by Chris Fabry
“That guy who bought your car is a jerk,” Cassie said. “I hate to say it, but it’s true.”
“But he seemed so nice.”
“Did you call him yet?”
“Haven’t got up the nerve. I thought about hiring a couple of the guys from the football team to go over there with me and act like mob hit men.”
“Gary would be pretty intimidating. Or Trace, except he’s kind of like a teddy bear.”
“I can’t believe that guy would stiff me for the money. He even got me to autograph the car.”
“Some people are just that way,” Cassie said. “Okay, I’m going to ask you something, and you have to promise me you won’t take it the wrong way or get angry or anything like that.”
Jamie furrowed her brow. “What is it?”
“Have you prayed about this? Now don’t give me that look. I mean, have you really, honestly asked God to take control—not just of the car thing and the driving school but of your life? the whole thing?”
Jamie sighed. “Look, I’m never going to be a spiritual giant like you are—”
“Stop it. That’s not fair. God doesn’t love me any more than he loves you. And I’m not a spiritual giant—I mess up all the time.”
“That’s good to hear. What do you do, say a bad word every two years?”
“I’m not here to preach. I just think it would be a load off you if you asked God what he wants for you.”
“I believe God wants us to take care of some things ourselves. He’s busy, you know? Wars and people starving and global warming. He doesn’t have time for some girl in North Carolina with NASCAR dreams.”
“That’s not true. He cares about every detail of your life.”
“How could he, Cassie? Think of everybody in the world with a million problems each. How could he care for all that? It would drive him crazy.”
“You’re making God out to be like you and me, but he’s not,” Cassie said. “He’s totally different. He wants to be a part of every decision you make.”
“I think God wants us to work out our own lives,” Jamie said. “Instead of running to him every time I have a problem or a choice of gum flavor or whether to have baloney or peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwiches, I think he wants us to choose the little stuff and bring just the big stuff to him.”
“You got a verse for that?” Cassie said. “Because I have a boatload of stuff that talks about him being interested in all our needs.”
“I’m sure you do. You know the Bible a lot better than I do, so it wouldn’t be a fair match.”
“How about, ‘Give all your worries and cares to God, for he cares about you’? He doesn’t say, ‘Give the big worries you have to God’ or ‘Just give the cares that are important to God.’ He says to give them all to him. Do you think Jesus acted like that?” Cassie put on her best Jesus face, the one that made her look perfect and half asleep. “‘No, get those children out of here. I’m doing important things today like praying and meditating.’”
Jamie had to laugh.
“Jesus told his disciples to let the children come to him—he wasn’t this busy guy who didn’t have time for people. And God isn’t like that either.”
Jamie rubbed her palms and shifted in her chair. There’s no clock in here. How can there be no clock in here?
“What are you thinking?” Cassie said.
Jamie sighed. “Okay, you want the truth? Maybe I’m scared of what God will think of the whole racing thing.”
“What do you mean?”
“What if I do like you say and give my life to God and let him take control of my gum and which outfit to wear and what kind of gas to buy. The whole thing. What happens if he tells me he wants me to go to some foreign country where they don’t even have cars, let alone racetracks? What then?”
“Two answers,” Cassie said. “One—if you could know right now what God wants you to do with your life, what would please him most and bring glory to him, wouldn’t you want to do that?”
“I don’t know.”
“Well, I think God offers the very best and most fulfilling life. I’d jump at the chance to know what he wants me to do.”
“Good for you.”
“Two—God doesn’t usually do that. He doesn’t write in the clouds or speak in a deep voice and tell you exactly what to do. But he does create a desire and interest in each of us, and he uses those things. Like your racing. Man, Jamie, it almost feels like you were born to get in a car and go fast. I think God can use that. Haven’t you ever seen that movie Chariots of Fire?”
“I’ve heard about it.”
“The guy’s sister thought he should be a missionary and give up running. He told her, ‘I believe God made me for a purpose, but he also made me fast. And when I run I feel his pleasure.’”
“You sure he didn’t drive NASCAR?”
Cassie laughed. “The point is, God’s not up there trying to take away what you love doing. He doesn’t want to make you miserable. You can trust him with your life.”
Someone knocked on the door. It was Pastor Gordon. “You two having fun in here?”
“Sorry,” Cassie said. “Jamie’s kind of having a little crisis, and we were talking about it.”
“Crisis? I’d like to hear about that, but I thought you’d want to know there’s somebody here to see you.”
Chad Devalon stepped around the pastor and sheepishly waved.
“Chad!” Jamie said. She rushed to him and almost gave him a hug but thought better of it.
Pastor Gordon excused himself and walked down the hall.
“Your mom said you were over here,” Chad said. He handed Jamie a colorful packet with the name Skylar Jennings on the front. “Dad wanted me to give this to you.”
“Thanks,” Jamie said.
“How are you feeling?” Cassie said.
“Doctor said I pinched something in my neck when I flipped. I’m kind of sore, but I’ll be fine. Can’t say the same about my car, but Dad said he would get me a new one.”
Jamie couldn’t help looking at the folder in her hands, and Chad picked up on it. He cleared his throat. “You probably know what that is by now. Guess you’ll be seeing some of my friends at that school.”
“You’re not going?” Jamie said.
“They’re inviting the top prospects, and I’m not a prospect anymore.” He looked at the prayer room and made a face, rubbing his neck. “I gotta be going. Can’t say I’ve spent much time in churches. They give me the creeps.”
“You should come to our youth group,” Cassie said.
“Yeah, it’s so good you two don’t even go.” Chad smiled. “I’ll see you.”
When Chad was gone, Jamie turned back to Cassie. “That runner in the movie. What happened to him?”
“He won an Olympic gold medal.”
“What about after that?”
“He actually became a missionary and went to China . . . and died there.”
Jamie stared at her. “Not a good ending to your story, Cassie.”
Chapter 15
First Flight
TIM PACED OUTSIDE the trailer, waiting for Tyson to get back from work. He would rather have anyone drive him to the airport than Tyson because the guy was always late, but a little after five Tyson pulled up in the truck.
Tim rode in the backseat with his suitcase, checking the zippered front every few minutes to make sure the ticket was in there. He was nervous.
“It’s not that big of a deal,” Tyson said, glancing in the rearview mirror at Tim. “You just sit down, strap on the seat belt, and pray that metal tube doesn’t fall out of the sky. I knew a guy who went down in a crash. Real shame. They sure didn’t have an open casket for him.”
Vera gave him a stern look, and Tyson shrugged. “What did I say? I’m telling him the truth. He oughta know stuff like that can happen.”
Vera turned in her seat. “Tim, you have to prepare yourself for life up there in North Carolina. It’s going to be a lot different. Those
people probably aren’t as nice as we are, and if they have their own kids, they’re not going to pay much attention to you. So just be warned.”
“Thanks,” Tim said. I wonder if they’ll put labels on their food.
When they arrived at the regional airport, Tim grabbed his suitcase and jumped out.
Vera rolled her window down to say good-bye, but Tyson actually got out and pointed to the door Tim would enter and the counter inside where he’d check in.
“Come on, Tyson. I want to beat the dinner rush at the Golden Corral,” Vera said.
Tyson shook Tim’s hand. “Good knowin’ you. Have a nice life, buddy.”
Tim walked inside and stood in line until it was his turn. He handed over his ticket, and the man asked if he wanted to check his baggage.
“I checked it already,” Tim said. “I put some duct tape on the inside so it wouldn’t come open. I think it’ll be okay.”
“No, son, checking means you give me your suitcase, and I put it on the plane for you. Do you want to check it or carry it on with you?”
“Oh,” Tim said. “Well, does it cost any more to have you take it?”
“No,” the man said, weighing the bag.
“But how do I get it back when I get to Dallas?”
“We’ll take care of that,” the man said. “Just go to baggage claim when you get there.”
Baggage claim, Tim thought, trying to remember the words.
The man put the bag on a conveyor belt behind him and asked Tim for some ID.
Tim handed him his high school ID, and the man asked how old he was. It was right then that Tim wished he could have taken a bus.
“Are you traveling with your parents?” the man said.
“No, sir.”
“Well, since you’re 15, you’re an unaccompanied minor. Are you okay making the connection in Houston? You have to change planes there.”
Tim swallowed hard. “I guess I’m okay with it.”
The man pointed out the security area and told Tim where he’d find his gate. They made him take off his shoes and walk through a metal detector, and it went off. Tim had forgotten to pack his pocketknife in his suitcase, the one his dad had given him.
“You can’t take this on the plane,” a tall man said.
“What do I do with it?”
“You have to leave it here.”
“How do I get it back?”
“We could mail it to you.”
Tim couldn’t think of the Maxwells’ address, and people behind him were giving him mean stares. “That’s okay. You can just throw it out.”
A half hour before the plane was scheduled to leave, a lady at the gate got on a microphone and gave instructions for people not to crowd onto the plane, but it didn’t do any good because they pushed and got in line anyway. It was like a high school cafeteria.
When Tim got to the door of the plane, the lady put his ticket through a machine, and he went down the Jetway. His seat was 15A, but he couldn’t figure out where the numbers were on the seats, and by the time he was a few rows back, he couldn’t count. He guessed and sat down. A few minutes later a guy said he was in his seat, and the flight attendant came and showed Tim row 15.
Lifting off made his stomach lurch, but he was glad he was sitting next to the window because he liked seeing the ground rather than not seeing it. Tyson’s words came back, and he imagined the plane falling from the sky. If the plane went down, he wanted to land on Jeff’s house.
/////
The Dallas airport was laid out a lot better than the one in Houston. Instead of walking a mile or two to figure out where he was going, Tim found the baggage claim not very far away. He followed the other passengers—many of whom were wearing NASCAR hats and shirts—into a glass-enclosed area with big conveyor belts that ran around the room.
As soon as he walked in, he saw a guy holding a big poster board over his head with Tim Carhardt written on it in big letters. Dale Maxwell didn’t look much like a race car driver standing in the middle of all these people, but Tim recognized his face even before reading the sign. He walked up to him.
The man smiled, put the poster down, and held out his hand. “Tim, it’s nice to meet you. I’m Dale Maxwell.”
“I know who you are,” Tim said, shaking his hand and looking at the floor. The guy had a nice pair of boots—that was for sure. “I thought you’d send somebody else to pick me up.”
“Wouldn’t trust this job to anyone else,” Mr. Maxwell said. “How was the flight?”
“Okay, I guess. I don’t have much to compare it to.”
“Your first?”
“Yeah. They took my pocketknife back in Tallahassee.”
“Couldn’t you have given it to Tyson?”
“He and Vera didn’t go in with me.”
Tim looked up to see Mr. Maxwell’s face get kind of tight, like somebody was trying to pass him on the outside in turn one. Actually, it looked like he wanted to say a bad word.
“I’m really sorry about that, Tim. I talked with Tyson, and he said he would walk you all the way to your gate. Was there anyone in Houston to help you change planes?”
“No, but I made it okay.”
Mr. Maxwell studied the baggage carousel and pursed his lips. “Was it a special knife?”
“Just one my dad gave me.”
The conveyor belt started, and they moved toward it. Tim’s suitcase came out, and he’d been wrong about the duct tape. The side was split, and his underwear was sticking out. He shoved it back inside and held it together while he headed toward the door with Mr. Maxwell.
“Let me take that for you,” Mr. Maxwell said.
“No, I got it.”
When they walked outside, Tim relaxed a little. He was glad he didn’t have to find his way around by himself and could just follow this guy to his car. It was parked pretty close. Mr. Maxwell opened the trunk of the rental, and Tim threw his suitcase inside.
They stopped to pay for parking, and then Mr. Maxwell told him they’d be staying at a hotel close to the track.
“That big one that sits right on turn two?”
“No, that’s not a hotel. That has offices and condominiums. Pretty pricey. But the place we’ll stay is nice.”
Tim didn’t know what to say next or if he should say anything, and there were a few minutes of awkward silence until Mr. Maxwell turned on the radio.
Finally Tim got up the nerve to speak. “Sir, I don’t know what to call you.”
“Well, if you were a little kid, I’d have you call me Mr. Maxwell, but to be honest, Mr. Maxwell is my dad. My name’s Dale. I think that’s as good as anything. Unless you feel better calling me Your Highness. A couple of drivers have called me some names I can’t repeat. I’d rather you didn’t call me any of those.”
Tim smiled.
“So is Dale okay with you?”
“Yeah. And you can call me Tim.”
“Deal.” They drove a few miles before Dale said, “You attached to that suitcase in the back? It doesn’t have any sentimental value to you, does it?”
“No, it’s just something Vera said I could have.”
Dale took the next exit and made a few turns into a Wal-Mart parking lot. They walked back to the section that had luggage, and Dale picked out what looked to Tim like the biggest suitcase in the history of travel.
“Think this will work?”
Tim nodded. “You could probably fit Vera’s entire kitchen in there twice,” he said as he pulled it to the checkout.
“You’re going to need the extra room after this weekend,” Dale said.
“What do you mean?”
“Well, if that’s all the clothes you have, we need to get you outfitted before you leave.”
They stood in a line four deep at the express checkout.
A kid about eight years old stopped and stared at Dale. His jaw dropped and so did the wallet he was holding. The family with him walked on while the kid stood there.
“Is there som
ething wrong, son?” Dale said.
“Y-y-you’re Dale Maxwell, aren’t you?”
Dale smiled. “That’s me. You going to the race Sunday?”
“No, but I’m going to watch it on TV.” The kid turned and yelled for his dad. By now a crowd was forming, and two women fumbled with their purses to find paper for an autograph.
Dale swiped his credit card for the suitcase, then signed autographs as people huddled around him.
An older woman pushed through and had Dale sign her address book. “I thank you kindly,” she said. “You know, I think you’re the cleanest driver out there. But just once I’d like to see you cut that Butch Devalon off and slam him into the wall.”
Dale grinned. “Well, don’t think I haven’t thought about doing that same thing a time or two.”
“I don’t expect you will, but I swear I’d like to see it.”
The kid came back with a shirt and a hat, and Dale signed them with a Sharpie the cashier loaned him. “Good luck, Mr. Maxwell, sir,” the kid said as they finally got away.
Tim turned back, and the kid looked like he’d just seen Santa Claus or Elvis or maybe Elvis dressed as Santa Claus. He held up his shirt and beamed at his father. “Can you believe it? We met Dale Maxwell in Wal-Mart!”
“He’s not as tall as I thought he’d be,” someone said.
When they got to the car, Dale opened the old suitcase and helped Tim transfer his stuff into the new one. Then he took the old, ratty suitcase with the duct tape and stuffed it in a trash can at the end of the parking lot.
“Does that happen a lot?” Tim said. “People coming up for autographs?”
“Happens more on the road than at home. People back there are used to seeing drivers and crew members at the store. Everybody’s got to get groceries, you know?”
Chapter 16
Facing Sparky
JAMIE SAT IN MAXIE with the ignition off, the packet Chad had given her on the seat next to her, staring through the fog at the farm. She hadn’t slept much the night before, and if she didn’t hurry, she’d be late for work. She watched for any sign of movement on the farm, but all was quiet except for a big black dog that came near the road and barked at her, then went back to the front porch.
