Vroom Vroom

by Leya Ivanov, age 11
Vroom Vroom

“The car screeches across the asphalt and I groan under my breath as I press myself to the seat. The ringing of police sirens fills my ears, and if I’m even more unlucky, I might go deaf. I press my sandaled foot to the pedal, screeching at the same time the car does.”

The car screeches across the asphalt and I groan under my breath as I press myself to the seat. The ringing of police sirens fills my ears, and if I’m even more unlucky, I might go deaf. I press my sandaled foot to the pedal, screeching at the same time the car does. It makes a strange sound and I notice I’ll have to get that checked out. Add that to my agenda, as if it wasn’t full enough already.

I squint and turn my head to the side, gripping the wheel and leaning forward. I’m on an unlucky streak. When I got my driver’s license, my supposed friends made me drive us to Las Vegas, where we would party for a week or three to celebrate this newfound freedom. Freedom isn’t all it’s cracked up to be though, especially when all of your friends think it’s a good idea to trash a casino with celebrities hanging out in it, for example, Katy Perry or Justin Bieber, who they may or may not have screamed at multiple times and gambled with. And lost your money. And then when they continuously scream at you-

“DRIVE!” Barley shouts into my ear, and I nudge him in the ribs. He’s riding shotgun next to me, but Madeline is leaning forward to yell at me too from the backseat.

But who cares where they’re sitting? It doesn’t matter right now, as we’ve already done something illegal.

I press the pedal harder, looking into the mirror at the cops. Lights flash by me, blue and red and green and yellow, all the colors in the rainbow blended to brightness that brings tears to my eyes. Barley rolls down the windows and I know it will be soon that we’ll be sweating as the hot air slams our faces.

“Air conditioning, Yasmine?” Madeline begs, but I shake my head breathlessly as the city flashes by us. Or maybe we flash by the city, I can’t tell. “Mad, we’re in a car chase in probably one of the craziest cities in the world. I’m beginning to know why we call you Mad.”

She rolls her eyes but keeps looking forwards, twitching nervously. I control my breathing and watch the array of colors smooth by. We crash through the parade, but thankfully don’t run anybody over. We’re in enough trouble. Barley yells a warning and I quickly avert the civilians with weird hair and colorful clothes and terribly applied makeup. And lots of bald guys that have the city lights reflecting on their shiny heads.

“This is bad,” Barley says tersely.

I roll my eyes. “Did that just occur to you? You can’t fool Barley, oh no! He might not look like the brightest crayon in the box-”
“Yasmine, one more insult about my intelligence and I’ll throw you out of this car,” He warns. I wave the remark off with my free, sweaty hand, but then attach it onto the wheel again.

“It’s my car. Good luck outrunning the cops.”

The wind whips my hair that has large, rainbow streaks dyed in it. Mad screams as people dart out of our way, clearing a path for another large car.

“Get ready to swerve it,” I inform my friends, making another unwise, stupid decision of a large array of unwise, stupid decisions.

“Oh, no,” Barley says hoarsely. “No. Yasmine, you’re not going to-”
“Shut up, Barely,” Mad chimes, leaning forward and grabbing his arm and screaming as we dart around the car, and I wince as we keep going. My instructor told me I was an excellent driver. I am, when I’m not in the midst of fear.

I wipe my rainbowed hair out of my eyes.

“We done?” Mad asks, trembling.

“Car chases never finish, oh dear Madeline.”

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