escapes me before I can stop it, my face scrunching up in disbelief. He's always been like this—like he's entitled to say whatever pops into his head without any consideration for who's around or how it might land.

But then Ren surprises me. He doesn't even flinch. He looks Chuck dead in the eye, his voice calm, cool, and collected. "I thought only assholes still used the word 'fag.'"

Chuck blinks, clearly thrown off by Ren's response. I have to admit, I'm impressed. The whole crowd seems to shift in the air, but Chuck regains his composure quickly, just like I knew he would. He turns away with a fake, exaggerated sigh, making his way toward the tractor sitting nearby.

"Touché," he says, raising a finger at Ren, then without missing a beat, hops onto the tractor. "Why don't you... try dancing with this?" He starts up the engine with a roar, the tractor lurching forward toward a group of school buses, clearly aiming to scare everyone.

The air turns thick with anticipation as he gestures toward the buses. "Now, we race these buses every weekend at the Derby Mash-up. We race 'em in a figure eight," Chuck says, drawing the number 8 in the sand with his finger. "Two things you gotta worry about. Your corners, and your intersection. You fall behind, you're gonna get hit by the leader. You pull ahead, you just might get slammed by the guy in last place. What do you say, city boy? Ready to race?"

I can feel my heart thumping in my chest as I watch Ren's reaction. The offer hangs in the air like an unspoken dare. Will he take it? What's going to happen next?

Ren looks at me, then the others, and nods. "Let's do it," he says, and before I can blink, he's walking over toward one of the buses with Willard, Woody, and the others.

"Okay, so I drove one of these at a pep rally one time... it ain't easy," Woody starts. "If she flips over, crawl out the side window."

"If it catches on fire, jump out of it," Willard adds helpfully.