Magnetic Shift

by Lucy D. Briand

  “Thanks.”

  Colton pointed me to the condiments table. I prepped my food, found a seat in the shade, and observed the crew. Their banter reminded me of the days when Roy went out of town, of how the mood lifted in the shop during his absence. Here, it seemed to be the norm. This whole day hadn’t turned out the way I’d planned, and it just felt too good to be true, but I decided to enjoy it for the time being.

  Colton reached into one of the coolers and handed me a bottled water before sitting across from me. A loud roar pierced the chatter.

  “Is it seven-thirty already?” Dean glanced at his watch.

  “Yep,” Lenny said. “Trucks are out.” He meant the truck series scheduled to race tonight. “Music to my ears,” he added, flipping another burger on the grill.

  As the night wore on, Dean, Jimmy, Dylan, and Lenny reminisced about last year’s ProNation season. Alan was new to the team this season. Some of the crew from last year had opted to stay on the ProNation team and Alan had been hired to fill one of the vacant positions—at least, that’s what I’d managed to understand between all the jokes and nonstop laughter. Poor Alan was simply trying to keep up. At least I wasn’t the only one.

  Their stories consisted mostly of “remember when?” they’d played on each other in the shop and funny moments that had occurred at some of the races. Colton just sat there quietly, elbows resting on his chair’s armrests, fingers laced together over his abdomen.

  An odd breeze of awareness blew through me. He was staring at me. I couldn’t see his eyes behind those mirrored shades of his, but I was sure of it. He was watching my every move. The unease made me fidget and shift around in my seat. I tried to immerse myself in the conversation and even got up to get another drink, hoping to shake the feeling—or his stare—but nothing worked. Had I done or said something wrong? Or was he still assessing the need to send me to a psychiatrist or to a loony bin? My insecurity pushed me toward the latter.

  Blood simmering and temples aching, I sat back in my chair, arms crossed, and stared back at him. Two could play at this game. Within seconds, his leg began to fidget. I shot him a knowing smirk.

  Busted.

  But instead of looking away and pretending this staring game wasn’t happening, he stood and removed his shades. “Well, guys, I’m off to bed. Another big day tomorrow.”

  The guys took their turns wishing him goodnight with pats and handshakes, and then dived back into another one of their stories. Colton looked down at me as he pulled the brim of his cap lower over his eyes and hooked the arm of his sunglasses into the neck of his shirt. With pursed lips, he gave me an expressionless nod and strolled off.

  I got up and started after him. I had to know what his problem was, why he’d been making me feel like some kind of zoo attraction since we’d sat down to eat.

  “Hey, Lex, while you’re up, can you grab me another beer?” A tipsy Dylan asked me. I wanted to tell him to get it himself, but I couldn’t. I was going to have to work with these people for nine months; I couldn’t let them get the idea that I was some stuck-up teenage bitch. I reached into the cooler near the chair Colton had been sitting in and tossed Dylan another bottle of Budweiser. I gave up my mission and wilted back into my chair. If I left now, I’d have to explain why to the crew and draw attention to myself, which I loathed.

  My questions were going to have to wait until tomorrow.

  I sprinted through the infield, my uncombed hair tucked under a ball cap. Thanks to the state Colton’s stare-down had left me in last night, it had taken me so long to fall asleep that I’d tuned out my alarm and overslept. Lucky for me, I’d found a text from Dean waiting on my phone that said Colton would be last to qualify. There was still a chance I could make it on time to see him run.

  Dean stood alone on top of the hauler, holding a spare scanner and headset, and sporting a quirky grin. He’d seen me coming, running through security like a flailing idiot. I plopped my butt down on the drink cooler and heaved forward to catch my breath. “Am I too late?”

  Dean shook his head. “You’re just in time. He’s going up next.”

  “Oh, thank God,” I huffed.

  Dean handed me the same scanner I’d used yesterday and went back to watching and timing the speed of the car currently out on the track. While waiting for my breathing to slow, I clipped the scanner to my waistband and slid the headset over my ears. Colton was already in his car, waiting for his turn to hit the track. The team with the fastest lap took the pole position in tomorrow’s race, the first of forty-three cars in the field, and I knew without a doubt that Colton desperately wanted that spot.

  When my chest stopped heaving, I joined Dean at the railing. “Who’s the one to beat?”

  “Take a wild guess,” he said. I sensed bitterness in his tone. Bad history with the team to beat, perhaps? I took a peek at the clipboard in his hand. Dean had two-time Cup series champion Mitch Benson’s name penned at the top of the page with a lap time of 194.087 mph. I guessed that meant Benson was this year’s biggest contender.

  “Okay, Colt, it’s time to go,” Lenny said through the scanner. “It’s time to show ’em whatcha got.”

  “Let’s go do this thing,” Colton voiced back.

  I curled my fingers around the railing in front of me as Colton took to the track.

  “Yee-haw!” Colton cried, and then laughed.

  “How’s she feelin’?” Lenny asked.

  Colton cued his mic. The high-pitched growl of his car’s engine filled my earphones before he spoke. “She’s still a bit loose on that first turn, but it’s nothing I can’t handle.”

  “That’s good. You have one more lap to go. Focus,” Lenny told him.

  “Bah, it’s in the bag,” Colton shot back.

  Dean stood there, unfazed by the banter, with his clipboard and his stopwatch, clocking Colton’s time. Race officials had computers that tallied up lap times and speed, but I got the feeling Dean had been around the sport for a long time and preferred the old methods of keeping track. My insides fluttered as Colton flew through turns one and two, ducking low, keeping to his lines. The car ran steady and perfect. He leveled out through the backstretch and then dipped thirty-one degrees as he went high, then ducked low again through turns three and four.

  “Let’s git ’er done!” Colton yelled in his mic as he came out of the last turn, heading toward the tri-oval and the start/finish line. Colton had definitely found his calling. He was good. Real good.

  Dean held up his stopwatch just as Colton crossed the checkered line. “Yes. Yes. Lord, yeah!” A more prominent southern drawl found its way into his speech through his excitement. He cued his mic. “Colton, I think you’ve got yourself the pole in your first ever Daytona 500.”

  Colton screamed so loud I had to reach for my scanner’s volume control knob.

  “It’s official, 194.738 miles per hour. Way to go, Colt, you did it!” Lenny said.

  “No,” Colton replied. “We did it.”

  “Bring ’er on home, kid.”

  Dean and I met up with Colton in the garage afterward to congratulate him. He grinned at me over Dean’s shoulder as Dean raved on about how good he’d done. A wave of warmth ran up my arms. I looked away before I lost all of my senses and took a second to reorganize my thoughts.

  “Hey, Lex.”

  Crap.

  Colton approached, slapping the tips of his driving gloves against the palm of his other hand. This was the perfect time to ask him about last night. I took a deep breath, lifted my chin, and returned his slight smile. “Congratulations.”

  “Thanks. I’m glad you came to watch.”

  “Wouldn’t have missed it.”

  An awkward silence fell. Now. Ask him now. I ignored the crampy knot in my stomach and seized the moment. “Umm … do you have a sec? There’s something I wanted to—”

  “Colton!” I cringed at the familiar brat-tastic squeal of Gwen’s voice coming up behind me.

  You have got to be kiddin
g me.

  She pushed past me—pretty hard, I might add—and practically jumped into his arms. “There you are, Colton Tayler!” Her high-pitched voice screeched inside my head like one of her manicured nails sliding down a sheet of scrap metal. The way she said Colton’s full name in a 1-800 number voice made me want to stick my fingers down my throat. “Daddy wants you to join us in the Superstretch Suite for the ProNation race.” She let go of his neck and tugged at his waist.

  Colton smiled and pulled back. “Sure, hold on a sec.” He turned himself toward me. “Was there something you wanted to talk about?”

  Gwen’s beady little eyes burned through me. “Spit it out already. I don’t want to miss Link’s start.”

  Eighteen-year-old Link Bowers was another one of Dean’s drivers. Dean had scouted him as Colton’s replacement on his ProNation team when he moved Colton up to the new Cup team.

  Dean had a good eye for talent … and hotness, apparently. Just saying.

  I waved them off and backed away. “That’s okay, we can talk later.”

  Colton stepped toward me and away from Gwen’s reach. “Are you sure?” he asked in a lower tone. “If you need to talk, I can skip—”

  “Oh, no. No worries. You go ahead.” I pinched my lips together, then looked down at the ground. “It’s not that important. I’ll … I’ll catch you later.” I wrapped my arms around my midsection and walked away without looking back.

  The race day crowd was overwhelming. I’d never seen so many people in one place. It was worse than Disney World during peak season. I pushed through the sea of fans, passed through the amped-up security, and made it to the hauler in one piece and on time to witness the crew pushing the car out onto pit road.

  I hadn’t seen Colton again last night or this morning and my urge to question him had faded. Maybe I’d imagined it. Maybe he hadn’t been staring.

  Dean greeted me when I reached the top of the hauler, handed me my headset and my scanner, and pointed over to the cooler. “Help yourself to something if you get thirsty.”

  I nodded. “Will do.”

  Mr. Langdon glanced back and nodded a greeting. “You remember Mr. Langdon and his daughter Gwen?” Dean asked.

  I shifted my weight from one foot to the other, uncomfortable in the presence of these rich people. “Yes, of course. You must be pleased to see the Angel Car starting first today.”

  “More than pleased. Proves we chose the right team to sponsor. He’s going to give us a good name on and off the track, I think. We just need to convince the board of the same.” He lifted his headset into place.

  Gwen glared my way, her heavy-on-the-ruby-red-lipstick lips set in a frown. She mumbled something and then turned back to the railing, letting her pink pleated miniskirt twirl with her. Talk about inappropriate attire for a race. Even her tiny white halter top accentuated way too many body parts. She might as well have joined the models down on pit road taking pictures with some of the crews for publicity. I leaned closer to Dean. “What’s her problem?”

  Dean coughed out a laugh. “She’s pissed.”

  “About what?”

  “All the attention Colton’s getting. You should have seen the herd of girls here earlier, asking for autographs. She complained about how insulted she was that Colt didn’t pay any special attention to her.” A suppressed laugh screeched in my throat. “She’s been pouting ever since.”

  “Aww … muffin.”

  Dean whispered a laugh. “Shh, we mustn’t piss off the sponsors.” But the amusement on his face told me he couldn’t help it, either.

  I began to fasten my gear to my waistband and noticed the mic on my headset. “Hey, Dean, you got me the wrong headset.”

  “No, I wanted you to try this one on for size.” He turned and helped me place it. “This is where you cue the mic.” He placed my hand over one of my earphones and guided my finger to the button on the top. “And this is how you move it around.” He swiveled the mic up and down.

  I wasn’t sure why I’d need a mic, but I went along with it. “Got it, thanks.”

  Within minutes, the anthem blared from every speaker and all the drivers and crew members stood on pit road next to their cars. The jets flew overhead, growling loud enough to rattle the inside of my chest. Adrenaline rushed through my veins as we all waited. This was it.

  Drivers jumped into their cars, secured their steering wheels, and patiently waited along with the rest of us for the most famous four words in automotive racing.

  Dean glanced back at me just as Colton cued his mic. “Let’s go do this thing, boys.” His excitement rang through in his voice. “Whooee!”

  The sound system blared on, the crowd quieted, and the celebrity guest gave her speech.

  “Here it comes,” Lenny said.

  And sure enough, the Grand Marshal of the race went silent then called out, “Drivers. Start. Your. Engines!”

  “Fire in the hole,” Lenny said over the airwaves to relay the message to Colton that it was time to start her up.

  All forty-three cars roared to life. Goosebumps rose on my arms. The hauler trembled under my feet, and the rumble of the idling cars vibrated through me like nothing I’d ever felt before. My temples pulsed in warning, but I locked it tight before anything noticeable happened. I didn’t have many memorable moments growing up, but I was definitely going to add this one to my small collection.

  One by one, the cars took to the track. Colton picked the inside spot behind the pace car, and Mitch Benson moved up next to him. The others fell in line behind them.

  “We’re green in five,” Lenny said.

  “Roger that,” Colton acknowledged.

  The cars lapped around the track, weaving side to side, warming up their tires and testing their suspensions. The strong, tangy smell of racing fuel filled the air.

  “One lap to go, Colt,” Lenny said. “Get ’er ready.”

  Colton kept himself low in turns three and four, maintaining the inside position while the cars behind him tightened up into a perfect side-by-side formation heading toward the start/finish line as the pace car ducked down. “Green, green, green!” Jimmy’s cries came through loud and clear. The cars’ rumbles grew louder as they charged the green flag and officially began the five-hundred-mile, two-hundred-lap race.

  After a few laps, the four of us settled into our lawn chairs for the long haul as the cars circled the track. Colton lost the lead, but hovered in the fifth position on and off, keeping a decent pace. The radios went quiet except for the occasional repetitious “inside” or “outside” from the spotter telling Colton where the cars were around him. My nerves, on the other hand, weren’t taking a break. They were as tight as when the race had first begun. I could almost swear I was the one sitting in the driver’s seat out on that track.

  The afternoon hours breezed by with no major accidents. The pits reopened during a minor caution with fifty laps left to go. Air ratchets whined, large red canisters came out to top off fuel tanks, and tires were changed. Some teams opted to forgo the stop and risk it in a final attempt at making the front of the line.

  Colton pitted, then took off again within seconds. “Great job, guys,” he said.

  “Forty-nine to go,” his spotter called out.

  When the green came out again, Colton pushed himself from seventh position to right behind the leader, Mitch Benson, and by the hundredth and sixtieth lap, it had turned into a full-blown battle for first.

  Colton stayed glued to his ass, blocking some of the airflow to his radiator.

  “Careful, Colt. Don’t let her overheat,” Lenny said.

  “No worries, I’m keeping an eye on the temp gauge.”

  “Ten-four.”

  I stood and gripped the railing in front of me. With ten laps to go, my heart raced as fast as the car flying down through the turns. Colton dipped low going into turn one, trying to pass Mitch.

  Mitch’s back bumper clipped Colton’s front end. I hissed. The car wobbled, but he recovered nicely.


  “Ease off, rookie. He’s not going to let you pass,” Lenny said. “Doesn’t mean I can’t try.”

  Colton pushed him in the backstretch then rounded high in turn three, but Mitch blocked him again.

  “Four laps to go,” Jimmy announced.

  My palms clammed, and my knuckles ached from my death grip. Luckily, this particular railing was made of aluminum, or I would have magnetized the whole thing.

  “Two laps,” said Jimmy. “Up high.”

  Another car was attempting to bump Colton into third.

  “Oh, no, you don’t,” Colton said, swerving his car up in front of him as he rounded turn four.

  “White flag’s out. One lap to go.”

  My mouth went dry. The hauler shook under my feet. I gasped. Had that been my doing? No! Gwen was jumping up and down, cheering as the checkered came out.

  “This is it, kid,” Lenny said.

  Colton crawled up beside Mitch in turn three and rounded out of turn four, neck and neck with Mitch as they charged the finish line. So close, so close. The flagman waved the flag over the line.

  “Good try, Colt. Second place in your first Cup race is a good place to be. And a great start to the season.”

  My body relaxed as the excitement evaporated, but Lenny was right. For a rookie, a second place finish in the Daytona 500 was nothing to frown upon.

  “Good job, everyone,” Colton said. “Oh, and Lexi …”

  My heart stopped. Was he actually talking to me? Dean gestured to the button on top of my left earphone, reminding me how to cue my mic. “Um … yeah?”

  Gwen whirled around, her mouth wide open.

  “Time’s up, little girl. Don’t keep Dean in suspense.”

  Dean’s lips curled into a slight smile, waiting for my answer. It was D-day, even though I’d already made up my mind days ago. My heart still pumped from the adrenaline of watching the race and the fact that Colton was talking to me when he should be celebrating his almost victory. This was my chance to experience what a normal life could be like.

  This could be my life.

  “Well?” Colton asked, impatient.

  I swallowed hard and cued my mic. “Remind me later to kill you for putting me on the spot like this, Colt.” I looked Dean square in the face and took a deep breath. Here goes. “I’ve decided to stay.”