T he speed limit along Bay Avenue in Toms River, New Jersey was thirty-five, but that didnât matter to Joannaâs older brother, Zibi. He was the fastest kid on the block, both behind the wheel and at the helm of a boat, at least according to his sister.
As Henry walked back from school along Bay Avenue, he saw Zibi speed by with his sister in the passenger seat of the jet-black 1973 three-liter Ford Capri. Joannaâs window was open and her long, golden locks were flowing in the wind.
The car came to an abrupt halt just a few yards ahead of Henry, who was walking along a sidewalk next to an uneven grass verge.
âHey Henry! Want a ride?â shouted Joanna, leaning out of the window.
â Of course I do, and actually Iâ d like to drive. Iâ d do a better job than your brother,â thought Henry, before replying timidly:
âNo, thanks. Iâm nearly at my Aunt Jasmineâs.â
In reality, Henry would have loved to jump in the car, but he was worried Zibi might laugh at him for whatever reason and Henry didnât want to look a fool in front of Joanna; Miss Anderson had already embarrassed him enough for one day, and anyway, Henry was still thinking about the Kennedy assassination.
Yeah, the assassination.
At the end of class, Mr. Johnson had left the story in a shroud of mystery, saying that he could only relay the facts as they had been decreed by history. He told the children that the school curriculum prevented him from going any further, but that when they were adults they would be able to explore some of the interesting alternative theories that were out there.
âThe truth is not always as it seems,â had been Mr. Johnsonâs last words as he left the classroom.
âOK, Henry. See you in class on Monday!â yelled Joanna over the roar of the Capriâs engine.
Henry had no time to reply or even wave to Joanna. The car was already speeding away. Zibi had revved so hard in neutral that when he engaged first gear, the tires screeched and left a long, stinking trail on the asphalt. In a matter of seconds, the car had disappeared over the horizon.
There was no traffic on Bay Avenue that day, at least not at that time.
Henryâs backpack was weighing him down, and he paused for a second to take it off. It wasnât the books that were the problem; it was the new oxygen cylinder for Aunt Jasmine. His aunt had suffered pretty serious respiratory problems ever since she lost a lung to cancer, and the remaining one wasnât exactly that of a champion free-diver.
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