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By EDUARD WELCH
RCHS
Eduard Welch is a junior at Rappahannock County High School. This essay, part of Eduard's ongoing Gifted and Talented work i n English, was completed for publication in the Rappahannock News.
They left Tookey’s pad around eight in the morning; that was the kind of weekend it had been: Early to bed, early to rise. Tookey laughed, squinting through the dirtstained windshield of the battered Ford, pushing the pedal until the needle swung 40 miles over the speed limit.
It was all LaMort’s fault, but LaMort, curled up on the seat beside him like an embryo in a black leather womb, didn’t seem to care. He was hurting too much, needing the quick jab of the sharp, sweet point and the hot flow of the stuff in his veins.
“Man, what a weekend,” Tookey thought. And it wasn’t over yet. The fix was out there, someplace in the wilds of Maine, and Tookey, who never touched the filthy stuff himself, was playing good Samaritan.
He hunched over the wheel, pounding the horn with the heel of this right hand, shouting at the passing cars: “Move over, move over; watch where you’re going, stupid; pull over, pull over you lousy....”
“You tell 'em, man,” LaMort said softly. “You tell 'em what to do.”
Tookey didn’t tell them; he showed them. He skinned the paint off a Pontiac as he snaked in and out of the line, and crowded so close to th6 tail of a Honda that he could have run right over the little grey car.
LaMort began to giggle, urging him on, forgetting for the moment his destination and his need, delighting in the way Tookey used the car like a buzz saw, slicing a path through the squares in their Sundaydriving stupor.
“Look out, man,” LaMort cackled. “Here comes old Tookey; here comes nothin’.”
The traffic artery was starting to clot at the entrance to the tunnel, and Tookey poured it on, jockeying the car first left and then right, grinning at the competitive game.
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