Post by Evangeline on Sept 3, 2006 15:18:19 GMT -5
Disclaimer: Don't own Cars characters, Disney and Pixar do, no money changed hands or was otherwise abused, mistreated or injured in this experiment! I'll return the King to you in one piece, promise! I'm not Chick Hicks!
He coiled himself behind the berry bushes, suspension flexing like the legs of a cat about to pounce. His quarry came up the short drive from Kelsey St. with a crunch of tires on gravel. He couldn’t see Amity yet, but Strip Weathers knew the throaty reverberations of her 383 B-Block engine from a block away. He was ensconced in the only spot where he knew there was sufficient cover to conceal the high wing that was threatening to tower over his roof with the next growth spurt. At fourteen, young Strip was painted a light silver blue, with a black vinyl roof and a shark nose that was already the subject of much ridicule in the schoolyard and the recipient of many painful bumps on the street. He was close to adult length now, though his frame would take another year or two to add bulk and power. His official “model year”, the year that the average age of his new type would reach sixteen years, was stil another two summers away. The Plymouth clan agency hadn’t even conceived of a name for them yet, just “B-Body 5-70”.
The crunching was louder now. Just around the corner… there was her grille… NOW!
“GRAAAAAH!” Strip sprung from cover, landing on the gravel before a ’65 Plymouth Belvedere who rolled back a foot or two with momentary shock before the look of recognition crossed her straight, spare features. “Gotcha!”
Amity Weathers, once over the surprise, stared at her younger brother and shook her front with a lopsided grin, “You’ll have to be more creative than that, little brother. You were jumping out of bushes when you were – how old? Five? Give it up already, or find more creative scare tactics.”
“Awww, you’re no fun at all,” Strip scrunched his nose in slight dismay. On him, the expression would, to a human’s eyes, be somewhat like a disgusted horse wrinkling its muzzle. He stared back at the light tan Belvedere, noting the temporary race-day colors she was wearing while she competed in the local women’s races at the Beller Speedway three miles down the main road. He had to admit she was pretty good in that for-a-girl kind of way, winning maybe one out of three in a good season. The prizes were modest, but they helped in a situation where the family head was now unable to work due to a crippling injury suffered in the line of duty some three years before. Nevertheless, it was a sensitive topic that either of the two knew better than to bring up within earshot of their father, Raymond Weathers, who still wore his basic police colors even with the crests painted out.
“I can’t be “fun” when I’m keeping a roof over us and the gas coming in, no matter what Mom and Dad think. The way I’m built, I’m just too plain to marry rich, so they’ll just have to get used to the idea of me racing. You, too.” Amity proceeded towards the slightly run-down bungalow at the end of the drive.
“Sorry…” Strip tailed her, front low. The one thing about Amity he could never, ever top was her capacity for inspiring guilt, in ten words or less.
“Don’t worry about it,” Amity leaned over to give Strip a nuzzle as he pulled up beside her in the dooryard. “I’d ‘ve been more shocked if you HADN’T tried to scare me, once again.”
“Heh..” the younger Mopar answered with a rueful laugh, “And you wouldn’t be “you” if you didn’t lecture me on “originality” every time.”
They trooped into the kitchen, with its threadbare curtains and cracked tiles. Their mother, a ’53 Plymouth coupe, had dinner just about ready. Strip’s nose quivered at the smell; his appetite had seemed to multiply exponentially as the growth of his frame attempted to catch up with his engine block. This was not unusual for adolescents of the sort that had come to be known as “muscle cars”. Gloria Calder Weathers, wife of Raymond Weathers and mother of four, hardly turned as her eldest daughter and second son filed in. “Well, it’s about time,” she rolled her eyes over to Amity. “How did it go today?”
“Came in second, after Dora Sanders,” the Belvedere girl shrugged, “But still in the money. Fifty dollars is fifty dollars, after all.”
“That’s still pretty good, Am.” Strip nudged his sister encouragingly.
“Well, it’s gas money, after all.” Gloria finished setting the table. “Just keep it down now, OK? Your father just got back from the doctor and he’s not in a good mood.”
Strip dared a glance into the darker recesses of the living room, where the shape of a ’50 sedan was hunkered before the TV set. These days, Dad could be best described as “unpredictable”. His moods could swing from genial to uncontrolled anger in an instant. He hadn’t always been that way, just since the rollover three years before, while chasing bank robbers on the Interstate. The Weathers family finances had suffered along with Dad’s frame and mind, and only their savings, help from family and the odd bit of prize money from Amity’s efforts on the powder puff circuit kept their hoods above water.
About ten seconds later, the bulk in the living room stirred. Raymond Weathers pushed himself off the pallet in front of the TV set and made his way slowly to the kitchen, dragging one rear tire. The evidence of extensive repairs on his fenders and hood was visible even in the dimmer light of the house. The rest of the family, now gathered around the table, went silent as Raymond wedged himself into position between his wife and Amity. Strip was on the other side, with his younger sister, 12-year-old Megan, and 9-year-old brother Randall. After some brief prayers, they reached for slices of oilseed loaf and began a quiet, cautious conversation.
“So what’s going on at school tomorrow?” Amity looked over to Strip, who was in the midst of devouring his second helping of oilseed.
“Not a lot, besides the usual.” Strip glanced at his father, who was topping off his gas. “We’re doing rally in PE. Regular roads, speed limit, boring stuff.”
“Don’t take it for granted,” Amity flipped her antenna for emphasis, “How can you handle yourself at maximum if you don’t learn the fundamentals at lower speeds? Remember when you almost flipped over at the gravel pit?”
“Ugh. Don’t remind me.” Strip still had a fresh memory of his day at the clinic from an abraded fender after that little mishap. His shape might at some point give him an edge over other cars in performance, but the tradeoff was a potential disaster if he found himself with air between his tires and the ground. It was something no one could really teach him how to live with, as no one had ever been “born this way” before.
“Okay. What else?” Amity sat back. “Your term paper all ready for tomorrow?”
“Yeah, I went through it.” The boy groaned irritably. “Dunno why Mrs. Lindgren always piles it on at the end of the week. I think she hates me too. Anybody “loud”, she hates. Like it’s any fault of mine that I got this block?” he tapped his hood with a wiper. The 426 Hemi beneath it was uncommon even among this new emerging type of car. When Strip was nervous or excited and revved up, this engine would make its presence known for several streets over. It did not endear him to his more peace-loving neighbors.
“Just the same, I don’t want you scaring half the neighborhood at 3AM any more.” Strip’s father cut in, his tone raspy and low. “Last night, the Wetmores’ vespa started howling and lost his oil because your engine noise scared the scrap outta him. I don’t care whose fault you think it was, you are gonna get that under control!” The disabled cruiser added a tire-stomp for emphasis.
“Don’t go so hard on him, dear.” Gloria leaned over to her husband. “He can’t help that he gets nightmares sometimes.”
“Will you stop making excuses for him!” Raymond struck out with a front tire, knocking a table leg. “Time he started growing up. I’m tired of paying out the nose every time he runs into something. Self-control, boy, that’s what you need to learn!” Raymond’s antenna reached over and tapped Strip’s nose for emphasis. He shrank back, as much as his length would allow.
“Dad, give him a break.” Amity’s level voice cut back through the dusty air, “He’s worked hard to bring his grades up this year. He made the school racing team. He’s come a long way.”
“A long way? Like you?” Raymond’s attention shifted entirely over to his daughter. “Here you are, scraping by in these penny-ante bump-and-runs when you could be going to steno school and doing something that pays regular.”
“It’ll get better.” Amity looked back at her father, straight in the eyes. Her mouth was set as if in concrete.
“Better? How much is “better?” Raymond demanded, rising on his shocks. For an instant, it looked as if he’d rear onto the table. “Second and third place on the powder-puff circuit the rest of your life? If I were you, young lady, I’d be taking a second look at my priorities.”
“My priorities are fine.” Amity stated. “As a matter of fact, I have some news for everyone…”
Gloria froze, with only her eyes going between her daughter and her husband. Strip hunkered down.
“Well, don’t keep us waiting, by any means.” Raymond glowered.
“All right.” Amity rose until she was level with her father. “You know Hi-Glo, do you?”
“The wax?”
“Yes. I just met with them today.”
“What’s that? Met with them? Over what?”
The Belvedere pushed herself away and raised her front. “A sponsor deal, Dad.”
“Wait a minute… they don’t do small stuff like powder puff…”
“They don’t…just pro stock.”
For a minute, the senior Weathers sat as if mired to his axles in tar. Then, energy swept over him like a blast wave.
“Pro stock? Racing and competing with men? What the hell are you thinking, Amity?”
“I can do it. And I’m going to.”
“Do you know what that means?” Raymond near-shouted at his daughter, “You are giving up any prospect of a normal life! You’ll never be street-legal again, and you know Bradley, who’s your uncle’s friend? He told us the mods hurt like hell when they do it. They say “stock”, but in reality, not much is left of the real “you” once it’s all done. And if you wash up, you’re screwed!” He jabbed his antenna over to his wife, “How can you do this to your mother? How could you say “No” when Clyde Bartlett asked you out last week? The son of a regional head for Dinoco is nothing to just sneeze at.”
“I have nothing against Mr. Bartlett,” Amity stared at her father with the intensity of a laser. “I just don’t feel for him. And as for what Mom thinks, you didn’t really ask her, did you?”
The ex-cruiser looked over to his wife, who was shifting weight and looking anywhere but at her husband and daughter. “Well, Gloria?”
“Well, I--” the coupe drifted off into silence for a moment. “I’ve tried, Ray. Chrysler knows I’ve tried. If Amity is so set on going through with this, we can’t stop her.”
Strip lay between them, trying to make himself as small as possible – a tall order with that wing of his. Getting caught between his father and his sister was like finding oneself between a pair of clapping rocks at the moment that they collided. His eyes flitted from one to the other. His younger brother and sister, disciplined into silence at the table while their elders spoke, stared at everyone with wide eyes. Their father’s present state of unpredictability had left a mark on both of them as well.
“Sorry, Dad, my mind is made up, and the deal is signed,” Amity pulled away completely. “The truck is coming at seven and I’m getting on.”
Raymond Weathers sunk down in silence, and regarded Amity with a dull, bleary-eyed anger. Pain – and painkillers – surfaced in the set of his brow and mouth. It wasn’t enough that his own life was falling apart. His family was, too.
As Amity turned and left, passing by Strip, he could see a tear descending down her side.
“I’m sorry,” she gasped, “But with things like they are for us, I can’t turn this down.”
Outside, the clouds that had been gathering began to shed their first drops. By the time the semi pulled up in front of the house, there was a downpour.
****************************************************
Strip scowled slightly as his mother’s favorite detailer worked on him. Gloria Weathers had dragged her son in for a three-hour appointment on the morning of September 12, 1969. His sixteenth year had brought him the freedom to travel the roads out of his home county, but it also brought him to the time of the ceremony at which his model would make its formal debut. The county branch of the Plymouth clan agency arranged this on an annual basis, for all the youngsters who could be classed as “new models”. For a young car, this generally (but not always) took place during their teen years, though the statistical age spread could be wide in some instances. They could be anywhere between infancy and sixteen years of age, though the majority tended towards the older end of the scale.
It also meant being subject to an intense round of grooming to make the young cars presentable, and Strip was giving Shona, the detailer, no end of labor. The ’61 Impala was now swabbing dirt out of the crannies of the boy’s side view mirrors with a Q-tip while exchanging gossip with his waiting mother. Behind him, several other “new model” children waited their turn. He recognized his cousin and model-sister, Sybil Gamilan, amongst them. Her mother stayed at her side, never breaking contact, as she stared ahead with glassy, unseeing eyes. Sybil was blind, had been from the time she came into the world.
“Y’know, Bianca Jeffries just got engaged,” Shona announced as she snapped up a fresh swab with a wiper, “You won’t guess to who!”
“Do tell!” Gloria stood up on her shocks. “Who’s the lucky man?”
“Clyde Barrett.” The Impala ran another Q-tip into the join where mirror met metal. “He proposed last night, I hear. Right in front of her family after dinner.”
“Oh, my…” Gloria sighed. “And Bianca is so beautiful, too. They’ll be a great couple. Do you know when the wedding will be?” Beneath the joy, Strip could perceive an undertone of regret. Too bad Amity passed up on him, it seemed to say.
“Owww.” Strip winced. The Q-tip had gone a little too deep into the most sensitive area of his side-views.
“Sorry, but it’ll go a lot quicker if you stop squirming,” Shona lightly slapped the youth’s right fender, “You teenage boys are all the same, worse than babies!”
“Mom,” Strip squinted as Shona started on his eyeshades, “Can I go see Amity after this?”
“We’ll see, son.” Gloria stared absently out the salon window, “Depends on how quick this goes, and like Shona said, you aren’t helping very much. The sooner you stay still, the sooner we get out of here.”
Strip grumbled in frustration. Why was all this junk necessary? As far as he was concerned, a wash would have been enough.
After this, it was off for a hot wax, then a fitting-out with new tires. Those were a gift from Amity, who was becoming a modest success on the mid-Atlantic circuit. This had made something of a difference to the Weathers family, who had fixed up their home and were now able to afford a better standard of living. However, Raymond Weathers had not improved in condition and was almost virtually housebound. Strip’s relations with him had become somewhat strained, though his mother tried to insulate him from his father’s increasingly rough edge. Home, increasingly, was not a place where he wanted to spend time any more.
Gloria, drained from the preparation grind, finally relented and allowed her son to head out to the Hi-Glo team headquarters, some twenty miles from their home town of Ebbing Valley. Nestled in the central North Carolina hills and surrounded by a 300-acre greenbelt, the campus-like property featured private oval and drag tracks and workshops, offices and living facilities for the team and support crew. It was the biggest such setup that Strip had ever seen, though he’d been told that the Dinoco facilities in Texas were three times its size.
Having called ahead before leaving, Strip had ascertained that Amity would be free to see him in the late afternoon. By now, the guard and receptionist were familiar with the “funny-looking” shark-nosed youth and passed him through to the back lounge where his older sister met him. Since the day Amity had left home for good, Strip had added another foot and a half to his length and an additional five hundred pounds to his frame, and his back wing had made good on its threat to shoot above his roof by three feet. Its supports canted inward slightly and curved where they joined the top, a characteristic also shared by others in the Weathers and Gamilan lines. Others he had seen at the ceremony’s rehearsal had straighter wings. It was one of those things that seemed to vary with the individual.
“Strip!” Amity bounded into the room, “I haven’t seen you in Chrysler knows how long! Is it just me or did you grow another six inches this summer?”
“I dunno, but Mom never stops complaining about the stretch marks in my paint and me outgrowing my pallet and always bumping into things.” Strip laughed, “So it must be true.”
“Well, you’re lookin’ good now,” Amity inspected the new paint job Strip had received last week, courtesy of the county Plymouth division. “You know what your model name is, yet?”
“No, actually. They’re keeping it a secret ‘til tomorrow.” Strip sighed, betraying a little impatience. “I hope it’s something decent. It BETTER be. I’m so sick of being called “The Nameless Thing” at school. Or just “The Thing”.
“They don’t know anything,” Amity reassured her brother. “They’re just being jealous. You’ve got one monster of a block under your hood, and you can cut through the wind like a knife. But even more than that, you’re my bro and I’d love you no matter what you had.”
“You too, Sis.” Strip gazed fondly at his sister. The stock mods had taken her headlights and everything else that was superfluous to racing, and in many ways she would be as much of a “cripple” in the outside world as her father. But Amity could still run, and run she did, like a hurricane when she was working full-out. As one of the few females in pro stock, she tolerated a good amount of ribbing, and her full share of dents and bruises from two seasons of competition. Nevertheless, she bore the number 29 and the deep-purple, gold and silver of Hy-Glo with confidence and good humor, and while she had to deal with rivalries like anyone else in racing, no one really disliked her, at least not much.
“You know,” Amity said at last, stretching. “ It’s too nice a day to be stuck in a room. We could go out to the track. No one else’s using it now.”
“Really?” Strip jumped up on his shocks. He’d been here several times, but had never had access to that area before.
“No fooling! Besides, I want to see for myself how you’ve been coming along on the school team. Mom tells me they’re going to have to build another room for your cups and things if you keep up like you’re doing now. Besides, sometimes I just miss driving out with you guys.”
“Sure, Amity. I’d love to.” Strip eagerly followed her out the back door, to the chain-link gate that had never before opened to him.
He coiled himself behind the berry bushes, suspension flexing like the legs of a cat about to pounce. His quarry came up the short drive from Kelsey St. with a crunch of tires on gravel. He couldn’t see Amity yet, but Strip Weathers knew the throaty reverberations of her 383 B-Block engine from a block away. He was ensconced in the only spot where he knew there was sufficient cover to conceal the high wing that was threatening to tower over his roof with the next growth spurt. At fourteen, young Strip was painted a light silver blue, with a black vinyl roof and a shark nose that was already the subject of much ridicule in the schoolyard and the recipient of many painful bumps on the street. He was close to adult length now, though his frame would take another year or two to add bulk and power. His official “model year”, the year that the average age of his new type would reach sixteen years, was stil another two summers away. The Plymouth clan agency hadn’t even conceived of a name for them yet, just “B-Body 5-70”.
The crunching was louder now. Just around the corner… there was her grille… NOW!
“GRAAAAAH!” Strip sprung from cover, landing on the gravel before a ’65 Plymouth Belvedere who rolled back a foot or two with momentary shock before the look of recognition crossed her straight, spare features. “Gotcha!”
Amity Weathers, once over the surprise, stared at her younger brother and shook her front with a lopsided grin, “You’ll have to be more creative than that, little brother. You were jumping out of bushes when you were – how old? Five? Give it up already, or find more creative scare tactics.”
“Awww, you’re no fun at all,” Strip scrunched his nose in slight dismay. On him, the expression would, to a human’s eyes, be somewhat like a disgusted horse wrinkling its muzzle. He stared back at the light tan Belvedere, noting the temporary race-day colors she was wearing while she competed in the local women’s races at the Beller Speedway three miles down the main road. He had to admit she was pretty good in that for-a-girl kind of way, winning maybe one out of three in a good season. The prizes were modest, but they helped in a situation where the family head was now unable to work due to a crippling injury suffered in the line of duty some three years before. Nevertheless, it was a sensitive topic that either of the two knew better than to bring up within earshot of their father, Raymond Weathers, who still wore his basic police colors even with the crests painted out.
“I can’t be “fun” when I’m keeping a roof over us and the gas coming in, no matter what Mom and Dad think. The way I’m built, I’m just too plain to marry rich, so they’ll just have to get used to the idea of me racing. You, too.” Amity proceeded towards the slightly run-down bungalow at the end of the drive.
“Sorry…” Strip tailed her, front low. The one thing about Amity he could never, ever top was her capacity for inspiring guilt, in ten words or less.
“Don’t worry about it,” Amity leaned over to give Strip a nuzzle as he pulled up beside her in the dooryard. “I’d ‘ve been more shocked if you HADN’T tried to scare me, once again.”
“Heh..” the younger Mopar answered with a rueful laugh, “And you wouldn’t be “you” if you didn’t lecture me on “originality” every time.”
They trooped into the kitchen, with its threadbare curtains and cracked tiles. Their mother, a ’53 Plymouth coupe, had dinner just about ready. Strip’s nose quivered at the smell; his appetite had seemed to multiply exponentially as the growth of his frame attempted to catch up with his engine block. This was not unusual for adolescents of the sort that had come to be known as “muscle cars”. Gloria Calder Weathers, wife of Raymond Weathers and mother of four, hardly turned as her eldest daughter and second son filed in. “Well, it’s about time,” she rolled her eyes over to Amity. “How did it go today?”
“Came in second, after Dora Sanders,” the Belvedere girl shrugged, “But still in the money. Fifty dollars is fifty dollars, after all.”
“That’s still pretty good, Am.” Strip nudged his sister encouragingly.
“Well, it’s gas money, after all.” Gloria finished setting the table. “Just keep it down now, OK? Your father just got back from the doctor and he’s not in a good mood.”
Strip dared a glance into the darker recesses of the living room, where the shape of a ’50 sedan was hunkered before the TV set. These days, Dad could be best described as “unpredictable”. His moods could swing from genial to uncontrolled anger in an instant. He hadn’t always been that way, just since the rollover three years before, while chasing bank robbers on the Interstate. The Weathers family finances had suffered along with Dad’s frame and mind, and only their savings, help from family and the odd bit of prize money from Amity’s efforts on the powder puff circuit kept their hoods above water.
About ten seconds later, the bulk in the living room stirred. Raymond Weathers pushed himself off the pallet in front of the TV set and made his way slowly to the kitchen, dragging one rear tire. The evidence of extensive repairs on his fenders and hood was visible even in the dimmer light of the house. The rest of the family, now gathered around the table, went silent as Raymond wedged himself into position between his wife and Amity. Strip was on the other side, with his younger sister, 12-year-old Megan, and 9-year-old brother Randall. After some brief prayers, they reached for slices of oilseed loaf and began a quiet, cautious conversation.
“So what’s going on at school tomorrow?” Amity looked over to Strip, who was in the midst of devouring his second helping of oilseed.
“Not a lot, besides the usual.” Strip glanced at his father, who was topping off his gas. “We’re doing rally in PE. Regular roads, speed limit, boring stuff.”
“Don’t take it for granted,” Amity flipped her antenna for emphasis, “How can you handle yourself at maximum if you don’t learn the fundamentals at lower speeds? Remember when you almost flipped over at the gravel pit?”
“Ugh. Don’t remind me.” Strip still had a fresh memory of his day at the clinic from an abraded fender after that little mishap. His shape might at some point give him an edge over other cars in performance, but the tradeoff was a potential disaster if he found himself with air between his tires and the ground. It was something no one could really teach him how to live with, as no one had ever been “born this way” before.
“Okay. What else?” Amity sat back. “Your term paper all ready for tomorrow?”
“Yeah, I went through it.” The boy groaned irritably. “Dunno why Mrs. Lindgren always piles it on at the end of the week. I think she hates me too. Anybody “loud”, she hates. Like it’s any fault of mine that I got this block?” he tapped his hood with a wiper. The 426 Hemi beneath it was uncommon even among this new emerging type of car. When Strip was nervous or excited and revved up, this engine would make its presence known for several streets over. It did not endear him to his more peace-loving neighbors.
“Just the same, I don’t want you scaring half the neighborhood at 3AM any more.” Strip’s father cut in, his tone raspy and low. “Last night, the Wetmores’ vespa started howling and lost his oil because your engine noise scared the scrap outta him. I don’t care whose fault you think it was, you are gonna get that under control!” The disabled cruiser added a tire-stomp for emphasis.
“Don’t go so hard on him, dear.” Gloria leaned over to her husband. “He can’t help that he gets nightmares sometimes.”
“Will you stop making excuses for him!” Raymond struck out with a front tire, knocking a table leg. “Time he started growing up. I’m tired of paying out the nose every time he runs into something. Self-control, boy, that’s what you need to learn!” Raymond’s antenna reached over and tapped Strip’s nose for emphasis. He shrank back, as much as his length would allow.
“Dad, give him a break.” Amity’s level voice cut back through the dusty air, “He’s worked hard to bring his grades up this year. He made the school racing team. He’s come a long way.”
“A long way? Like you?” Raymond’s attention shifted entirely over to his daughter. “Here you are, scraping by in these penny-ante bump-and-runs when you could be going to steno school and doing something that pays regular.”
“It’ll get better.” Amity looked back at her father, straight in the eyes. Her mouth was set as if in concrete.
“Better? How much is “better?” Raymond demanded, rising on his shocks. For an instant, it looked as if he’d rear onto the table. “Second and third place on the powder-puff circuit the rest of your life? If I were you, young lady, I’d be taking a second look at my priorities.”
“My priorities are fine.” Amity stated. “As a matter of fact, I have some news for everyone…”
Gloria froze, with only her eyes going between her daughter and her husband. Strip hunkered down.
“Well, don’t keep us waiting, by any means.” Raymond glowered.
“All right.” Amity rose until she was level with her father. “You know Hi-Glo, do you?”
“The wax?”
“Yes. I just met with them today.”
“What’s that? Met with them? Over what?”
The Belvedere pushed herself away and raised her front. “A sponsor deal, Dad.”
“Wait a minute… they don’t do small stuff like powder puff…”
“They don’t…just pro stock.”
For a minute, the senior Weathers sat as if mired to his axles in tar. Then, energy swept over him like a blast wave.
“Pro stock? Racing and competing with men? What the hell are you thinking, Amity?”
“I can do it. And I’m going to.”
“Do you know what that means?” Raymond near-shouted at his daughter, “You are giving up any prospect of a normal life! You’ll never be street-legal again, and you know Bradley, who’s your uncle’s friend? He told us the mods hurt like hell when they do it. They say “stock”, but in reality, not much is left of the real “you” once it’s all done. And if you wash up, you’re screwed!” He jabbed his antenna over to his wife, “How can you do this to your mother? How could you say “No” when Clyde Bartlett asked you out last week? The son of a regional head for Dinoco is nothing to just sneeze at.”
“I have nothing against Mr. Bartlett,” Amity stared at her father with the intensity of a laser. “I just don’t feel for him. And as for what Mom thinks, you didn’t really ask her, did you?”
The ex-cruiser looked over to his wife, who was shifting weight and looking anywhere but at her husband and daughter. “Well, Gloria?”
“Well, I--” the coupe drifted off into silence for a moment. “I’ve tried, Ray. Chrysler knows I’ve tried. If Amity is so set on going through with this, we can’t stop her.”
Strip lay between them, trying to make himself as small as possible – a tall order with that wing of his. Getting caught between his father and his sister was like finding oneself between a pair of clapping rocks at the moment that they collided. His eyes flitted from one to the other. His younger brother and sister, disciplined into silence at the table while their elders spoke, stared at everyone with wide eyes. Their father’s present state of unpredictability had left a mark on both of them as well.
“Sorry, Dad, my mind is made up, and the deal is signed,” Amity pulled away completely. “The truck is coming at seven and I’m getting on.”
Raymond Weathers sunk down in silence, and regarded Amity with a dull, bleary-eyed anger. Pain – and painkillers – surfaced in the set of his brow and mouth. It wasn’t enough that his own life was falling apart. His family was, too.
As Amity turned and left, passing by Strip, he could see a tear descending down her side.
“I’m sorry,” she gasped, “But with things like they are for us, I can’t turn this down.”
Outside, the clouds that had been gathering began to shed their first drops. By the time the semi pulled up in front of the house, there was a downpour.
****************************************************
Strip scowled slightly as his mother’s favorite detailer worked on him. Gloria Weathers had dragged her son in for a three-hour appointment on the morning of September 12, 1969. His sixteenth year had brought him the freedom to travel the roads out of his home county, but it also brought him to the time of the ceremony at which his model would make its formal debut. The county branch of the Plymouth clan agency arranged this on an annual basis, for all the youngsters who could be classed as “new models”. For a young car, this generally (but not always) took place during their teen years, though the statistical age spread could be wide in some instances. They could be anywhere between infancy and sixteen years of age, though the majority tended towards the older end of the scale.
It also meant being subject to an intense round of grooming to make the young cars presentable, and Strip was giving Shona, the detailer, no end of labor. The ’61 Impala was now swabbing dirt out of the crannies of the boy’s side view mirrors with a Q-tip while exchanging gossip with his waiting mother. Behind him, several other “new model” children waited their turn. He recognized his cousin and model-sister, Sybil Gamilan, amongst them. Her mother stayed at her side, never breaking contact, as she stared ahead with glassy, unseeing eyes. Sybil was blind, had been from the time she came into the world.
“Y’know, Bianca Jeffries just got engaged,” Shona announced as she snapped up a fresh swab with a wiper, “You won’t guess to who!”
“Do tell!” Gloria stood up on her shocks. “Who’s the lucky man?”
“Clyde Barrett.” The Impala ran another Q-tip into the join where mirror met metal. “He proposed last night, I hear. Right in front of her family after dinner.”
“Oh, my…” Gloria sighed. “And Bianca is so beautiful, too. They’ll be a great couple. Do you know when the wedding will be?” Beneath the joy, Strip could perceive an undertone of regret. Too bad Amity passed up on him, it seemed to say.
“Owww.” Strip winced. The Q-tip had gone a little too deep into the most sensitive area of his side-views.
“Sorry, but it’ll go a lot quicker if you stop squirming,” Shona lightly slapped the youth’s right fender, “You teenage boys are all the same, worse than babies!”
“Mom,” Strip squinted as Shona started on his eyeshades, “Can I go see Amity after this?”
“We’ll see, son.” Gloria stared absently out the salon window, “Depends on how quick this goes, and like Shona said, you aren’t helping very much. The sooner you stay still, the sooner we get out of here.”
Strip grumbled in frustration. Why was all this junk necessary? As far as he was concerned, a wash would have been enough.
After this, it was off for a hot wax, then a fitting-out with new tires. Those were a gift from Amity, who was becoming a modest success on the mid-Atlantic circuit. This had made something of a difference to the Weathers family, who had fixed up their home and were now able to afford a better standard of living. However, Raymond Weathers had not improved in condition and was almost virtually housebound. Strip’s relations with him had become somewhat strained, though his mother tried to insulate him from his father’s increasingly rough edge. Home, increasingly, was not a place where he wanted to spend time any more.
Gloria, drained from the preparation grind, finally relented and allowed her son to head out to the Hi-Glo team headquarters, some twenty miles from their home town of Ebbing Valley. Nestled in the central North Carolina hills and surrounded by a 300-acre greenbelt, the campus-like property featured private oval and drag tracks and workshops, offices and living facilities for the team and support crew. It was the biggest such setup that Strip had ever seen, though he’d been told that the Dinoco facilities in Texas were three times its size.
Having called ahead before leaving, Strip had ascertained that Amity would be free to see him in the late afternoon. By now, the guard and receptionist were familiar with the “funny-looking” shark-nosed youth and passed him through to the back lounge where his older sister met him. Since the day Amity had left home for good, Strip had added another foot and a half to his length and an additional five hundred pounds to his frame, and his back wing had made good on its threat to shoot above his roof by three feet. Its supports canted inward slightly and curved where they joined the top, a characteristic also shared by others in the Weathers and Gamilan lines. Others he had seen at the ceremony’s rehearsal had straighter wings. It was one of those things that seemed to vary with the individual.
“Strip!” Amity bounded into the room, “I haven’t seen you in Chrysler knows how long! Is it just me or did you grow another six inches this summer?”
“I dunno, but Mom never stops complaining about the stretch marks in my paint and me outgrowing my pallet and always bumping into things.” Strip laughed, “So it must be true.”
“Well, you’re lookin’ good now,” Amity inspected the new paint job Strip had received last week, courtesy of the county Plymouth division. “You know what your model name is, yet?”
“No, actually. They’re keeping it a secret ‘til tomorrow.” Strip sighed, betraying a little impatience. “I hope it’s something decent. It BETTER be. I’m so sick of being called “The Nameless Thing” at school. Or just “The Thing”.
“They don’t know anything,” Amity reassured her brother. “They’re just being jealous. You’ve got one monster of a block under your hood, and you can cut through the wind like a knife. But even more than that, you’re my bro and I’d love you no matter what you had.”
“You too, Sis.” Strip gazed fondly at his sister. The stock mods had taken her headlights and everything else that was superfluous to racing, and in many ways she would be as much of a “cripple” in the outside world as her father. But Amity could still run, and run she did, like a hurricane when she was working full-out. As one of the few females in pro stock, she tolerated a good amount of ribbing, and her full share of dents and bruises from two seasons of competition. Nevertheless, she bore the number 29 and the deep-purple, gold and silver of Hy-Glo with confidence and good humor, and while she had to deal with rivalries like anyone else in racing, no one really disliked her, at least not much.
“You know,” Amity said at last, stretching. “ It’s too nice a day to be stuck in a room. We could go out to the track. No one else’s using it now.”
“Really?” Strip jumped up on his shocks. He’d been here several times, but had never had access to that area before.
“No fooling! Besides, I want to see for myself how you’ve been coming along on the school team. Mom tells me they’re going to have to build another room for your cups and things if you keep up like you’re doing now. Besides, sometimes I just miss driving out with you guys.”
“Sure, Amity. I’d love to.” Strip eagerly followed her out the back door, to the chain-link gate that had never before opened to him.
