"Where do we go?" I asked Trey, terrified, barely even stopping at the stop sign at the end of the block before throwing the car into a hard left turn without signaling. My pulse was racing, I felt like I was sweating flakes of ice. My palms felt so slippery I feared I might not be able to control the car.

"We have to destroy this thing," Trey muttered, picking the locket up to examine it. "How do we destroy a gold locket?"

At the next corner I turned right and merged into traffic, heading toward the rural highway that was our best bet for getting out of town limits quickly. Almost immediately after I felt the warm rush of relief from mixing in with other cars driving at normal speeds, I heard sirens behind us. The sirens could only mean one thing on a Saturday afternoon: someone at the high school had called the police, and they were coming after us.

"Oh god!" I exclaimed. "Do you think I should pull over?"

"Um, you just assaulted a fellow student, I just punched a teacher, and you just drove away from the scene of an accident. I really don't think you should pull over right now," Trey advised me.

"Right," I agreed, impulsively switching lanes and cutting off someone to my left who honked angrily at me. I wanted to put as many cars as possible in between us and that police car behind us in traffic.

Using his miniscule, chewed-down fingernails, Trey managed to pry the locket open and made a sound that was a mix of oops and whoah. I took my eyes off the road for a split second to see that there was a small lock of golden hair, the color of honey, in the locket. It had uncurled the moment Trey had parted the two halves of the heart, and was stretched out, tickling his palm.

"I don't know if this is gross or cool," he muttered.

I thought instantly of the portrait in the Simmons' hallway, with Violet's grandmother, her blond hair perfectly coifed, smiling so gracefully. My memory of that patient smile suddenly seemed eerie. In the painting, Grandmother Simmons wasn't welcoming guests into her living room with that smile. She had been telling me, through the cracked paint, that her patience would outlast mine. She could wait a very, very long time for her revenge on those who had wronged her family.

We were greeted by two more police cars when I turned right onto the rural highway leading out of town. Upon seeing our car, they flipped on their sirens and the swirling red and blue lights on the tops of their vehicles filled the gray afternoon with color.

"I really don't like this," I told Trey, my voice shaking. I was already daring to wonder if anyone had called my mother to inform her that there was a wild police hunt for my capture in progress.

"Just keep driving." Trey scratched his head, thinking, and said, "The lakes. If we can make it as far as County Highway up past the airport, we can toss it over the side of the suspension bridge at White Ridge Lake."

That was far from where we were. The drive up to Shawano Lake and the smattering of smaller lakes around it in the densely forested area would take almost thirty minutes, driving fast. I wasn't sure my nerves and driving ability could hold out that long. The rural highway was only four lanes, two lanes eastbound, as we were, and two lanes westbound. If the police attempted to obstruct our passage, I wouldn't have the first idea of how to react. What was equally concerning was that we had less than a quarter tank of gas.

"Trey, I don't know if we're going to make it that far," I said, too scared to even cry.

"Think about Mischa," Trey encouraged me. "We have to at least try."

"But do you think throwing the locket into deep water is going to be enough to actually destroy it?" I asked. I would have felt a lot better if we had made the preparations to throw it into a vat of acid or an incinerator hot enough to melt precious metal.  But it was three o'clock on a Saturday afternoon in suburban Wisconsin; how the heck would we ever come across either of those options? "Gold doesn't rust."

"I think," Trey hypothesized slowly, "if we just put it in a place where Violet will never be able to get her hands on it again, we'll be in much better shape than we are now. And this hair will disintegrate in water. So if it's the hair that holds the power, that's easy to deal with right now."

He fished around in the pocket of his coat until he found a book of matches.

"Trey! I'm driving!" I shrieked, overcome by my fear of fire. I didn't want to smell burning hair or see smoke in the car with me while I needed to be focused on the outrageous speed at which I was driving down the rural highway, passing occasional cars while three police cars with sirens blaring chased us.

"This is the police. Pull over."

The police officer riding shotgun in the car closest behind us had rolled down his window and was barking out orders to us using a bullhorn.  "It's okay," Trey assured me. "If I burn the hair now, we'll be halfway done with the job even if the gas runs out."

He was right, so I took a deep breath and tried my best to ignore him as he lit the edge of the golden lock. The hairs curled and blackened quickly, filling the car with a sickening, sweet odor and a ton of smoke.

"All done," Trey said, lowering his window just enough to slide his left hand through so that the remaining ashes could blow off into the wind.

"You are under arrest. Pull the vehicle over to the side of the road."

Ahead of me by about forty feet in traffic was a logging truck, piled high with freshly cut trees secured with an elaborate network of cords and hooks. It was taking up more than one lane, and passing it was going to be impossible without swerving into oncoming westbound traffic.

"What do I do, what do I do?" I asked Trey.

Trey placed a steady hand on my right thigh to calm me down. "Watch for a gap in oncoming traffic, then dip into that lane and gun it."

Listening, I watched, and then he added, "And pray like hell there isn't a car right in front of the truck when we get around it."

I took a deep breath after a blue Volvo station wagon whizzed past us on the left, and I threw Trey's mom's car into the oncoming lane and hit the gas. Almost a hundred feet ahead of us, cruising at the same speed we were, a maroon Kia was approaching us, threatening to hit us head-on if I wasn't able to pass the logging truck and merge back into the eastbound lane. For some unfathomable reason, the driver of the logging truck picked up speed, and I didn't think I was going to be able to get ahead of him before the Kia smashed into us.

"Jesus!" I screamed. At the very last second before impact with the Kia, I realized that if I tried to cut off the truck driver at the speed at which he was traveling, he'd clip the back of our Civic. I swerved further left into the second westbound lane, narrowly missing an oncoming Jetta. My stomach lurched as I heard the horrific whur of gravel beneath our spinning wheels. We had veered onto the side of the road but fortunately I had recovered the car before it had spun off beyond the gravel, into the tall grass and pine trees.

"Oh my god," Trey whispered, his voice full of vibrato from the bumping along of the car over the gravel. He was clutching his car seat with both hands, the locket still tucked in the palm of his left hand.

"We're good. I've got this," I exclaimed, unable to believe that we hadn't been annihilated by one or both of the oncoming cars we had just dodged, both of which had slammed on their brakes after we passed them, skidded, and were halted in the middle of their respective lanes. With no immediate oncoming traffic in either westbound lane, I hit the gas again once getting back on the pavement, not wanting to floor the car while still on loose gravel. We soared in front of the logging truck, and its driver slammed on its brakes. Behind us, we heard the distant squealing of brakes as the police cars also braked hard to avoid slamming into the back of the truck.

Unlike in chase scenes in movies, the ties holding the logs in place on the back of the truck did not tear open, causing mayhem and destruction to the police cars.  But the distraction did give me enough time to pass a Chevy truck ahead of us on the highway and gain a sizable lead on the police.

"That was awesome, but I think later when we have time, I'm going to wet my pants," Trey confided.

I forced a smile. I'd only had my license since August and at this point I was pretty sure that after my mad dash for White Ridge Lake, I'd never be licensed to drive again.

It was less than a minute before we heard the sirens soaring behind us again, and the situation only became slightly more dire when there were two more police cars waiting for us at an intersection about two miles before we entered the lake region. At Trey's urging, I blazed through the intersection without stopping, and the two new police cars joined in the chase after us.

"These two are a little late to the party," Trey quipped.

I almost wanted to cry with relief as we passed the smallest body of water in the cluster of lakes that were located north of Lake Shawano, the much larger body of water to the south. Ahead of us, I could see the lime green metal of the small bridge that spanned the expanse of White Ridge Lake. We were so close. So close.

And then the Civic rolled to a stop.

The gas tank needle was jiggling to a stop above the E, indicating that our luck had run out and we were finally completely out of gas. It was probable we'd driven the last mile entirely on fumes.

"No, no, no!" I yelled, slapping my palms against the steering wheel in frustration.

"No time to waste. Let's go," Trey urged me. He handed me the locket before rocketing out of the passenger side of the car. I followed his lead, hearing the police cars slamming to screeching halts behind us, no doubt leaving streaks of black rubber on the asphalt.

"This is the police! You are under arrest! I command you to stop and put your hands above your heads!"

I ignored the commands of the police as Trey and I ran the last few feet toward the small bridge with all of the energy we had left in us. We ran to its center, and I hesitated just for one second, looking down into the lake's gray depths. The lake looked especially gloomy that day beneath the miserable cumulus clouds that had rolled in, with black trees, barren of their leaves for the winter, crowning the lake's edges. Feeling the weight and the cool metal of the locket in my right hand, I leaned back, and whipped the gold necklace as far as I could into the gentle ripple of water below. It sank without even making a splash, and moments later I felt the strong hands of police on my arms, handcuffing me. I turned toward Trey on my left, who was also being handcuffed and led back toward the police car. He was smiling that perfect smile of his, that precious, rare smile that only I ever got to see, the smile he had reserved for me alone since we were little kids.

It was over, at last.