by Chris Fabry
The team had Mondays off, but some guys came in anyway. Dale clapped Tim on the back and asked what he thought about the race.
“I thought it was great when that Devalon guy hit the wall,” Tim said. “I could watch the replay of that about a hundred times.”
Dale laughed. “The guys wanted me to tell you what great shape the garage was in when they got here. You must have done some extra work over the weekend.”
“A little,” Tim said.
The sound of air wrenches filled the place, and Dale pulled Tim into the waiting room, where it was quieter. A lot of the big garages had long hallways with huge windows where tours came through to watch the mechanics work. People wearing their favorite drivers’ names milled through like a museum tour, gawking at the cars. The Maxwell garage didn’t have a gift shop that sold shirts and die-cast cars. In fact, the road back to the garage had only been paved a couple of years earlier when the hauler got stuck in some muddy gravel. It was definitely not in the same league with the big teams, but Dale had proved he could be a little fish and still win a race.
“We have this weekend off,” Dale said. “Usually the family takes a vacation somewhere to relax and get away. But with Jamie at the driving school, it’s different. They’re having a race up there this weekend that’s pretty big for her.”
“I understand,” Tim said. “I can just hang here while you guys go.”
“Well, you’re free to do that if you want, but I kind of need your help.”
“What do you mean?” Tim said.
“Each student is allowed a couple of outside people on her race team. Jamie has to drive a car provided by the school, but the other competitors who aren’t racing join in the pits. She asked if I would be there and wondered if you wanted to join her team.”
“She asked to have me there or you want me there?”
“Both,” Dale said. “I suggested it and she was real glad about the idea.”
Tim shrugged. “Okay.”
“Good. Maybe we can head over there early Saturday and take a look around.”
“If those other students are trying to win, why wouldn’t they mess up somebody’s pit stop?” Tim said.
“They’re being watched and graded on every aspect of their performance. Plus, the pits aren’t live. They get a set amount of time to be in there, and then everybody heads back out in the same positions.”
“That takes the pressure off,” Tim said.
“A little bit. I might spot for her or stay down in the pits. If I decide to stay, you want to spot?”
“I think I could do that.”
“If you need any tips, you can talk with Scotty. He’s around today.” Dale turned to leave, then looked back. “You hear anything from Tyson?”
Tim shook his head. “I’ve called a bunch of times. Left a message with Vera two weeks ago, but she was crying. I haven’t heard boo from him.”
Dale nodded. “Keep trying.”
Scotty was in his late 30s, about the same height as Tim, with blond hair and a blocklike body. He walked with his arms out at his sides, like he was an Old West gunfighter about to draw on a bad guy. He would have been a great cowboy, but his horse would have wanted him to lose a few pounds.
Tim had seen Scotty at races over the past couple years when he was traveling. The guy didn’t talk much and seemed focused. From Dale, Tim had learned that Scotty used to race Legends and Late Model Stocks himself, but he’d been injured in a bad wreck at Hickory and had never been the same. He’d gotten married in his 20s and started a family and needed a more stable life, so he managed a golf course during the week and spotted for Dale on weekends.
“Ever been a spotter before?” Scotty asked when Tim explained what was happening.
“I’ve spent a lot of time thinking about what I’d say if I was up there. You guys are good, but sometimes I see things.”
Scotty nodded. “Like what?”
“Like a fast car that tries and tries to get by the leader on the outside, and then he drops down and passes on the inside. If I’d have been that spotter, I would have said something about staying low in the corners.”
“That’s a good call. Sometimes the spotter does say something, but the driver either ignores it or has something else going on. As a spotter, you don’t just concentrate on your car. You look at the whole field and anticipate.”
“But how do you know when to talk and when to shut up?”
Scotty smiled. “Every driver’s different. Some will want you to talk almost the whole time, telling them what you see, the latest from the officials, what you’re having for dinner. Others want you to talk only when it’s necessary. The thing to remember is that the driver doesn’t make the team—the team makes the driver.”
Amen to that, Tim thought.
Scotty talked a few more minutes, then turned to leave.
“One more question,” Tim said. “Remember Talladega last year?”
Scotty crossed his arms. “Yeah, I do.”
“You have any idea what happened when Dale’s car lost control at the front of the pits?”
Scotty bit his lip and looked at the floor, running a toe across some imaginary line. “I was concentrating on the pit crew as he slowed. Had my binoculars on them and was talking with T.J. about the right-side tires. When I looked up, he had smashed . . . I didn’t really see what happened, son. I’m real sorry about your dad.”
“You must have heard stuff from the other guys,” Tim said.
“Yeah, but nothing conclusive.”
Chapter 14
Go as Fast as You Can
JAMIE WAS ONE OF 22 drivers suited up for the qualifying laps on Friday afternoon. The atmosphere was the same as a real race with a couple of the guys running off to the bathroom with a case of nerves. Jamie hadn’t felt this anxious since she’d raced Bandoleros at her first Summer Shootout. She took as many deep breaths as she could without hyperventilating.
“Hope we get in the top 11,” Rosa said, sitting in a plastic chair beside Jamie in the meeting room. “The person who gets the pole has the edge—don’t you think?”
“True, but it doesn’t mean you can’t come from the back,” Jamie said. “Just go as fast as you can and the position will take care of itself.” The words sounded empty to her, probably because she had chided her dad when he said them and now they were coming from her own mouth.
In front of her, Chad Devalon turned. “Sounds like something your old man would say.” He snickered, and Jamie wished she hadn’t said anything.
Bud Watkins entered the room and the chatter stopped. Behind him walked one of the top cup contenders, and the students clapped. He had jet-black hair and dark eyebrows and a clean-cut look that Jamie saw on all his endorsements. He was known as a pretty boy, and some fans threw things at his car when he won. It seemed there was no end to their dislike. But whether you liked him or not, there was no denying he was good and that given the right car, he could win.
Bud motioned the driver to the microphone, and he stepped to the podium. “Bud thought it would be good for you to hear some remarks from somebody who knows how nervous you probably are right now. I didn’t have a chance to come to a school like this, but the training you guys are getting sounds like it’s awesome, so I applaud your hard work.”
He nodded to Chad and a couple of others, saying it was good to see familiar faces. “I see we have a good group of females too. That’s encouraging. The track is going to look a whole lot better with you guys out there.”
Jamie looked at Rosa and rolled her eyes, but inside, her heart fluttered.
The driver said some other nice things and told a few stories about races he’d won and some he’d lost at the last second. “It’s great to be on the pole at a race, but I’ve rarely started at the pole and won. Usually the best finishes I’ve had have come from being back a few spots. I won Denver last year from the 33rd spot, so it can be done.”
Jamie remembered that race. Her dad had been leading until
the late stages when he had a problem with his coolant and the engine overheated.
The driver ended with, “And I hope to be racing against a few of you in a year or so.”
Somebody raised a hand. “Do you have any ritual you go through before qualifying?”
The man smiled. “I don’t have any lucky underwear or anything like that. If I did, my wife would wash the luck out of it. I wear a chain around my neck with my wife’s and daughter’s names, but that’s not for luck, just to keep me focused on what’s important. I actually don’t believe in luck. You prepare the best you can and use your experience behind the wheel, but when it all comes down to it, God’s the one who’s in control.”
Jamie felt goose bumps. It sounded like something her dad would say. She’d seen this man in chapel services but didn’t consider him a strong Christian. His words seemed genuine to her.
After a few more questions, the driver left.
Bud stepped to the microphone and held his clipboard up. “Here’s the draw for the qualifying heats. We have 11 cars, so you’ll race your laps, then come into the pits and switch out drivers. Top three qualifiers will get a bye into the finals. That leaves nine positions open. Four in each of the two heats. Got it?”
Everybody nodded or said, “Yeah.”
Jamie held her pencil tight, listening for her name. It was better to be at the end of the qualifying run for several reasons. You knew what time you had to beat. The track usually was faster as well. Her name was 12th on the list. Number 22 was Chad Devalon.
Jamie set her sights on winning the pole so she could be assured of the finals and watch the competition battle for the remaining positions. Since there were only 11 cars, 11 people wouldn’t make the finals.
These races were huge in their points placement for the final—where they would discover who would be given the coveted NASCAR license. Failing to qualify or to even get into the final race meant it would be almost impossible to finish on top. And everyone guessed that the top three winners of the race would probably get the prize.
Jamie walked to the track, trying to focus.
Kurt came up beside her. “Can you say pressure?” He smiled.
“I guess it’s just part of the process,” Jamie said. “To see how we’ll do with it.”
“You’re gonna do great,” Kurt said. “But what happens if one of the cars goes down or has trouble?”
“Bud said they’d rearrange the lineup and maybe drop the bottom drivers,” Jamie said. “The mechanics have been working hard, but you’re right—if there’s a crash, that could cut the field.”
“I hope I can get my rear into that #5 car seat,” Kurt said. “The real cars have molded seats that fit each driver—well, of course you know that because of your dad.”
“Yeah, I’ll admit when I’ve been driving, it’s been a bit roomy in there,” Jamie said. “I’ve had to make sure the harness is as tight as I can get it or I slide around, and that’s not fun in the turns.”
Even though the cars had been tuned to exact specifications and everything was the same—except for the numbers on the side and the decals—everybody knew there would be one or two cars that were faster than the others. Jamie watched as the first 11 qualifiers climbed in and got set, revving their engines.
As the track warmed up, the times came down. Rosa was third in line and turned in a good time, beating the first two drivers by more than half a second. She held the pole position until the seventh driver ran faster.
Jamie took deep breaths and tried to block out the noise. She closed her eyes and tried to picture the line she’d take around the track.
Bud touched her shoulder and pulled his headphones to one side. “You want to hop in your car or you want to just visualize yourself with the fastest time?”
Jamie smirked and walked to pit road. She put both legs through the window, dipped her right shoulder, and slid in easily. How many times had she seen some wannabe at one of those driving schools do it wrong and get their shoulder stuck outside the car in some impossible position? She clicked her harness and fastened the HANS device.
Bud handed her the steering wheel, and she popped it on. He tapped her helmet and spoke into the radio. “All right, Maxwell, follow the car in front of you to the end of pit road. Stay there until you get the signal.”
Another deep breath and Jamie rolled forward.
Chapter 15
Tyson
TIM’S STOMACH CLENCHED as soon as Tyson said, “Yeah?” on the other end of the phone. Tim had been calling every day and just getting a ring for so long that he was surprised to actually hear a voice.
The experience of living with Tyson and Vera flooded over him like a hurricane—the hum of the refrigerator, the smell of the trailer (like spoiled cheese), Tyson’s drinking and shouting, and the bad feeling Tim had every time he heard Tyson fire up his dad’s truck.
“That you, Timmy boy?” Tyson said, his voice raspy and a little slurred. It was Friday afternoon, and there was no reason for Tyson to be home. He should have been at work.
“Hey, Tyson,” Tim said in a choking kind of voice.
“How you doing up there? They treatin’ you okay?”
“Sure,” Tim said. “It’s a nice place. They even found me a job working in a garage.”
“Is that so? Well, that means you can pay me back for the room and board you owe me.” Tyson laughed and Tim could tell he was taking a swig of something. He didn’t have to guess what it was because a second later he heard the familiar clink of the beer can hitting the metal trash can in the kitchen. Tim could set his watch to that sound.
There was an awkward moment of silence before Tyson sighed. “So what can I do for you, little buddy?”
Tim’s dad had called him that, and every time anyone said it, especially somebody like Tyson, his flesh crawled. “I wanted to apologize for taking something of yours. I guess you’ve heard by now that I got the key to that safe-deposit box of my dad’s.”
“Yeah, somebody called. I don’t have any idea what’s in there, do you?”
“No.”
“You shouldn’t steal people’s mail. They put people in jail for stuff like that.”
Tim thought that if they had a game show where people had to know all the reasons you put people in jail, Tyson would be the all-time champion. “I’m sorry I took that key. I should have just asked you for it.”
“Yeah, you should have,” Tyson said quickly. Then a pause. “But we all make mistakes.” The top popped on another can. “Did you hear Vera left?”
“No.”
“Yeah, I guess she got tired of living in the lap of luxury. I got tired of paying her bills and watching her eat everything in sight. . . .”
Tyson continued but Tim tuned him out. It was just a sad-sack story of Tyson’s life, how somebody had done him wrong again. It was always somebody else’s fault that he got drunk or got arrested or was late for work. In the middle of his long rant about Vera, Tim heard words he never thought he’d hear.
“. . . but I don’t care anymore about what your loser of a dad stashed away in some bank. You can have the stupid key. Knowing him, it’s probably not worth anything anyway.”
“You mean it?” Tim said.
“Have those old boys up there in Carolina call me, and I’ll tell them to let you have the key.”
“Wow, thanks.” Tim wondered if Tyson would even remember this conversation. “I’ll have them call you right now.”
Tim hung up and dialed the bank, punching in the first three letters of the man’s last name who had handled his case. The man’s voice mail came on, and Tim left a message telling him what Tyson had said. “So if you could call him and then call me back, I’d appreciate it.” Tim left the Maxwells’ number and hung up.
He let his mind run, thinking about what might be in that safe-deposit box. Maybe it was money. Maybe it was the keys to some car Tim had never seen. Or something he couldn’t even imagine.
He sat and stared at the
phone for a few moments, wondering how long it took somebody to get a voice mail. It was silly to think he could will the phone to ring, but he sat there anyway.
Chapter 16
On Track
JAMIE ROLLED TO A STOP at the end of pit road and watched the official. The #11 car passed on its first lap, and she saw Kurt run high on the turn. Don’t want to do that, she thought.
“All right, #1,” the track manager said in her headset, “when you see the signal, take off.”
She gave a thumbs-up outside the window net, then stretched her gloves tight and put the car in neutral. She shook her hands to get loose and stretched her feet, trying to stop shaking.
Come on. I’ve done this a thousand times. No big deal.
The car was hot and the smell of the racing fuel was like perfume to her. There was no breeze to speak of—the flags on the stand were limp—so she wouldn’t have to worry about wind against her on the back straightaway. She pushed in the clutch, jimmied the gearshift back and forth in neutral, and finally pushed it into first. The last thing she did was flip the visor down, blocking a bit of the sun and giving her a tinted view of the track.
As the #11 car screamed past the start/finish line and slowed going into the first turn, Jamie focused on the official. He held up a hand, then pointed to the track.
“Let’s see what you can do,” the track manager said.
Jamie didn’t pay attention to him because she was focused. The engine roared to life, and she felt that initial rush of power that threw her back in the seat. The tachometer jumped. It was all feel now, and when the engine reached its peak, she pushed the clutch in and slammed the gearshift down like lightning. Three seconds later she was in third and off the apron and up onto the track. She was in fourth gear before turn three and finding the groove low around the turn, then accelerating into the front stretch.
She caught sight of the green flag at the flag stand and mashed the accelerator to the floor. Blocking out everything, she leaned forward and tightened her grip on the steering wheel. She crossed the start/finish line and moved slightly lower, finding the quickest line into the first turn. She kept the throttle down and sped through it, creeping up a little and feeling her back end shift, getting loose, but she held it and shot out of turn two.