JAINA

It feels impossible. There are so many cars I can't possibly research all of them. I upload pictures I took of the take-over to my fake Instagram account. I know this will make it more legit to anyone checking it out. I had no idea how intense these take-overs are. I felt on-edge the entire time, my stomach called up I anticipation of someone getting hurt. I'm glad I didn't try to go on my own.

Elijah navigates the downtown traffic as he rushes us to the next location. I watch as cops drive past us in the opposite direction. It seems like they are always a step behind these spinners. I wonder if it's strategic.

I wish I could talk to Nathan. I want to tell him how crazy the entire scene is and how I could see now that the driver that hit us was probably amped up on adrenaline and stupidity. It's chaos when the cops roll up. Cars are driving down the wrong side of the street, making illegal U-turns in front of cruisers and speeding off against the streetlights. It's like the wild west, no rules and all outlaws.

"Are you ok?" Elijah asks me. His attention is on the road, but he glances at me quickly, a look of concern on his face.

"Yes. I'm good."

The next take-over is only a few blocks away. This one seems worse than the one before it. The location is at the end of a freeway entrance and exit. Cars are lined up on the shoulder of the freeway as spectators cross the small strip of dirt and old trees and climb up onto the well-worn street. We've come at the intersection from on top of a huge hill and can watch as the cars begin to spin as we search for a place to park. There isn't anywhere. The street is too narrow, and the cars are already backed up. Many people have abandoned their cars in the road to attempt to get closer to the action on foot.

Elijah takes me hand and pulls me close. We weave in and out of the parked cars on our way to the front. My heart races as the screeching of tires fills the air along with the thick grey smoke. This time, I look around at who the people are that are participating. There isn't one thing that seems to bond them together. There are old people and young people. We even passed an abandoned car with two car seats in the back. It's crazy how people would expose their children to this. Some of the spectators are dressed in name brands, while others are wearing sweats.

I start to notice that there are a few groups that seem to stand together. I thought the cars would be marked with which car crew they belonged to, but that isn't the case. Some do have businesses on the sides of their cars, but mostly it's for tire companies. I don't know how I'm going to get information from anyone.

Elijah pulls me closer to a large group of guys around our age at the edge of the circle. He positions himself in front of me, but points to the curb behind him so that I will stand there. I'm protected by his body but can still see over his shoulder.

"What's up?" a man asks Elijah. He's wearing loose fitting jeans and a solid black hoodie. Beneath the hood, a flat brim hat pokes out. He extends a fist to Elijah and they bump knuckles.

"Nothing much. How've you been?" Elijah yells over the noise.

A drifting smoke cloud burns my eyes and irritates my throat. I cough a little and Elijah reaches behind himself to squeeze my leg. A silent way of reassuring I'm ok.

"Good, bro. Where's your boy? Haven't seen him in a minute." The man crosses his arms, watching the spinning as he waits for a reply.

"He's visiting family," Elijah answers.

The man nods in understanding. A red Chevy Camaro pulls into the circle. This car is shinny and new. It's obvious it's well taken care of. The driver's window is rolled up and it's impossible to see who's inside. The tint on the car windows is as black as the night. We watch as the passenger extends an arm out the window, motioning for the crowd to get noisy. The tires begin to spin and lay hot rubber on the street below. We watch as the passenger pulls himself up into a sitting position, his body half in the car and half out.

We watch as the Camaro starts to spin. With each circle, the force on the passenger becomes more and more obvious. At first, he is waving his arms and making eye contact with spectators. Then he scrambles to gain a hold of the car, reaching inside and also on the top, but his grip can't hold against the quick whipping of the car. His face is no longer smiley and excited. He's panicked, but the driver can't see him or hear his screams above the noise of the crowd.

It all happens so fast. The passenger is flung out of the car, his body looks like a discarded child's toy as it lands on the pavement. A collective gasp can be heard, but the smoke from the burning rubber is covering the view of the driver. The man on the ground tries to orient himself to where the car is, but it's too late. The car swings around again and nearly misses him.

I can't breathe. My chest is tight, and I know I shouldn't watch, but I want to see if he'll survive. The people closest to the car wave their arms frantically and motion to the ground, but the thick smoke is covering them as the driver tightens his circle and moves towards his passenger. The passenger pushes up to his feet, but he's clearly hurt. He takes a step and falls back to the ground. The car narrowly misses him again. Phones are recording the whole thing, and I can't help but think that this might be the man's last moments we are witnessing.