A race for love

*Esme* "Esmeralda, slow down," Maria calls, laughing hard enough that she has to hold her little silver purse against her stomach. "You are going to make Carlos spill the cake." Carlos lifts the bakery box above his head like a trophy. "The cake is safe. Your dignity, however, is already a casualty." I walk backward along the sidewalk, arms spread wide beneath the neon glow of a liquor store sign. "It is my birthday. Dignity is taking the night off." "You are eighteen now," Maria says. "You have to act mature." "That sounds exhausting." She grins at me, all warm brown eyes and glossy mouth, her dark hair swinging over one shoulder. We have known each other since middle school, since bad bangs and worse decisions. Maria knows every version of me. The girl who cried during commercials. The girl who kissed Eddie Morales behind the gym and then pretended she had caught a cold for three days. The girl who has spent the past month panicking about adulthood as if it is a bus coming too fast down the street. Tonight I am trying to enjoy the ride. My cousin, Carlos, slips his arm around Maria's shoulders, careful not to crush the cake box between them. "Let her celebrate. She is legally responsible for herself now." "I was legally responsible for myself yesterday too." "Barely," he says. "You are jealous because Mama let me pick the movie." "Mama lets you pick everything. You weaponize your eyelashes." Maria gasps. "That is true. Esme gets extra tamales because she looks sad near the refrigerator." "I do not look sad. I look hungry." "Same face," Carlos says. I stick my tongue out at him, then turn toward the corner. The street is nearly empty, a strip of black pavement shining under orange lamps. Somewhere downtown, music thumps from an open car window. The air smells like fried onions, hot concrete, and the faint sugary vanilla of the cake. Maria catches my hand and squeezes. "Make a wish early." "I thought wishes were for candles." "Rules are made by people who hate fun." Carlos makes a show of considering this. "Then wish that your best friend stops making you walk backward in traffic." "There is no traffic." The roar reaches us before I finish the sentence. It comes low at first, almost hidden under the city noise. Then it climbs, engines snarling through their gears with a violence that makes every muscle in my body lock. Maria's fingers tighten around mine. Carlos looks toward the intersection. "What the hell?" Two pairs of headlights appear at the far end of the block. They move too quickly, growing from white pinpricks to glaring discs before my mind can arrange the sight into sense. One car is matte black, broad and low, its hood swallowing the streetlight. The other is yellow, bright as a warning sign, cutting close beside it. They are not driving. They are hunting the same strip of road, neither willing to give an inch. A scream catches in Maria's throat. The yellow car clips the black one's rear quarter. Metal shrieks. The black car bucks sideways, tires smoking over the pavement. We are standing at the curb. Carlos drops the cake. The box bursts open against the sidewalk, frosting and crushed strawberries scattering across the concrete. "Esme!" he shouts. I try to move. My body refuses the order. My feet feel nailed down. The black car is coming straight at us now, huge and impossible, windshield dark enough that I cannot see the person behind it. Carlos hits me with both hands. I fly sideways. My shoulder slams the ground. Pain tears through my right leg as something hard clips it, dragging fire from calf to hip. I roll into the gutter, my palms scraping over gravel and broken glass. For half a second, the world goes quiet. Then comes impact. Not one sound. Many. A sickening crunch of metal. Maria screaming my name. Carlos making a noise I have never heard from a human throat. I push up on shaking elbows. The yellow car fishtails past, close enough that hot wind slaps my face. Its driver corrects, accelerates, and vanishes through the intersection. The matte-black car follows. Its taillights burn red as it disappears after the yellow one. They do not stop. "Maria?" My voice is small. Wrong. My leg folds beneath me when I try to stand. I fall again, breath punched out of my lungs. Blood runs warm inside my torn jeans, but I barely feel it. I crawl across the street anyway, one hand after the other. Carlos lies several feet away, twisted beside the ruined cake box. His eyes are open. His mouth moves, but no sound comes out. Maria is closer. Her dress is dark with something that should not be there. One arm rests at an angle that makes my stomach turn. Her eyes find mine, and for one impossible second I think she is going to laugh. She is going to complain about the ruined cake. She is going to tell me I owe her a better birthday. "Maria." I reach her and grab her hand. Her fingers are cold already. "Hey. Hey, look at me." Her lips part. I lean closer, desperate to hear. Nothing comes. "No." I press both hands over the place beneath her ribs where the blood keeps spreading. "No, no, no. Stay with me. Somebody call an ambulance." Doors open up and down the block. People shout. A man runs toward us with his phone raised. Somewhere nearby, somebody is crying loud enough to make the sound of it feel physical. Carlos gasps. "Esme." "I'm here." I turn toward him, then back to Maria. I cannot leave her. I cannot leave either of them. "I'm here." "You're hurt," Carlos says. "I'm fine." It is the stupidest lie I have ever told. My leg is shaking violently. Every breath scrapes. Still, I keep pressure on Maria's wound because I have seen people do that on television and because my hands need a job. Sirens rise in the distance. Maria's gaze drifts away from me, toward the sky above the rooftops. Her hand loosens in mine. "Maria?" I squeeze harder. "Mari, stay. Please." The sirens get closer. She does not answer. The paramedics arrive in a blur of uniforms, gloves, flashing lights. Someone pulls me back. I fight them until pain swallows the street and I scream at a stranger not to touch me. They work on Maria. They work on Carlos. They strap my leg, ask me questions, say my name as if repetition can make me understand. I look past them, down the road where the black and yellow cars disappeared. The city has already swallowed them whole. Later, doctors tell me the bones in my leg risk healing badly. They tell Carlos there is damage to his spine, that he will probably never walk again. They use careful voices, the kind people use when every word has sharp edges. Nobody has to explain Maria. I know before anyone says it. I know because her hand slipped from mine on the street, and nothing I do can bring it back.