by Chris Fabry
“Yeah, I’ll be as good as new in a few days. Show Tim downstairs now.”
Tim noticed some shoes in a pile by the door, but he didn’t think anything about it. Kellen threw the gloves on the upstairs landing and tossed the ball from hand to hand as they walked downstairs. There were pictures of the family on the wall, and the girl, Jamie, looked more like a model than a race car driver.
The house was clean and had lots of wood floors. The downstairs had thick carpet, and there was an area in the family room with a pool table and a big TV.
“We come down here to watch movies and stuff,” Kellen said. “And there’s a Ping-Pong table you can throw on top of the pool table.”
“That’s cool,” Tim said, though it didn’t even come close to what he was thinking. After living so long with his dad on the road and then in Tyson’s trailer, this place was like a castle complete with a moat and a playground.
“This is your room,” Kellen said, flipping on the light. “Mom fixed it up for you.”
Tim put his suitcase down, and his gaze swept the room. The bed looked so comfortable he wanted to jump in and go to sleep that second. On the walls were pictures of racetracks, drivers, and cars. The closet was bigger than his room back in Florida. He looked down and realized he still had his shoes on and remembered the pile of them upstairs by the door. He’d never been in a house where you actually took off your shoes when you came inside.
Something caught his eye on the nightstand, and he walked over and picked up a picture. It was a photo of his dad he’d never seen before. He was standing behind a couple of racing legends, looking at the camera and smiling.
“The racing chaplain who goes to our church found that for you,” Mrs. Maxwell said, stepping into the room. “I thought you’d like it. But if there’s anything here you don’t like, just tell me and I’ll have it taken down.”
“It’s awesome,” Tim said. “The whole thing is . . . like a hotel. Like I’m walking into a dream.”
She smiled. “I’m glad you like it.”
A girl appeared in the doorway and peeked around Mrs. Maxwell. “Hi, I’m Jamie,” she said, smiling. Same smile as her mother. She reached out a hand, and Tim shook. Firm handshake. Kind of rough hands, like she knew how to use tools.
“I-I saw you on the Daytona coverage,” Tim said.
“Yeah, I guess a lot of people did,” Jamie said. “You need a ride to school?”
“We need to get him situated before he starts,” Mrs. Maxwell said.
“Well, if you need a ride, let me know.” Jamie turned and started out. It looked like she wanted to say something to her mom, but she didn’t.
“Thanks for letting me come here, Mrs. Maxwell,” Tim said. He didn’t feel right calling her Nicole, though it felt fine calling Mr. Maxwell Dale. “If I do something wrong, let me know. I’ve never lived in a nice place like this.”
Chapter 29
Butch’s Offer
JAMIE WALKED INTO the Devalon garage and felt an odd feeling in the pit of her stomach. After what had happened at the Texas race, she felt like coming here was somehow betraying her dad, but she marched to the Devalon office anyway and saw the Texas trophy sitting near the front.
The garage had a light feeling to it—mechanics were laughing and telling jokes and slapping each other’s backs. It had been a good year for the team, and already some people were saying there wouldn’t need to be a race for the Chase—Butch Devalon was going to win the thing way before Homestead.
Jamie stopped at the office where the woman with the pasted-on smile sat. She looked a little more naturally cheerful this time. When Jamie asked if Mr. Devalon was around, she held up a finger and dialed a number. “Miss Maxwell is here to see you, sir.” She hung up and said, “You can go on in. He’s expecting you.”
Jamie’s dad always said he didn’t need a stuffy office—that his workplace was the cockpit of his race car. From the looks of Butch Devalon’s place, he didn’t agree with her dad. His desk sat near a long window overlooking the massive garage, where he could watch the workers move back and forth among the cars. He had a video monitor about one-quarter inch thick that covered most of one wall, and the rest of the walls had pictures or trophies or pictures of trophies. Jamie didn’t see one book in the whole office.
“Jamie, I’m glad to see you today,” Butch Devalon said, extending a hand. “Have a seat.”
Jamie settled into one of the biggest overstuffed chairs on the planet. This must be what a baby feels like in the womb, she thought.
“How’s your dad doing today?” he said. “I’ll bet he’s a little sore.”
“In more ways than one,” Jamie said. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen him as mad as he was last night.”
Mr. Devalon nodded. “I can understand. He fought hard that whole race. Picked up a bunch of points, though.”
“Dad’s not into losing on the last turn.”
“Well, maybe that’ll teach him a valuable lesson. So, have you made a decision? Are you going to take me up on the offer?”
Jamie handed him the sheet with a check paper-clipped to the top. “I’ve made a deal with my mom and had meetings with my teachers. I’m all set.”
“That’s great,” he said, looking over the application. “Everything looks just fine here. I have high hopes for you, Jamie. I’ve seen most of your competition, and it’ll be quite a learning experience for you.”
Jamie couldn’t help wondering if she was walking into some kind of trap. The way the guy looked at her was beyond strange.
“Now I’ve got a little surprise for you,” he said, standing and moving to the huge window. “You see that bright orange car down there?”
“How could I miss it?” Jamie said. “It’s the only one that’s not black.”
He chuckled. “Well, you don’t look like a black-car driver. You need something brighter to fit your personality.”
“Wait, you mean . . . ?”
“Yes, that’s your car. Here are the keys and the keys to the garage. I’m giving you full access. If you want to test it on the track out back, you can do it anytime you want, assuming we’re not using it.”
Jamie’s mouth fell open. “I don’t know what to say.”
“Nothing to say. Just be ready for the toughest school of your life.”
Chapter 30
Racing School
JAMIE WONDERED what she had gotten herself into as she stood outside the brick building a few miles from Lowe’s Motor Speedway.
The grizzled man who stood in front of the group looked like he’d seen more than his share of NASCAR races from under a grandstand. He was short and wore a white cowboy hat that looked bigger than he was and straight-leg jeans (Jamie figured they were as old as her mom) that covered ancient boots. His voice was more of a growling drawl than an actual voice. He wore a sticker on his chest that said, “Hi, my name is Bud Watkins.”
“If you were thinking this was going to be some weekend joyride camp, then you got another thing coming,” Bud snarled. “And I don’t care how many quarter midget races you’ve won or Legend races or regional this or national that or whatever you think makes you something. Just remember if you’re trying to make it to the big show, you got a long way to go.”
The guys in front of Jamie had their arms crossed, their sunglasses on, smiling and acting like they expected this kind of tongue-lashing.
“And you can wipe those smiles off your young faces, boys, because that’s what you are. Boys.”
The white teeth disappeared, and the guys shifted and shoved their hands in their back pockets like it was some kind of synchronized competition.
“You’ve been chosen by current drivers or people who think you might have what it takes,” Bud continued. “I stress the word might. I’ve seen a lot of people your age who think they know everything there is to know about racing, and they get out there on the track and find out they don’t know beans.” He stepped forward to a dark-haired guy with a nice haircut.
“I thought I told you to wipe that smile off your face.”
“I’m sorry, sir. My granddaddy used to use the word beans, and it made me smile. Just kind of brought back some good memories.” He sounded sincere.
Bud nodded and spat on the ground. “Well, it sounds like your granddaddy was a smart man.” He tipped his hat back. “Now we have only one rule, and that is I make the rules. What I say goes, and if you don’t like it, you go home. There’s no use of tobacco products in any form here, and if I so much as find you writing the word tobacco, I’ll ship you out. Same goes with any alcohol. If I find it in your room, I don’t care whose it is, you and your roommate go home. So if you see somebody with contraband, tell me. They’re gonna call you a rat or something worse, but soon you’ll find out it’s better to be called names than to lose the money you put into this place. If you read the fine print on that form you signed, you’ll notice that you will lose all your money you put up. You also waste your sponsor’s money and time and their confidence in you.”
The group got really quiet the more Bud talked because everybody could tell he wasn’t just talking—he meant what he said. It was interesting that he’d waited until after the parents left to talk to them.
He explained about the hotel and pointed down the road. “We have three shuttles that will be out front each morning and will leave right at 7:30. You miss the shuttle, you go home. Eat your breakfast at the hotel. They’ve got cereal and whatnot. Don’t come to work on an empty stomach, and when I say work, that’s what this is. It’s not playtime or a social experiment—it’s work, pure and simple.”
A man and a woman with name tags on walked up. “This is Connie and Glen Percell. They’ll be your chaperones, living on the same floor as you. Girls will be on the third floor of the hotel, boys on the fourth. Look around and you’ll see there are a lot more guys than girls, but that doesn’t mean you guys will be able to get away with anything. Glen runs a tight ship.
“We don’t play favorites here. You follow the rules, you drive safe, and you’ll move on. Classroom work is just as important as what happens at the track. There are 43 people signed up, but we have 11 cars for the final competition. That means most of you are going home after the first two weeks. And of the 11 that make the finals, only three will actually get the coveted license you’re looking for.”
Jamie gulped and looked at the people around her. Most of them had come from different parts of the country, but she recognized a few from races she’d been in over the years.
“Now I want you to say your name, tell us where you’re from and who your favorite driver is.”
After everyone introduced themselves, they stashed their suitcases in a locked room and took a tour of the facility. The classroom and the garage were on the first floor. On the second were the simulators—a cross between a video game and an actual car—plus a media room, where they could practice their interview skills. There was a workout room and gymnasium, a pool, and a theater area on the third floor.
“Where’s the popcorn?” the dark-haired guy said to Jamie.
She didn’t answer and was glad because Bud overheard him and said, “You’re not going to want to eat popcorn after you see what I’m about to show you. Take a seat.”
Jamie found an empty row at the midpoint of the room. Everybody seemed a little antsy, not knowing what to expect.
“This is where everyone will take a look at your driving once you’ve been on the track,” Bud said.
Everybody groaned.
“But our first video will be a little caution about what can happen out there.”
Jamie had taken driver’s education at school, and they showed a movie of car wrecks and what could happen when you went too fast. She’d also seen videos of race crashes. But she wasn’t prepared for what came next.
“You’ve seen lots of bad crashes on TV, but this is video you haven’t seen. Roll it.”
The video played, and Jamie watched cars careening out of control, smashing into each other, some flying through the air. Chad’s crash came back to her, and she had to close her eyes. When she opened them, there were close-ups of drivers being taken from vehicles—stuff they could never show on TV. The longer the movie ran, the more groans and gasps came from those around her. She knew this was supposed to scare her, but more than anything it was sickening.
When the video ended, the lights came up and Bud stood before them. “That and more can happen to you if you’re not careful. You have to count the cost every time you sit in that cockpit.”
“He’s just trying to scare us,” a girl near Jamie whispered.
“You bet I’m trying to scare you, missy. But there’s a difference in scaring you with something that’s made-up and something that’s real. Every one of those crashes had a real person driving, and every one of those guys either died or was severely hurt. Just keep that in mind when you get out there. Now, who’s hungry?” Bud rubbed his hands together and escorted them to the lunchroom.
Chapter 31
Safe-Deposit Box
TIM SETTLED INTO HIS NEW SCHOOL and life with the Maxwells. He didn’t have much success making friends and even less in understanding his class work. He’d come in at the tail end of the year and was sure he’d need to repeat the same grade next year. There was just too much going over his head.
After Texas, he’d thought he’d be going to races with Dale each week, but he quickly found out the family finances didn’t allow it. Dale had finished in the top 20 at Phoenix, 15th at Talladega, and just out of the top 10 at Richmond. The team felt good about the improvement, but Tim sensed something was up with the main sponsor. It was all stuff he picked up at the dinner table and from bits of conversation around the house.
He’d been living with them only a few weeks when Dale and Mrs. Maxwell drove Jamie to Charlotte to go to some driving school. Tim could tell the minute he saw Jamie that she was athletic—which is what you have to be if you’re going to make it in racing. She went for jogs with her music player and didn’t come back for 45 minutes to an hour.
Tim also noticed that Jamie was about the most beautiful thing on earth, but he tried to put that out of his mind. So most of the time he tried to avoid her, but on those few occasions when she ate with the family or they went to church together, he tried not to stare.
The one person at school who seemed to take an interest in him was a girl named Cassie Strower. She said she was in Jamie’s youth group and had heard about him. She invited Tim to the group, to a Bible study, and to an all-day hike. Though he was gun-shy about such groups, he almost took her up on it. He could go to church with the Maxwells and listen to the people sing and the preacher preach (and sometimes they had dramas he liked), but he couldn’t bring himself to leave behind the feelings about Jeff and what had happened at the church in Florida.
Kellen was probably his best friend, even if he was only a kid. He could catch any football, baseball, or basketball pass Tim could dish out, and he loved the attention. The two would play until daylight waned, which was becoming later and later as the days got longer and the weather hotter.
One day after school Mrs. Maxwell was taking Kellen to some dentist’s appointment near the city, and Tim asked if he could go along. “I’ll just walk around a little bit, if that’s okay.”
“Sure,” she said. She told him he’d need to be back in an hour.
Tim got on the family’s computer and printed out a map of downtown.
When they arrived, he took off, thinking if he hurried he could get to his destination and back and not keep them waiting.
He made it to the bank named in the letter in 27 minutes, so he knew he couldn’t waste time. He pulled out the key from the envelope he kept in his pocket and walked up to one of the tellers. The security guard at the front eyed Tim, but he kept going.
The teller took down his name and the box number, then asked to see some ID. Tim just had his high school ID card, so he showed her that. She disappeared into a back room and r
eturned with a man who asked him to step to a desk.
Tim checked his watch and knew he was running out of time. “Can’t I look at what’s in the box?” he said.
“Well, there seems to be a discrepancy between your name and those on the approved list.”
“Sir?”
“Your name isn’t listed with those who can open the box.”
Tim didn’t want to hand the guy the letter from the law firm because it had Tyson’s name on it. “The box belonged to my dad and he’s dead,” Tim said. He glanced at the woman who had taken his name. She was on the phone, talking in a hushed voice.
“I understand and I’m sorry,” the man said. “But only those listed on the account are cleared to open the safe-deposit boxes. May I ask how you received that key?”
Tim hesitated.
“Because we only have two approved to open it—a law firm in town and a man named Tyson Slade who resides in Florida.”
“Yeah, well, I’ll come back another time because I have to be somewhere in a few minutes.”
“Mr. Carhardt, I think it would be best if you stayed.”
“No, I gotta go. Thanks anyway.”
The man looked up and nodded at someone behind Tim.
When Tim turned around, a security guard was there. Tim’s eyes focused on the man’s shirt pocket, which bore the name Stout.
An appropriate name, Tim thought. This was no little teapot.
He tried to go around Mr. Stout, but the man grabbed his arm. “Come with me.” It wasn’t a request.
“But I’m gonna be late,” Tim said, and he could feel the emotion cracking his voice.
Chapter 32
Bud’s Order
AFTER AN EXHAUSTING DAY (and not getting to ride in any of the cars or the simulators), Jamie ate a boxed dinner in the dining area of the hotel with the others. Everybody wanted to talk about the video they’d seen and speculate on when they’d actually get to drive.
