Moses yelled across the parking garage, Hey beautiful. It was Sunday morning and I was sliding the processed egg patty off of my breakfast sandwich onto the cement.
"No one talks like that." I was sitting on the hood of his 1984 silver BMW picking apart the rest of the sandwich, eating each piece separately—the bacon, the American cheese slice, the croissant. Moses slid onto the hood beside me and licked the salt and grease from my fingers.
We were racing Remy to Miami, loser buying tickets to the Mexican Standoff concert.
Remy got to the start line ten minutes late with his sophomore fling who woke up in his bed and couldn't take the hint to leave.
Finally, we raced through town towards the highway, Moses's police scanner mounted on the dash, Remy's flamingo pink Camino in the rearview mirror swerving around minivans trying to catch up.
"You might be my good luck charm," Moses said.
I unwound my hair and pressed my cheek to the door, tangled strands stretching around the side of the car. Moses floored it, weaving through the straggling cars, the wind forcing my eyes shut.
I leaned back in, letting my head thunk against the headrest, the force making me feel high. "Why did you pick these ugly red seat covers?"
"This color is classy."
"These seats are obnoxious. Black is classic."
Moses fingered the fringe on my cutoffs. I lit a cigarette.
"What are we doing?" he asked. I blew smoke out of the window and listened to his car speakers crackle.
"C'mon," he said.
"We're better as friends."
I turned up his radio, the Dingoes playing their one good song. Moses could tear me up and he knew it, those brown eyes that turned gold in the Florida sun. He's the only one who knows I grew up Alabama white trash and I know he stayed in a mental ward when he was sixteen.
"I have enough friends."
The scanner beeped frantically—warning. Moses didn't slow down, the speedometer climbed to 120 and I could feel the car lightly shaking through the seat, ready to swerve off the road. The wind whipped through the window, my hair slashing my face. The cop didn't move from his spot hidden behind flowered bushes, we're punk kids, who gives a shit?
