Mister Impossible by Maggie Stiefvater (good books for 8th graders .TXT) 📕

them driving cars designed to do more than get HOV lane violations. They congregated in forums to discuss the Game, to offer up prizes for the next, to talk smack and measure dicks. At first they were all area marks, but eventually people would come from up and down the 95 corridor in hopes of rolling into the Game.

Hennessy and Jordan usually just moderated the race for a cut of the prizes, but when the girls needed cash or were intrigued by one of the offerings, they raced, too. Hennessy was good at it because she had no fear and no inhibitions. Jordan was better at it because she did. Together they were known as the Valkyrie, although a few of the more observant return players called them the Valkyries.

The Game broke a shit ton of rules.

Hennessy loved it. Or at least she loved that she couldn’t think of anything else while she was doing it.

That was as close as she got to happiness. She thought it was probably the best she could hope for.

“Get in, hurry up, time is a waterfall, and the moment we’re trying to catch is rapidly swimming toward the edge,” Hennessy said.

“Hennessy?” Jordan asked, shocked.

Jordan Hennessy stood on the dark sidewalk near Fenway Studios, her bag slung over her shoulder, looking sleek and urbane with her natural hair pulled back into a high ponytail, slim-shouldered leather jacket, orange crop top, sharp black leggings, subtle chevron-patterned flats.

Jordan Hennessy also sat behind the wheel of a thrumming Toyota Supra on the curb, looking camera-ready with huge hair, deep purple lips, a man’s bomber jacket, a deep purple corset, and heels that seemed difficult to operate a clutch with.

These two Jordan Hennessys shared identical septum rings, identical floral tattoos across their hands. Nearly identical floral tattoos around their throats.

But no one would mistake them for the same person.

“You didn’t call, bruv,” Jordan said.

“In.”

Jordan got in.

She had changed a little since Hennessy had seen her, but not so much that Hennessy couldn’t read her expression. It was a nuanced thing, this expression. Shock was the primary flavor. Then there was a note of relief. And then, just on the back of the tongue, wariness.

All of this was expected. What Hennessy hadn’t expected to see was joy. It had radiated from Jordan before she’d seen Hennessy. She’d been walking the sidewalk in the damned middle of the night with a grin on her face, a grin she kept trying to put away but kept escaping. Somehow Jordan had been living here in Boston away from Hennessy and she had not only been okay, but she’d been so okay that happiness was bursting out of her and she couldn’t stop anyone from being able to see it. Hennessy had been pulling out the Lace and Jordan had been happy.

Hennessy didn’t know what to do with this, so she started to prattle. She prattled as she sent the Supra down the street and Jordan put her bag on the floor by her feet like she always did. She prattled as she sent the Supra onto the highway and Jordan rolled up the window so that the increasing wind would stop beating her hair around. She prattled as they were joined by several other heavily muscled cars in the tunnels under Boston Harbor. She prattled as Jordan eyed the other cars and then put her seat belt on.

“How much notice did you give them?” Jordan asked. She wasn’t stupid. She recognized the Game when she saw it.

“Five hours,” Hennessy said. “On that mad nootropics investment banker Slack—do you remember that one? That means there is a very good chance statistically that one of these drivers is currently totally mashed on some completely unregulated South American plant by-product.”

They burst west out of Boston at a speed several ticks above proper. They had acquired quite a contingent of impressive cars. Flat cars, wide cars, flanking, waiting. The Game was getting ready to whisk Hennessy’s feelings away. It hadn’t yet. But it was going to.

It had to.

She didn’t know what she had wanted out of seeing Jordan again, but not this. Some part of her had always known that if she called, Jordan would be doing okay without her. Knew that if she showed up, Jordan would be doing okay without her. Knew that if there was a way for their lives to be separated, Jordan would be doing okay without her. Knew that it was Hennessy who couldn’t live without Jordan.

She supposed she had hoped she was wrong.

As the cars gathered and revved, Jordan asked, “How can we run a Game? There’s no one to guard the exits. They’re all dead.”

“It ruins the fun when you say that, so I’m going to pretend you didn’t,” Hennessy said. “Also, I’ve already thought about that and, as they say, planned accordingly. It’s a straight shot. Starts with a triple flash of the lights and then it’s on for exactly seven miles. No exits in between. If we’re clear when it starts, we should be still by the end. No surprises for us. We’ll have a grand ol’ time.”

“ ‘We.’ Are we racing?”

“Yes.”

“Hennessy,” Jordan said, “there’s a GTR right there. A new nine-one-one behind it. I can’t see that thing two cars back because it’s too damn flat, but my pheromones suggest it’s a McLaren. Are you just planning on watching taillights?”

But she didn’t sound angry; she never sounded angry. She was always up for whatever madness Hennessy was into. Wasn’t this better? Hennessy thought. Wasn’t this how it should have been? Her and Jordan, Hennessy setting that timer on her phone, staying awake for as long as possible, never seeing the Lace.

“We should do this again,” Hennessy said.

“We are doing it again.”

“I mean you-and-me, I mean Jordan Hennessy. You should come with us or I should come light up Boston, except seriously can we do New York instead, because this place is like a hot girl’s elbow pit. It’s fine but there’s not a lot