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Launch

By Jason C. Joyner

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This might not be a great idea, but Demarcus Bartlett had to see if he could outrace a sports car.
He crouched behind a bush next to the on-ramp for the highway. His blue hoodie concealed his shoulder-length dreads, so it should be hard for any cars passing by on Santa Clara Street to see him. No Toyotas or Hondas would do. His prize would have some horses under the hood. He’d have to be patient. Not many cars out at 5 am would fit his needs.
He checked his shoelaces again, his fingers fumbling over the knots. Didn’t want to trip at highway speeds. That could get ugly. He glanced at his phone again. He had a job to go to, but the drive to see what he was capable of overwhelmed him.
Even with the risk of being discovered.
The light for the on-ramp turned red. In the soft rosy glow, a growling beast stopped at the white line. Its shiny black paint reflected the traffic light off of the hood. A rev of the Camaro’s engine. The owner was ready to try out his toy as well. The blinker flicked on, signaling a turn onto Highway 101.
This guy was the one.
Demarcus wiped his palms on his hoodie again and shook them out like a runner at the starter’s gate. His heart leapt at the thought of going through with this.
Mr. Camaro would blow right by his hiding place. A smile stretched across Demarcus’s face. Here’s hoping this guy knows how to use the accelerator.
Green light cut through the darkness, and the black car jumped forward, turning onto the ramp and surging by him. Demarcus gave him a few seconds’ head start to make it fair as he noted the time to track his speed.
Three. Two. One.
He took off from his sprinter’s stance and pumped his arms and legs. Up the concrete ramp he raced. The spring California air chilled him as he took after his target. His hood slipped off, dreads trailing in his wake.
The roar of the muscle car carried through the early morning silence. That guy wanted to open it up, and in minimal traffic, this was the perfect place to do it. Demarcus thanked the man while he puffed air in and out to fuel his muscles.
The taillights grew closer.
The Camaro blew by a semi. Demarcus passed the same truck a couple of seconds later. How fast was he going? If only his cell phone had a speedometer app.
His senses heightened as well: he spied an obstacle approaching fast, and he dodged a fallen muffler on the side of the road. His eyes watered from the wind whipping by. Maybe I need some shades when I do this.
The Camaro seemed to slow, but Demarcus knew it was only an illusion.
He’d caught it.
He ran alongside the streaking vehicle and let up for a moment to keep pace, glancing over to see the driver’s face. The guy didn’t realize that a teenager was zipping alongside him.
A laugh broke through Demarcus’s breaths as he gave an extra surge.
Now the Camaro tasted his dust.
He ran for another couple of minutes until he found an exit. A black kid walking along a highway would probably attract attention, so he needed to stop in a reasonable area. He followed the curve around to a suburb he didn’t recognize. His trip had taken him north past Fremont. Not his usual stomping grounds.
His shoes skidded to a stop. As the sensation of wind blowing by him subsided, he pulled his phone out and checked the timer. Ten minutes had passed. The sign said Union City. He’d traveled twenty miles in that time. What did that work out to for speed?
One hundred twenty miles per hour.
Demarcus pumped his fist in the air as adrenaline rushed through his body. He’d run faster than a cheetah. Faster than a Camaro. His lungs didn’t complain at all.
The most insane part? He couldn’t quite access it yet, but he could feel more within him.
Exercise. He’d work out and build things up even more. Wind sprints back and forth at the old abandoned warehouse where no one would wonder about a sixteen-year-old dashing around at impossible speeds.
A scent wafted into his nostrils. The pungent odor of burnt rubber irritated his nose. Where was that coming from?
He lifted a foot and gawked at the worn tread on his new sneakers. Apparently running shoes weren’t made for triple-digit speed. This made it three pairs in two months. Highway speeds must wear them out faster. He poked the tread. They’d last a little longer.
Shoot, what time is it? He hadn’t checked that when he stopped his timer. The screen read 5:15.
Time to get to work. He’d gotten up this early to deliver newspapers. It had taken a lot of arguing to get his mom to agree to it. She didn’t want her special boy in harm’s way, yet she also appreciated his motivation to earn some bank on his own.
He clenched a fist, thinking of how challenging things had been before the move to Silicon Valley. Until Mama had finished school and gotten her job, they had struggled to keep up with the rent and the basics. Finances were improving, but the cost of starting over had been a big deal. He had to help out somehow. Besides, how else would he keep up with his new need of quality footwear?
Delivering the papers didn’t take long. Making sure they didn’t break patio decorations was the challenge. His boss couldn’t believe it when Demarcus asked for another two routes. Hey, what were another few minutes?
He stretched his legs a couple of times to keep the machine loose. His grin wouldn’t subside at his thoughts of dashing about so fast. He didn’t know why God let him do this, but he was thankful for every blessing. If only he could share this with someone!
Eh, that probably wasn’t the best idea right now. Visions of men in bubble suits probing him with needles freaked him out.
On the return trip to Santa Clara County there was more traffic. The early birds had begun their commutes, but it wasn’t too bad for California standards. Again, no one seemed to notice him as he skimmed the edge of the road.
It took him fifteen minutes to backtrack due to his slower pace—just a leisurely jog past all the normal people in their Corollas.
What did this mean? The last several weeks weren’t dreams or hallucinations. His impromptu race this morning proved it. He looked to the sky.
“God, I’m so grateful, but I’d also like a hint of what I’m supposed to do now.”
Demarcus knew the source of his gift had to be divine. Why him? What did the Lord have in mind for a kid just scraping by?
The exit for his city had a windier road. It felt like his personal roller coaster. He couldn’t help releasing a whoop gliding into south San Jose.
Now, off to Parkland Avenue and his routes. He’d finish in ten minutes and head home to get ready for another day at school. If he was lucky, Mama would have a plate of her cinnamon apple French toast ready for him.
Skirting the park, he almost tripped over a branch sticking out from behind a bush near the sidewalk. He hopped to the side and hit the brakes. Even if most people wouldn’t hit the branch at high speed, he didn’t want them to trip over it.
Of course, it took him twenty yards to stop. He jogged back over. And recoiled.
It wasn’t a stick. A pair of legs lay sprawled out on the cement.

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