Black smoke bites my lungs. My air passages seem to close, and I gasp to get a breath. As I turn away from the police car, there’s a whooshing sound and flames spill from the broken windows. People scramble back from the flames. It feels like my jersey is on fire, but it’s not. The torched car, the cheering crowd—it’s awful and scary, and weirdly fun, like we’re in a virtual world. But the smoke is real—very real—and the rules have changed.
A guy steps in front of the car and poses, pointing to his shirt, which reads, I’m here for the riot. He’s wearing sunglasses, and I wonder if he was the one who threw the torch. I don’t know how he can stand so close to the burning car. Even away from it, my jeans are burning hot.
People start streaming away from the fire at the same time as others run to watch it burn. I grab Nick and join a pack of guys cutting through a parking lot. A few people sit in their cars, waiting to leave. The lot is jammed. Some drivers try to back up into the flow of people but get stopped. There’s a Mini parked at the edge of the walkway with no one in it. Someone yells, “Tip the Mini!” Several guys put their shoulder to the car. Someone else yells, “Get it rocking.” They let the car fall, and when it recoils, they push it again.
They’re actually getting air. My dad told me that when he was in college, he and his buddies carried a Ford Fiesta up the steps of the administration building. Carrying a Fiesta probably didn’t really damage it. Flipping it might.
I’m glad my dad’s truck isn’t parked down here.
A skinny kid takes a spot at the side of the car. He can’t weigh more than ninety pounds, and it makes me laugh to see him grunting and pushing. No way will they be able to tip the car. I yell, “Heave!” The tires lift a few inches off the ground. “Heave!”
Someone yells to Nick, “Get in there and push!”
He makes a move, but I grab his sleeve.
More guys throw their weight against the car. “Push!” The whole crowd seems to chant. “Push!”
Amazingly, the car is almost on its side, the whole underside showing.
“Push!”
The car tilts, teeters for an instant, then topples upside down.
How often do you get to see a car tipped over? People cheer. We dance around the turtled car, our hands in the air. I pull out my phone and shout to Nick, “I’ll take your picture!”
He poses in front of the tipped car, his head thrown back and both middle fingers in the air. He’s imitating the guy earlier who got on tv, and I can’t stop laughing to take the picture. Behind him, people crawl up on the underside of the car. People hoot and cheer. Suddenly, every phone and camera seems pointed at a guy poking something into the window of the car. Someone yells, “Get out of the way!” That’s when I see the guy shaking liquid inside the car. The guy wipes his hands on his jersey, and still I don’t quite get it. All I can think is, Wow, if that is gas, wiping it on yourself is incredibly dumb. He touches a lighter to a rag and throws it in.
Nick and I stumble away. At first the interior of the car lights up red. Then smoke spills out. Flames lick over the underside of the car, growing hot on the grease. Overhead, an awning starts to melt. The awning is printed with the name of a hair salon, and the letters peel back from the heat. More people gather as the car fire blocks their way through the lot. The flames reach up under the window of the hair salon. Someone throws a rock at the window, but it bounces off. More people throw rocks, and the window shatters. People start chanting, “Burn. Burn.”
A girl shakes her head at me like I’m a very large idiot. She says, “My friend works there.” A rock whistles through the broken window, and something inside the salon crashes.
“I’m not doing anything,” I retort.
An older guy steps in front of the crowd. “Stop!” He walks in front of us, waving his arms. “Just go home!” he says. “Go home!”
Someone shouts, “Get out of our way, old man!” Rocks fly. One must hit the older guy, because he grabs his shoulder.
The girl cries out, “No!”
Another rock hits him in the side and spins him around. He almost falls. The girl runs over to him and puts her arms over his head to shield him. Another man grabs them and pulls them back into the crowd.
People try to edge past the burning Mini, but the passage is narrow and some are repelled by the heat. More people pour into the lot, maybe thinking they can get through. I hear sirens and a loudspeaker telling us to clear the area. At the far edge of the crowd, a few uniformed police have formed a line. One cop fiddles with his radio. Another shifts from foot to foot. I have no idea who these guys are, and whether they might know me. I turn so they won’t be able to see my face.
“Clear the area. Clear the area.”
If we go the way they want us to, we’ll have to walk right past them. People form a barrier around the car. A guy with his hood pulled up hurls a rock at the police line.
People swarm, some trying to break through toward the cops, some trying to get past the car. Two guys start fighting, and some of the crowd circles around them to watch.
“Clear the area.”
Where the hell do they think we can go?
The guy with the hood picks up another rock. I put my hand on his arm, but he pulls it away. Other guys chant at the police.
The color has gone from Nick’s face. I’m not sure if it’s because he’s drunk or scared. Then a cheer lifts from the crowd. The police are retreating.
In an instant, the mood shifts. It’s like in school, when the teacher leaves the classroom—now everyone’s a renegade. New fights break out. The guy with the hood saunters around like he single-handedly turned back the cops. More likely, they’re going for riot gear, I think, although I don’t know why they don’t already have it on. Others in the crowd pick up rocks and throw them after the police. I feel for the cops, but mostly I’m just glad none of them recognized me so no one will tell my dad. I’m so relieved, I start to laugh. Nick looks at me, stunned.
“It’s okay,” I say. “Let’s get out of here.”