by Chris Fabry
“Your secret’s safe. Anyway, knowing your dad, the flaw will probably just make it faster in the end.”
Cassie nodded. “That’s what usually happens. Something bad leads to something good . . . if you let it.”
Jamie gave her the look. “You trying to tell me something?”
“Not really.”
“You’re thinking about the race with Chad.”
“You’re the one who brought it up.”
“I swear, Cassie, it’s tough being around you sometimes. It’s like you’ve got some kinda halo around your head.”
“Are you sure it’s not my winsome personality?”
“Yeah. I’m sure.”
Cassie took a huge bite of pizza and stared at Jamie.
“This is what I’m talking about!” Jamie said.
“I’m just eating,” Cassie mumbled, smiling and laughing until a piece of pepperoni nearly came out her nose.
When they’d both settled down, Jamie said, “Honestly, what should I do about Chad? And don’t ask me what Jesus would do.”
“What do you want to do about him? I mean, you’ve raced him at every level. You two mix it up at the summer shoot-out. It’s not like you can avoid him if you want to win.”
“No, avoiding is not an option.”
“Ever tried to talk to him?”
“Ever tried brushing an alligator’s teeth?”
Cassie took another bite of pizza. “Just listen to the voice. The Shepherd is pretty good about guiding; don’t you think?”
Suddenly Jamie got that old feeling. Like she was late to a party and had forgotten the present—and it wasn’t a costume affair and she was dressed as the Sugar Plum Fairy. The old hit to the pit of the stomach.
Had she ever heard the Shepherd’s voice? Was all this church stuff she’d been doing just an act?
Chapter 8
Another Option
WHEN LISA, THE SOCIAL WORKER, found out Tim had hitched a ride with someone, she scolded him and shook her head. After lecturing him about the dangers of doing such a thing, her demeanor changed, and she asked what he had found at the storage place.
Tim told her, and she said, “What did you do after you opened all the boxes?”
Tim shrugged. “Just looked through them. Read some stuff my dad wrote down.”
“And you stayed in that storage place all night?”
“It was late. I didn’t have a way back home. And I guess the guy at the front forgot about me. It was dark anyway.” He looked up at her; the woman’s mouth was open. “There was a mattress in there. A lot firmer than the one back at Tyson’s place. I think he pulled that thing out of the trash anyway. It smells funny.”
“How did Tyson find you?”
“He put two and two together. Saw that the key was gone. He showed up the next day.”
“What precipitated your leaving?”
“Ma’am?”
“Why did you leave in the first place?”
“We had a disagreement.”
“About what?”
“Tyson wanted me to apologize to his neighbors, and I said I wouldn’t.”
Lisa took a sip of her double-espresso caffe mocha. “Apologize for what?”
“I kinda rearranged their mailbox.”
“You have a reason?”
“Yeah. Not a real good one, but I had a reason.”
“What did they do, look at you wrong?”
“No, the kids over there took my hat. Threw it in the mud.”
“The one your dad gave you?”
Tim nodded.
Lisa sighed. “I thought you said it was going okay at Tyson’s.”
Tim pulled the top off his Big Gulp and took a drink of Mountain Dew. They were sitting at a picnic table in a park not far from his house. He crunched an ice chip and looked away. “Tyson said the next place I’d go was some home for wayward youth. That not even foster parents would take a 15-year-old with troubles.”
“That’s not true,” Lisa said. “If it’s a bad situation, I want to get you out of there. I may have another option for you.”
“Somebody else who needs money on the side? Tyson sure doesn’t use the money he gets for food, because the fridge is pretty empty except for his favorite beer.”
She reached into her purse and pulled out an envelope. “I want you to hang tough with Tyson and Vera. It won’t be much longer. Just try to stay out of his way. In the meantime, I want you to have these.”
She handed him the envelope. It had something written on the front in a fancy cursive, so curly and flowing he almost didn’t recognize his own name. “What’s this?”
“Open it.”
He took out four red and white tickets with Daytona 500 written across the top. “You gotta be kidding me.” Tim stared at the tickets. Four passes to the infield at Daytona. He could see some of his old friends. Catch up on the latest with the crews. Maybe even see Charlie Hale if the guy had gotten a job. “How’d you get these?”
“The people at NASCAR have good memories. The lady I talked with said any race you want to see, you’re there. If you feel okay about going back into that world.”
Tim smiled. “Better than the one I’m in right now. You want to go? You and your husband and somebody else?”
“I wish I could. And I’m sure my husband would kill me for turning you down. But I’ve got a trip scheduled that weekend. You have any problem getting over there?”
“I know the road like the back of my hand. Just hop on 10, turn right on 95.”
“I meant, do you know who you’ll go with?”
“Tyson would probably want to adopt me if he saw four tickets to Daytona.” Tim laughed. “I don’t think I’ll let him know.”
“Is there anyone from your school who’d like to go?”
“You kidding? Only about a hundred people. I’ll be the most popular kid there.”
Chapter 9
Moving Up
JAMIE’S STOMACH CHURNED as she pulled into the parking lot of the Pit Stop, a tiny restaurant and lunch counter near the center of Velocity. Her 1965 Mustang chugged and sputtered after she turned off the engine. She’d have to put some additive in the gas tank to see if she could clean it out.
Jamie had bought the car from Mrs. Willits, one of her mother’s friends, whose husband had died. She’d babysat for the family since she was 12. She spotted the car on cinder blocks in the Willits garage when she was 13. The youngest Willits boy had disappeared—something that happened at least once during each of her sitting jobs there. She’d run into the garage, looking for his hiding place, when she noticed a car covered with a gray tarp. She pulled it back, and it was love at first sight. She’d seen the model in magazines and at vintage car shows around town, but she’d never been this close to one. She opened the door, took one look at the black interior, and knew it would be her first car.
Jamie had made a deal with Mrs. Willits, trading a full year of babysitting along with $500 she had saved. She took possession of the car at 14 and began restoring the engine. Her dad helped in the evenings when he could and let her use his tools. She had to replace some upholstery and install a whole new brake system, but the main work was under the hood. With some help from a mechanic on the Maxwell team and a few volunteers from church, Jamie finished the car. When she got her driver’s license, she’d driven away from the North Carolina Division of Motor Vehicles in Maxie, the name she had chosen for it.
Now, sitting in the parking lot, she couldn’t believe how much money it took to keep a car going. Her dad paid the insurance, and she changed the oil herself, but she took care of all repairs, gasoline, tires, and registration. That, along with racing expenses, was why she accepted as many babysitting and house-sitting jobs as she could, along with her part-time job at the car-parts place.
But it wasn’t the chugging of the car or the bills she was trying to pay that had her stomach churning. It was the sight of Chad Devalon’s red Corvette in the parking lot, only a few months old
and sparkling like a diamond. His dad had bought it for him. She’d heard it was because of his grades, but she had a friend who went to the same private school he attended and claimed Chad wasn’t the brightest bulb in the lighthouse.
Jamie had left a message on his cell phone and asked for a meeting. She’d rehearsed what she was going to say a dozen times, but seeing that car brought up the anger she felt.
Her other problem, of course, was that Chad was undeniably cute. He was a jerk. He was despicable. He wasn’t a Christian. He was everything she didn’t want to be as a racer, but if you put all that aside, he was hotter than the intake manifold on the 499th mile at the Indy 500.
Jamie looked in her rearview mirror and took a deep breath. She had to keep her head. She was on a mission.
She spotted Chad sitting in the back as soon as she walked inside. He wore a black jacket with Devalon Racing in yellow letters, his back to the door. His jet-black hair was squared in the back, and he sat ramrod straight, though he occasionally bobbed his head and tapped his foot to a country song on the speakers.
“Hey, Jamie,” the waitress said. It was Trace’s mother. “We’re not very busy—you want a table or the counter?”
“I’m meeting someone, Mrs. Flattery,” Jamie said.
The woman raised her eyebrows and looked at Chad. “You be careful now, you hear?”
Jamie nodded and walked to the booth. If Chad had been a gentleman, he would have taken off his hat and stood when she arrived. He did neither. All he did was look up at her with the straw of his strawberry milk shake sticking out of his mouth.
“Want one?” Chad said. “It’s on me.”
She shook her head. “I’m good.”
“How’d you get my cell number?”
“I have connections, Chad. I’m not stupid.”
“Nobody said you were stupid. What did you want to talk about?”
Mrs. Flattery walked by. “Can I get you something, Jamie? Shake? Bottle of Yoo-hoo?”
“Just a glass of water,” Jamie said. Her mouth felt cottony, and she was having a hard time not being distracted by the song—it was one of her favorites.
“She’s got to keep that figure of hers,” Chad said. “Can’t mess it up with sugary stuff.”
“Give me that bottle of Yoo-hoo after all,” Jamie said.
“Be right back,” Mrs. Flattery said, winking.
“Listen, before you get started,” Chad said, “about that Alabama race . . . I know you think I was being a jerk, trying to wreck you to get ahead. . . .”
“Yeah?”
“Well, I was just trying to win. Wasn’t personal.”
“Chad, every race we’ve run together has been personal. You’ve either been in front of me cutting me off or at my tail trying to bump me.” She felt her blood pressure rising, her face getting hot. She grabbed the edge of the table, then let go when she saw he was watching her. “Why wouldn’t I take it personally?”
Mrs. Flattery returned with a Yoo-hoo and a straw, scowling at Chad. “Here you go, honey.”
“Well, I want you to know, it won’t happen again,” Chad said.
“Right,” Jamie said. “Don’t make promises you can’t keep.”
“I’m serious. I’m never running into you again. I’ll never block you. You’ll be safe on the track from now on.”
Jamie shook the Yoo-hoo bottle and unscrewed the cap until it popped. As she stared at Chad, the song changed from bouncy to plaintive—a sad song about somebody crying and sitting by a fire, missing someone who had just walked out.
“So what is it you wanted to talk about?” Chad said.
“No, back up. Start over. Why are you saying this? You get religion or something?”
Chad laughed, and Jamie felt a jolt she hoped was the effects of the Yoo-hoo. His smile flashed like a missile on a radar screen. “I’m just saying I won’t be a problem for you anymore.”
“And how can you make that promise?”
“I’m moving up.”
She almost choked, and she was just glad the Yoo-hoo didn’t come out her nose. “You’re what?”
“After that last race Dad thought I was ready to move up to Grand Nationals. We’ve been talking about it for a while. So he bought me a new car. But instead I’m going into a new division with better sponsors and tracks. Bigger purses too. I’m practicing next week if you want to come watch.”
Jamie’s heart sank. It was bad enough racing against Chad. The only thing worse would be watching him move up to another class and leave her in the dust. She’d talked with her dad about the possibility of moving up, but he said it was expensive and that she could learn all she needed where she was. She felt like tossing her drink on Chad’s black jacket. Especially with that smarmy smile of his.
“He bought you a car?” Jamie said.
“One of the Devalon team members had one. Dad surprised me with it.”
“Must be nice,” she muttered.
“It’s in perfect condition. It’s in the shop now getting a fresh coat of paint. We’ll need a backup, of course, but that can wait.”
“If it was perfect, why paint it? Let me guess. Black?”
“You got it.”
“Wait a minute. You smack into me and ruin my chances to win, and your dad says you’re ready to move up?”
“That and what happened afterward. He said if I could keep my cool when a girl started throwing punches, I was ready.”
“I never threw a punch. And you didn’t keep your cool.”
“I did enough for him.”
“Don’t you have to qualify?”
“With my record and the fact that I have a sponsor, Dad says I’m in. Plus, he knows some people.”
Of course. Jamie’s mind swirled. She leaned forward, elbows on the table. “How much does it cost? I mean, other than the car. What kind of fees do you have to pay?”
Chad told her, and her heart sank even further. She wanted to scream. Since she’d seen her first NASCAR race, she’d dreamed about becoming a driver. At 10 she’d set a goal but hadn’t told a living soul about it. It was her dad who had nailed it when he asked why she wanted to spend all her time at the kart track. She’d hemmed and hawed until he pressed her again. “Because I’m going to be the first girl to win the cup, Dad,” she’d said.
Her dad had smiled and patted her head. “I just bet you’ll do it.”
Jamie drained her Yoo-hoo and dropped two dollars onto the table.
“So, no hard feelings?” Chad said, putting out a hand.
She shook his hand and left without saying a word.
Chapter 10
Trip Preparations
TIM DIDN’T HAVE WHAT he would call a real friend in high school. The past few years, when he lived on the road, his only friends had been the crew guys who actually talked to him. And his dad.
There were a few guys he knew from classes who would say hello to him, plus Kimberly, a girl on the student council ambassador program. On his first day, she’d showed him to his locker and given him a tour of the school. She’d asked what groups he was interested in joining.
Tim just shrugged. “You got a NASCAR club?”
“I know there’re a lot of people who watch it,” she said. “There are a bunch of them in my youth group. You ought to come to our church—the group meets on Tuesday nights.”
Tim scratched his head. “I’m not really into religious stuff.”
“Well, keep it in mind. It’s a good way to meet new people.”
He’d seen Kimberly in the hall a few times after that. She’d waved and smiled, asking if he’d settled in okay and if he was having any problems with his teachers. Always remembering his name. She told him to sit in front in English and he’d get a better grade.
Who was he kidding? He hadn’t been to school since his dad had taken him on the road with him. He didn’t have any idea what most of the teachers were talking about. He’d done some workbooks in math and reading, but he’d basically fallen through t
he cracks after his dad sold their house.
He carried his father’s notebook to class and read sections of it when he was supposed to be listening or taking notes. It wasn’t as though his dad had been William Faulkner or Herman Melville, a couple of guys his English teacher had talked about. The stuff his dad wrote was often just scribbled notes or thoughts about the team or his frustration with his life, but it was intensely personal to Tim. It was like living alone on an island and suddenly finding a pen pal. Although he couldn’t write to this pen pal.
I’m worried about Lexy. Today she called and sounded really sad. Said she felt like she couldn’t care for Tim anymore. Needed some space. I made some joke she didn’t laugh at, then told her we’d talk when I got home. She just started crying. Tears my heart out when I hear that. Worst feeling in the world. I wish I could bring them both out here with me, but I can’t.
The bell rang and Tim piled his stuff in his backpack. When he got to the hall, he saw Kimberly and caught up to her. She smiled and asked a billion questions about his classes and if he’d made friends and all that.
When he could get a word in, he said, “You said you know some people who are interested in NASCAR. Can you think of anybody who might want to go to Daytona in a couple of weeks?”
“That’s a big race, isn’t it?”
Tim nodded.
“Let me make a phone call or two. Or you could just come to our outing tonight. We’re going bowling.”
Tim recognized the bowling alley’s name. It was about a mile from his house. “Okay, I’ll meet you there tonight.”
Chapter 11
Selling Stuff
“YOU DID WHAT?” Jamie’s dad said. His hands were dirty, and he had his hat pushed back on his head so it was sticking straight up at the ceiling. Jamie couldn’t help noticing that his hair had grown grayer around the edges, and she wondered if that was from the racing or if part of it was her fault.
“I wrote an ad about my Legend car and put it in the paper.”
“How’d you do that?”
