Yellow Flag

by Robert Lipsyte

  No one told me, he thought. I’m outside the loop with Billy. But isn’t that what I want? Dad had invited him over to Goshen Raceway last night to watch Kris test the car, but he’d said he was too busy. Quintet practice.

  You want to know what’s going on, band fag, go ask the redheaded ballbuster.

  FOURTEEN

  He stayed up in the grandstand for a while, enjoying being alone as the sweet, warm afternoon cooled into a soft evening. By the time he got down to the garage area, number 12 was back in its bay and Uncle Kale was back under its hood. Jackman was handing him tools. Across the road Jimmie and the crew were standing by the hauler, drinking Jump and eating Chaco Chips while Billy fired up his barbecue grill and his Crock-Pot for supper.

  Billy spotted him. “Kerry wants you back at the motel.” There was something anxious in his face.

  “What’s up?”

  “You see how Kris qualified?”

  “That wasn’t the plan?”

  Billy shook his head. “You better talk to your dad.”

  The motel was on the highway south of the speedway, a quarter mile away, but Kyle shouldered his bag and walked. Need to stretch out my legs, he thought. Or delay what was coming up. Did they know yesterday after Kris drove the car at Goshen? The talk at breakfast. Bring your helmet and shoes. Sorry you quit racing.

  But you need to be eighteen to drive in an ARL-sanctioned race at this level. So I’m safe, right?

  Am I sure I want to be safe?

  They had connecting rooms at the motel. He went into the one with the open door. Dad was sitting in a chair, staring at the wall. He held a finger to his lips and pointed to the doorway that led to the next room. Kris was on a bed, snoring. Dad signaled Kyle to close the door.

  “Boyd’s available if we need him,” said Dad.

  “For what?” said Kyle, stalling.

  “Kris had trouble controlling the car last night, scraped the wall. Lost concentration. I thought his head might clear. Kidding myself.” He looked at Kyle. “Too risky for him to race. We could get Boyd. Family Brands rather have you or me.”

  “Don’t you have to be eighteen?”

  “They can get a waiver. Be just for one race.”

  “Been so long.” He wasn’t sure what he wanted to say. Been much longer for Dad.

  “Since you weren’t the one who qualified, you’d have to start dead last. No pressure. Stay out of trouble, move up slow, you got three hundred laps. You finish in the top twenty-five, everybody be happy.”

  Like I have a choice. “One race.”

  Dad smiled. “Let’s order some room service. Make a plan.”

  The burgers and fries came up quickly. Dad seemed to be searching for a way to begin. “Means a lot to me, you doing this.” Then he got quiet for a moment. “I know what you’re going through.” Quiet again. Kyle thought of a car starting and stalling. “There were other things I wanted to do, too.” Stall.

  “What kind of things?”

  Dad shrugged. “Build stuff. Bridges. In foreign countries. I’d just started college, thinking about engineering school, when Ken joined the army. Your grandpa was winding down by then. He wanted to retire, but he wouldn’t until there was another Hildebrand in his number twelve.”

  “You had no choice?”

  It was a question, but Dad said, “You understand.”

  “Not really.”

  Dad sighed. “Ken was good, really good. He and Kale were a great team. But Ken and Sir Walter butted heads and Ken took off. Sir Walter won’t even mention his name. Two stubborn men. Sad.”

  Kyle had heard pieces of the story before. Grandma Karen had stayed in contact with Ken over the years, even saw him and his family secretly a few times. Ken had been in Afghanistan with the Rangers when Grandma died, and never made it to the funeral. Mom and Dad still exchanged cards and e-mails with Ken and his wife and kids. Last they heard, Ken was a master sergeant, in Iraq.

  “So you replaced Ken.” Just saying that made Kyle shiver.

  Dad nodded. Kyle could tell he didn’t want to talk about it anymore. Dad said, “We better talk about that third turn, the one with the little dogleg. Want to tuck you in early. Big day.”

  He was exhausted, but he couldn’t sleep. He would drift to the edge of the precipice, but the moment he willed himself to roll over into sleep, he would be wide-awake. He had stuffed orange plugs into his ears to muffle Kris’s wheezing and moaning in the next bed, but they seemed to amplify the thoughts rattling around his head.

  He was scared.

  Not about driving. He could handle the car and the track, and as long as he wasn’t expected to go door to door with Gary and Ruff and Slater and finish in the top ten, he’d be okay.

  He was scared of being sucked in, trapped, dragged along. You had no choice? You understand.

  Just one race?

  What if Kris wasn’t ready next week? And the week after that?

  So why didn’t you say, No. Boyd’s available.

  How could you let that red ass take a Hildebrand seat?

  That’s not your problem.

  Dad could drive number 12 this weekend. He did it for years after the accident, when he didn’t have his chops anymore. Kyle was about seven when it happened, Kris nine, both already racing. They loved to watch Dad drive. They had seen the wreck. It was a Big One, spectacular, Red Hoyt’s car slamming into the wall, then tumbling across the track, wiping out half a dozen cars. Dad had been hit, but he’d kept control. He seemed to be driving out of danger when Mom screamed and pointed at the flames licking up from his front wheels. The fire suits weren’t as good in those days, or maybe the heat was just too intense. By the time they pulled him out of the car, he’d been burned from his ankles to his hips.

  It would have been a scarier time if the family hadn’t pulled together. Aunt Susan took care of Kyle and Kris so Mom could be at the hospital all the time. When Dad was discharged, Billy McCall drove him to physical therapy every day and waited and drove him home. Sir Walter got back into number 12 so the money would keep coming in. Jackman’s mom and dad were among a dozen relatives who made sure there was always dinner on the table.

  Uncle Ken showed up, sneaked in and out one night. Dad was on heavy painkillers, and for a long time he thought it had been a dream, his older brother in uniform standing by his hospital bed squeezing his hand.

  That was the only time Kyle ever saw Uncle Ken. He stopped by the house to look at his nephews. He was almost as tall as Dad, broad like Uncle Kale but not fat, a voice as deep as Sir Walter’s. His chest was filled with ribbons. He hugged Kyle and Kris. They both remembered his medals digging through their pajamas. Kyle thought Uncle Ken was crying, but Kris said that was impossible. Hildebrand men never cry. And then Uncle Ken was gone.

  Everybody was amazed at how quick a recovery Dad made. He was back in number 12 the following season. But he shouldn’t have been driving. He was still in pain from the burn scars and not as confident as he needed to be in tight spots. He drove for three more seasons, never winning, rarely even getting into the top ten.

  He shouldn’t be replacing Kris now.

  Maybe this is what you really want, Kyle. Look how you got off at being the family hero last week steering Kris over the line. You loved the attention.

  Maybe all this trumpet noise is just a cover. What you really want is Kris’s gig as golden boy.

  Do you want to be compared to him? Rookie of the year last season, hot young driver this season, Sexiest Newcomer on the NASCAR Scene website.

  And in this corner, li’l bro, Kylie the Band Fag.

  He called Nicole.

  As soon as she answered, he knew it was a mistake, but it was too late to hang up.

  “Where are you?” She sounded sleepy.

  “Monroe. Sorry, I forgot what time…”

  “No problem. We had an awesome practice tonight. We really sounded tight.” Her voice shifted gears. “I mean, as much as a quintet can with only four instruments.” It sou
nded tacked on, as if she didn’t really mean it. Were they a quartet now? “We just fell into this amazing thing, jazz riffs off the ‘Pavane.’ Todd started it, and we were all wailing.”

  He tried to seem enthusiastic. “Sounds great.”

  “When will you be back?”

  “I’m driving tomorrow.”

  “Driving back? Great.”

  “In the race. I’m driving number twelve in the NoCaBank 300.”

  “You’re racing? What about Kris?”

  “He’s not recovered.” When she didn’t say anything, he added, “From the crash.”

  “You told me you quit racing.” He thought she sounded angry.

  “I did. I’m his backup.”

  “For how long?”

  “Just this race.”

  “What if he can’t drive next week?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “What about the quintet?”

  “Sounds like you’re doing fine without me.” He heard the anger in his own voice.

  “Would have been better with you, Kyle. What’s going on? I thought you were serious about music.”

  “I am.”

  “You’re giving it up to race.”

  “Just because I race cars doesn’t mean”—he searched for what he meant—“I’m not still a band fag.”

  She laughed. “At least you haven’t lost your sense of humor,” she said.

  “I better get some sleep,” he said. “Sorry I woke you up.”

  “Good luck tomorrow.” She sounded like she meant it.

  “Thanks.” He wanted to say more, but she hung up.

  He suddenly felt very lonely. He listened to Kris snoring. The wheezing and moaning had stopped. He wished Kris would wake up. They could talk about tomorrow’s race. He knew the track.

  Maybe I’ll surprise them tomorrow.

  Yeah, right. Maybe I’ll wreck. Maybe I’ll start the Big One.

  Got to try to sleep.

  He forced his mind away from racing, away from Nicole, and it settled into “Pavane for a Dead Princess,” and he was hitting and holding that beautiful line, his fingers on the cool mother-of-pearl buttons, his lips vibrating with the good pain that made pure sound.

  The sound filled his head until the drums came in.

  There were no drums in this piece.

  Dad was knocking on the door.

  The big day had begun.

  FIFTEEN

  He had never gotten this kind of attention before, not at ten when he won the county quarter-midget title for twelve-and-unders, not at eleven when he won the state for under-fourteen, not at fifteen when he was running in the top ten in modifieds and sprint cars against drivers Dad’s age, just before he tried late models and then quit. The attention embarrassed him, but he liked it.

  At breakfast Uncle Kale, Jackman, and Dad moved around the table so Winik and Sir Walter could sit on either side of him. He was glad Kris was still upstairs, sleeping. He might feel bad. Replaced.

  When the waitress spotted Sir Walter, she rushed over with a pot of coffee. “Fresh brewed, Sir Walter.” She giggled like a kid. She could have been Sir Walter’s age.

  “Well, thank you”—Sir Walter squinted at the name tag on her chest—“Sheri. But today the race driver gets served first. Say hello to my grandson Kyle.”

  “Hi, Kyle.” She poured his coffee. “Got enough cream, sugar?”

  When everybody laughed, Kyle realized she was calling him Sugar. “Take it black.”

  “Just like Sir Walter,” she said. “Hope you drive like him.”

  “Give him time, Sheri—he’s gonna be better.” Sir Walter waited until she had poured everyone’s coffee before he reached into the shirt pocket where he kept his Sharpie pens.

  “I wasn’t gonna bother you,” said Sheri.

  “Never a bother.” Sir Walter slowly signed a menu for her in his elegant handwriting. For Sheri, Jump start your life, Sir Walter Hildebrand, No. 12.

  What happened to Keep your eyes on the road ahead?

  Family Brands happened.

  Sheri pressed the menu to her chest, blew Sir Walter a kiss, and ran off.

  Winik nudged Kyle. “Work on your penmanship.”

  “Sure Kris can’t make it?” Uncle Kale sounded pissed off.

  “Let’s go check tires,” said Dad, standing up, signaling Kale to come with him.

  “Ain’t had my breakfast,” said Uncle Kale.

  Wouldn’t hurt you to miss a few meals, thought Kyle. Uncle Kale glared at him as if he had read his mind, then glared at Dad, who was gathering up his laptop and binders. Uncle Kale was the older brother, but Dad was the president of Hildebrand Racing, in charge of everything that didn’t have to do with the car and the race itself, which was the crew chief’s domain. They usually worked out their differences privately, but this was starting to look like a public tug-of-war.

  Sir Walter cleared his throat. “Billy will make you something at the garage, Kale.”

  Uncle Kale stood up and said, “See you all over there.”

  Sir Walter waited until they had left the dining room before he turned to Winik and said, “Crew chiefs get used to a driver. Hard to make a change.”

  “Just for one race, right?” said Winik.

  “Right,” said Sir Walter, but it didn’t sound convincing to Kyle. What did he know? “Now, let’s order, Kyle. We need to stop by the Family Brands tent, visit with the folks, take some pictures.”

  Kyle wasn’t hungry. He picked at his omelet, pushed home fries around the plate. People stopped to talk to Sir Walter, ask for an autograph, and he made sure to introduce every one of them to Kyle. One woman pinched Kyle’s cheek, and Sir Walter laughed out loud.

  On the way out, Sir Walter whispered, “You should eat, but you have to drink water. Gonna lose a lot in the car.”

  A Family Brands van was waiting for them outside the motel. It took a back road to the speedway to avoid the traffic, and went in through a gate marked NO ENTRANCE. A state trooper dragged away a wooden saw-horse barrier to let them through. They drove beyond the parking lots to an exhibition area, dozens of trailers selling caps and die-cast cars, a village of big white tents where the sponsors, UPS and Miller Lite and the Air Force and Kellogg’s, entertained their guests. Bands played and balloons bumped against each other in the gentle morning breeze. Winik led them into the Family Brands tent, big as a school gym. People piled their plates at a buffet breakfast spread before taking them to long tables. A bluegrass band strummed on a small stage.

  Sir Walter put his mouth to Kyle’s ear and said, “All you got to say, ‘Thanks, I’ll do my best for my family and Family Brands.’ Got it?” Before Kyle could nod, Sir Walter clapped his shoulder and pushed himself up on the stage.

  The band gave Sir Walter a fanfare. He waved while Winik put on a number 12 cap, grabbed the mic, and shouted, “A great honor to give you a great driver, a great American, and a great representative for a great company, Sir Walter Hildebrand.”

  Sir Walter took the mic, smiled, and nodded at the stomping and hollering crowd. “Pleasure to visit with you folks—makes me feel like part of your family, too. Know you got some serious eating to do this morning, so I won’t take but a minute more of your time to introduce the face of the future, a fourth-generation racin’ man, my grandson Kyle Hildebrand.”

  Kyle nearly tripped getting up onstage. He stumbled toward Sir Walter, who handed him the mic, which almost slipped out of his sweaty hand. Could it get worse?

  But once he had the mic in his hand, staring out at all those smiling faces, he settled down. Just like taking a trumpet solo in the auditorium.

  “Thanks. I’ll do my best for you out there today, for Hildebrand and for Family Brands.” And then, before he thought about it, he shouted, “Jump start your life!”

  The crowd yelled and clapped. Grandpa squeezed his shoulder, and Winik looked up at him across the stage and raised a thumb.

  Felt good.

  SIXTEEN

&
nbsp; He sensed the freeze right away as he walked into the big room off the official inspection garage for the drivers’ meeting. He was surrounded by Dad, Uncle Kale, and Jackman, but they couldn’t shut out the low grumbles and the hard stares. Nobody likes rookies—Kyle knew that. They are unpredictable, they make mistakes, they get in the way, they cause wrecks. The track tapes a yellow stripe across a rookie’s back bumper as a warning. Stay away from this one; he doesn’t know what he’s doing.

  Last year Kris had worn his yellow stripe like a screw-you bumper sticker, daring other drivers to mess with him. He won more races than anyone else that season, the first time a rookie ever did that. Do they want to take it out on me? They should be glad it’s me they have to race against instead of him, Kyle thought. Hey, that’s not constructive thinking.

  Jackman shouldered open a path toward the front of the garage. Drivers and crew chiefs muttered, but they got out of the way. Boyd Jurgensen, who was almost as big as Jackman, bumped shoulders and glared at Kyle. His uniform was as white as his car, still no big sponsor. Kyle wondered if he was angry that he hadn’t gotten Kris’s seat. Would they really have given it to him, or was that just a way of putting more pressure on me?

  A few of the older drivers and crew chiefs gave Dad friendly nods.

  “Luck, Kyle.” It was old Randall Bean, hand out. Gratefully, Kyle shook it.

  “Maybe you two can draft up,” said Ruff, “and stay out of our way.”

  Randall’s fists came up, but a track official stepped in and said, “Any behavior, boys, and you’ll be watching the race from your trailer.”

  Ruff grinned and turned away. The track official pushed his way to a small clearing in the front of the room and climbed up on a metal folding chair. He had to shout to be heard over the jittery chatter.

  “Got a visitor, men, from headquarters. Ben Dutton.”

  That quieted them down. Dutton, tall and wide, didn’t need to stand on a chair. His voice boomed off the metal and stone walls.

  “We don’t like what we saw last week. That chicken-shit deal at the finish got no place in big-league racin’. Simple rules. You get beat fair, you take it like a man. Nobody wrecks out of spite. Anybody carries this into this week, I’m here to tell you there’ll be penalties, now and up the road, not to mention we’ll be up your tailpipe. Hard racin’ but clean racin’. Any questions?”