Shift

“Fuck!” Tommy breaks into a sprint just as Dustin’s tire clips the back end of the kart he’s chasing. He lost the ground he’d gained the moment he saw Colt, but he didn’t ease up on the gas to avoid the wreck. It was inevitable, almost purposeful.

Our kart rides up the back end of the leading kart, taking it out of the race along with Dusty. His arms flex and his body fights to right the spi

“Dude, what happened? Was it the tire? Something on the track?” My brother hits Dustin with a barrage of questions, but it’s a ploy to stall him from what I’m sure we all feel is coming.

Dustin breaks into a run, charging the man who calls himself his dad, this stranger named Colt who showed up out of nowhere and claimed he was invited. Colt doesn’t even flinch as Dustin closes the distance between them, his palms landing in the very center of the man’s chest. The impact knocks Colt off balance, but rather than get angry and come back at Dustin with a shove of his own, he stretches his arms out wide and begins to laugh.

“This isn’t good,” Tommy says at my side, moving his eyes from me to the scuffle happening a few dozen feet away. Most of the track is watching us now—watching Dustin. His neck burns red from the blood flowing through his veins, and his cheeks puff with heavy breathing. His dark hair pokes out in crazy curls that jut in all directions thanks to the sweat caused by his helmet, the helmet I’m glad I’m holding for him. I think if it were in his hands, he’d launch it right at Colt’s face.

“What’s this greeting, son? I thought you wanted me to come watch you race?” Colt’s hands are still out at his sides, as if proving to all of us witnesses that he’s the i

“That was when I was seven!” Dustin shouts.

“Dust—” My dad reaches out to touch his shoulder, to calm our friend. Dustin cuts him off and slaps my father’s hand away.

“No! Who invited this guy? Who told him where to go? Was it you, Tom?” Dustin rocks on his feet as his eyes dart from Colt to my dad, as if he’s holding a gun on everyone who feels a threat.

“I did.” Tommy speaks up next to me. It’s times like this when I realize how much we look alike. Our freckles seem to pronounce themselves when we’re guilty, and it’s hard to hide the red that flushes our cheeks when we’re nervous.

My stomach sinks at my brother’s confession. There is clearly so much I don’t know. I instantly feel betrayed and left out. Our triangle is not equal; my brother is included in parts of Dustin’s life that I’m not. There are secrets they keep, and there are promises my brother has broken—is breaking. Right now.

“You . . . what?” Dustin’s head falls slightly to the side and his eyes droop even as his chest puffs violently with a new panicked round of breathing.

“I didn’t mean to, Dust. I wanted him to go away. It was last week, when you were at the shop, and I was waiting with your mom. I—”

Dustin’s eyes grow wild, the centers dark and his focus roaming around the space between everyone but never stopping for long on someone’s face.

“You . . . saw Mom?” he finally manages to question, stepping close to Colt again.

“I mean, it’s my house, isn’t it? I paid for it and all,” Colt says, reaching to his back pockets and pulling a cigarette pack from one side and a lighter from the other. Holding the pack to his teeth, he pulls out a cigarette and holds it between his lips while cupping his mouth to block the breeze from the flicker of his lighter. A few short puffs generate a circle of smoke that he blows into Dustin’s face.

“Why would you tell him about the race?” I mutter to my brother.

“Shut up! You have no fucking clue about any of this,” Tommy says, turning his sour expression on me.

“Hey!” my dad pipes in, poking his enormous finger into the center of my brother’s chest. The move sucks all the boldness out of my brother’s act, but he’s still too set on not admitting to anything wrong to apologize to me. My dad grabs the shoulder of Tommy’s sweatshirt and pushes him back several steps, probably to create space between us. The two of them try to focus on the wreckage instead.

“Paid for it,” Dustin finally laughs out. His hands are still balled into fists at his sides, but a smile has spread into his cheeks, the dimples deep on both sides, a complete opposite expression from the tears welling in his eyes.

“Yeah, I paid for it,” Colt puffs out through smoke, only using one side of his mouth to talk. “Some fuckin’ race there, sport. You’re a little too old to be playing around with cars, aren’t you?”

“What, should I be selling dope like good ol’ Dad?” Dustin fires back.

The words silence those of us close enough to hear. They silence the air around us, the bugs and birds living in the grass blades, and the thin branches of the desert trees nearby. They silence my heart. They break it, for my friend.

The only preface to the hand landing on Dustin’s cheek is the quick flex in Colt’s jaw just before he cocks his arm and swings his palm at his son’s head.

“You go

“Stop it!” I cry out as one more blow lands on my friend’s face. His eye is already swollen from the one before.

Colt laughs at my plea, but it’s enough of a pause to give Dustin the breath he desperately needs to catch. Shoving past his father, he storms up the hill, swinging his feet over the embankment and past my wagon on his way back to the camper and trailer—back home.

I blink away the vision of him ducking between the cars parked closest to the track and let the panic I’ve been holding off settle into my chest with a quaking breath.

“Probably a good time to move along, Colt,” my dad says to Dustin’s father. The two of them stare at one another, my dad’s face hard as stone and his mouth a perfect line while Colt merely smirks as his cigarette collects ash where it dangles from his lips.

Not wanting to be the reason my dad holds in his temper, I decide to chase Dustin for once. I pick up my hoodie and binoculars and sprint up the same path my friend took, climbing over the small wall and dropping my things in the wagon. Nothing I own is worth more than the hurt I think my friend is feeling right now.

“Dustin?” I shout his name as I cut through the lines of trucks and minivans. I step over hitches and when I reach our truck, I step up on our trailer to get a better view of the parking lot or the road leading back to the highway. I wouldn’t be surprised to see Dustin walking home—despite the two hundred miles that walk entails.

“Ha