TAMING THE ALPHA STREET RACER

“Dick. In. Her. Throat,” Tamara says, flinging open the door to my dorm room like she has a personal beef with it. “You caught him with his whole dick down that bitch’s esophagus and you’re in here crying like it’s your fault?”

I blink up at her from my bed, mascara smudged, my eyes burning. Novo Amor is playing on low volume from my speaker.

Tamara narrows her eyes at me, kicks the door shut with the back of her Mary-Jane boots. Her hair is platinum and clipped up in a messy claw. She’s wearing a cropped tee that says “Men Are Parasites” in blood-drip font and a pleated mini so short I'm sure I can see her thong if she turns around just enough for me to take a peek.

Tamara Leigh is my best friend—practically the only girl I've opened up to since middle school. There was so much difference between us that people usually wonder how we worked as friends. While I was the quiet one who could never dare enough to do anything, Tamara could take a dare to slap the devil and actually go to hell to do it.

Two hours ago, I'd called her because I'd walked into my boyfriend—now ex's—room and found him with his tongue down a girl's esophagus for the fourth time in our relationship. Now, she’s here, and she looks like she's about to send Noah to hell.

There’s glitter on her collarbones, bruises on her knees, and she looks like she’s about to murder me for crying over a man. It’s a look I’ve known since freshman year of high school back in Seattle—the one right before she does something monumentally stupid and exciting.

Tamara’s never met a line she wouldn't cross; I’ve never met one I didn't immediately shrink back from.

She scoffs. “You’re actually playing this song? Jesus Christ, Riv. You’re mourning a boy with halitosis?”

I sniff, dragging the sleeves of my hoodie over my hands. “It wasn’t like that... It was just one time. He said he was—”

“—drunk. Heartbroken. Misunderstood. Allergic to condoms. I’ve heard it all.” She cuts me off and yanks open my curtain. It's pitch black outside. I hadn’t even realized it was night. “The man’s breath could strip paint off a fender and you let him put his tongue down your throat for six months? I should beat your ass.”

I laugh, a pathetic, breathy thing. “You’re so dramatic.”

“No. I’m so serious.” She stalks over, grabs my phone, and shuts the music off. “Riv, I love you, but this is pathetic. He cheated. You cried. That’s step one. Step two is revenge.”

I sit up, rubbing my eyes. “What kind of revenge?”

Tamara grins like a Cheshire cat. “I’m thinking… keys and permanent markers? Come on. We’re going downtown. There’s a race happening. Half the campus is gonna be there. And your ex’s car is parked right outside. I saw it when I was coming up.”

I sit up so fast I feel dizzy. “Wait. What?”

She doesn’t even blink.

“He came to see me?” My chest tightens, and for a second I forget he’s a piece of shit. “But he hasn’t even called. I thought—”

“Oh my god, Riv.” Tamara throws her head back and groans like she’s losing her mind. “HE DID NOT COME TO SEE YOU. He probably came to fuck some other freshman in Annenberg.”

I flinch.

She leans in. “You are not excited right now. You should be humiliated. Humiliated. You walked in on him getting head and he didn’t even flinch. Hadn’t felt sorry, didn’t fucking call. Like you were just... a glitch in his day.”

“I told you, that was one time—”

Tamara laughs like it’s not even funny, just pathetic. “Really, babe?”

My throat burns. “You’re being mean.”

“He was mean first,” she snaps. “And stupid. He didn’t even lock the door, Riv. That’s how comfortable he was.”

The next second, we’re in her car. It smells like weed and perfume. I’ve changed into a white tank top with no bra and black jeans that ride low on my hips. Tamara’s playing Doja loud enough to make the windows shake, and I’m gripping a Sharpie and a set of keys tight in my hands.

We pull up to a dimly lit street, where Noah’s black BMW arrogantly occupies the sidewalk in front of a shabby 7-Eleven. There’s no one in sight, not even Noah.

Tamara tosses her hair. “Front passenger door. That’s all yours.”

My fingers shake. But I do it. And then she does hers.

Big, angry words. All caps. Not even spelled right. We’re laughing too hard for it to matter when we are done: **CHEETER, LOWLIFE, DIE SLOW**.

And on the windshield in huge crooked letters: **"TELL HER U GOT HERPES"**.

She grins at me over the hood. “Race night, bitch.”

-----

A few minutes later, Tamara’s already hanging halfway out the window, yelling at some guy trying to take the same parking spot.

“Back the hell up, dumbass! You see me turning, don’t play stupid!”

The tires screech as she jerks the wheel and slides into the space, barely missing the guy’s bumper. He slams his door open, but Tamara’s faster, sticking her middle finger up.

“I will ram you, I don’t give a shit!”

I sink into my seat. We’re miles from campus, in Downtown L.A., in a very chaotic lot. The street’s half-lit and packed with cars that look like they cost more than rent.

Tamara kills the engine and whips her head toward me. “Welcome to the jungle.”

Tamara’s out of the car before I can blink. “Let’s go, let’s go,” she barks, yanking my door open.

I scramble out after her, yanked straight into a wall of noise. Engines revving, people yelling, the bass from some speaker system thumping so hard I feel it in my teeth. Tamara grabs my wrist and pulls me into the crowd.

“Don’t slow down. If the cops show up, we run!”

My stomach drops. “What?! You didn’t tell me it was illegal!”

“It’s not illegal illegal,” she yells back.

“What does that even mean—?”

“Cops show up? You run. You don’t think, you don’t freeze, you fucking run. Got it?”

“I thought we were just watching!”

Tamara laughs like I told a joke. “We are watching. From the front row.”

A voice blasts over the speakers: “Alright, move it! We got Zero in the lotttttttt!”

The crowd goes feral. “Zero! Zero! Zero! Zero!”

Phones lift into the air. Flashlights strobe against faces. Tamara tightens her grip on my wrist and pulls hard, pushing us deeper into the mob. I stumble over someone’s foot.

“Don’t stop,” she shouts. “Move with me. Elbows out if you have to.”

My breathing is all over the place. Engines are growling—the kind of sound that makes your stomach flip.

“Tamara!” I yell. “What the hell is happening?”

She looks back at me once, eyes wild. “Just don’t fall!”

I trip again. My shoe slips on something slick. Her hand jerks. I grip harder. More bodies slam into us from the sides.

“Riv, don’t let go!”

I try. I swear I do. But someone crashes hard into my shoulder, and her fingers slide right out of mine.