It was true what Mrs. Berry said: no one expected to see an old woman in a muscle car, a red and black Mustang convertible with a scooped hood and an engine that ran with a throaty hum we could feel in that soft place just below our stomachs as she pulled alongside us on our walk home from school. “Hey there,” she said. “You want a ride?”
“Not allowed to with strangers,” Kelly said. She and I were friends. In fact, she was the only friend I’d made since my mother and I had moved into the neighborhood a few months earlier.
