Yellow Flag

by Robert Lipsyte

  ELEVEN

  At practice on Wednesday Mr. G was floating out of his plaid pants. “You are not…going…to believe this.”

  Todd whispered, “He got laid.”

  Jesse farted and Nicole honked.

  “We have been invited to perform with the Brooklyn next fall.” He whooped. Jesse and Del bumped fists. Nicole and Todd hugged. Kyle just sat there, imagining the quintet shrinking into a quartet.

  “This is truly amazing. I just got an e from Terence himself.” He paused to let everyone nod at that. “A major grant came through—Brooklyn Brass will be the ensemble in residence at the arts center. They will tour middle schools. There will be a slot for a high school group. They want us.” He suppressed a squeal. “It’s pro forma, but state rules require an audition, so, people, we need to prepare a classical piece, a marching piece, and a jazz piece. We have four weeks. Can we do it?”

  It took Kyle a moment to realize that Mr. G was staring at him. He nodded. Everyone else was squawking notes.

  “Also, we are going to need a name. Next Monday I want every one of us, myself included, to come in with three names. I hear yes?”

  He was still staring at Kyle. This time he blew off a squawk too. He felt bogus.

  After practice Nicole caught up with him in the parking lot. Her hair was pulled back from her face. She is pretty, he thought. “Don’t you talk to me anymore?”

  “About what?” said Kyle.

  “Don’t you want to be part of this Brooklyn thing?”

  “Was I voted out or something?”

  “Are you paranoid?”

  “What’s your point?”

  She snorted. “Don’t blow it. You’re better than Todd. Mr. G thinks so too, but he’s going to have to pick a first trumpet, at least for the jazz piece. You gotta show some enthusiasm.”

  He wondered if Mr. G had really said he was better than Todd. He wasn’t sure he was. “I’m here. I couldn’t help last Saturday.”

  “How about next Saturday? We could work on names.”

  “Gotta go to the race.”

  “How long’s this gonna go on?”

  There was too much to explain. “Till it’s over.”

  “That’s all you got to say?” She waited a beat for an answer, then pivoted on one black boot and marched away. He thought of Uncle Kale leaving after ordering him to show up next weekend. Nobody wants to hear from me.

  What is it I want to say?

  He drove to the garage. The Camaro purred all the way. It had never sounded so happy. Jimmie had replaced the shocks and springs, too.

  Kris was in the main office, standing on a box while two men in tight, shiny white T-shirts circled him, murmuring to each other through the pins in their mouths. Kris was wearing the new Family Brands uniform, shifting from foot to foot.

  “What do you think, Kyle?” It was Winik, the pudgy suit who had asked him questions in the plane.

  “Looks good.” It was ugly. The Family Brands red-and-green logo clashed with the Hildebrand deep blue.

  Kris rolled his eyes at Kyle. They were bloodshot. “How much longer? I got to sit in the car, see if that fits, too.”

  One of the tailors said, “We do need to get this right.”

  “My brother’s the same size, how about you use him as a model?”

  The tailors looked Kyle over, then shrugged at each other. One of them said, “Be careful getting out of the suit—the pins.”

  The suit fit fine. Felt good, snug in the right places, just enough room in the seat. He could always wear Kris’s clothes, because he’d always been bigger for his age than Kris had been. Dad came by while Kyle was standing on the box and thanked him. “We needed Kris in the car.” Dad was smiling. “No more one size fits all.”

  The Family Brands money meant that the car would be tailored not only to Kris’s size but his driving style: heavier brakes for his tendency to ride them coming into the turns, more plating on the right side because he rubbed the wall a lot. Kyle wondered if the car would fit him, too, like the uniform. Why am I thinking this?

  “Looks good,” said one of the tailors. “You twins?”

  “Kris is almost two years older.”

  “You stand quieter.”

  When they were finished, Kyle wandered into the shop. Kris was in the new car. At the moment it was more of a gray metal wrap than a car. A dozen men stood around nodding and muttering, measuring and making notations. It was a part of racing Kyle had never gotten into. The real gearheads could get off on a shock valve. At music camp there were counselors who creamed over trumpet valves. But this was more than that. Hildebrand Racing hadn’t had the money to build exactly what it wanted since the days when Sir Walter was still racing and Dad was a hot young gun. Back then they even raced a third car sometimes. Then Sir Walter retired and Dad got hurt and the business slumped, just getting by on endorsements and T-shirt sales and Uncle Kale and Dad working part-time for other teams. Up until now Kris’s cars were hand-me-downs. Now they would be made-to-order, and there would be backups.

  “Pretty exciting, huh?” said Winik. “At the creation.”

  “Not enough time for testing,” said the redheaded girl, joining them.

  Who asked you, Kyle thought, then took a breath. “Hey, thanks for fixing the Beast. Never ran so good.”

  “You could keep it that way,” she said. “Change your oil before it turns to mud.”

  “Yes, sir,” said Kyle. He was getting annoyed again.

  “Excuse me,” said Jimmie. “I’m working on a car.”

  Winik watched her walk away. There was a swing to her tail. “Who’s that?”

  Some pit bunny trying to weasel her way in. Kyle said, “A part-time mechanic.”

  “You know, Family Brands is big on diversity,” said Winik. “We should take her to the races.”

  TWELVE

  Dad asked Kyle to take Friday off from school and ride shotgun in the hauler with Billy, who had passed his heart tests and was feeling fine. Kyle didn’t argue. Dad would work it out with the principal, an old friend. Some part of Kyle even liked the idea. Billy was a nice guy with good stories, but it was more than that. This could be payback for calling the sling, for getting Kris hurt. Then we’re even and I can go blow my horn. Be the last practice I miss.

  At breakfast Mom filled a plastic bag with sandwiches, fruit, cookies, and soda, as if he were going on a hunting trip instead of spending three hours in a truck.

  “This is not going to happen again,” she said. “This is a special situation.”

  “Very special,” said Dad. He looked haggard. He’d been up half the night with Kris and Uncle Kale, testing the car at Goshen Raceway. They’d fly to Monroe Speedway in a Family Brands plane. “This is a fresh beginning.”

  “That’s a cereal,” said Mom.

  “Lynda.” Dad held up his hands in the stop signal. “You set, Kyle?”

  “Yeah.” He had packed last night.

  “Bring your helmet and shoes.”

  “Why?” snapped Mom.

  “Just covering all bases,” said Dad. “What if we need him to crew?”

  “Kerry! This is a one-time deal.” She enunciated each word as if she were talking to a child.

  “One-time deal,” said Dad.

  Kyle felt a cold flicker in his gut. He tried to tune in to it. Was it fear? Excitement? He remembered the feeling from when he had raced. Sometimes he felt it before a brass performance. He let the flicker grow, fill his abdomen and chest. Felt good.

  He’d felt it last night on the phone with Nicole, trying to explain how important this race was to the family. Talking about the new sponsors and the new paint job and the better engine, he’d felt that cold flicker, but she had smothered it with her indifference, her ignorance, what he considered her selfishness. She didn’t know what he was talking about and didn’t seem to care. She wanted to talk about the quintet, how he was letting them all down and what he was missing. He thought he and Nicole could have been t
alking from alternate universes.

  And then she said, “I guess it’s a guy thing, cars, right?”

  He had thought of Jimmie and said, “There are women at the track.”

  “What do they call them, pit bunnies?”

  He let it go, but soon after that the conversation was over.

  After he clicked off, he wondered if he had failed to explain because he didn’t fully understand himself. Maybe he was being swept along by the family. He was doing what they wanted, not what he wanted.

  “Kyle?” Dad was staring at him.

  “Just trying to remember where I put the helmet,” he said.

  “Been that long.” Dad shook his head. “Seems like yesterday you won the state quarter-midget.”

  Six years ago, Kyle thought. Why bring that up? The cold flicker grew until it felt like a bird wing beating against his ribs.

  “Always sorry you quit racing,” said Dad. “Thought you had a real—”

  “Kerry!” This time Mom held up the stop sign.

  “Family conference?” Kris stumbled into the kitchen. He was pale, bloodshot. Even his spiky black hair drooped.

  “How’d you sleep?” asked Mom.

  “Pill helped.” He slumped into a chair. Kyle thought Mom and Dad made an effort not to look at each other.

  The hauler’s horn blared outside. Kyle said, “Better go. See you there.” He nodded at Kris and Dad. Mom hugged him harder than usual.

  He ran upstairs to get his helmet and shoes. He knew exactly where they were, in an old bowling bag near the front of his closet.

  Billy McCall was smoking handmades and blasting the Grateful Dead. Is this the latest treatment for heart problems? Be a long trip, thought Kyle. He jammed in his iPod buds and cranked the volume until Dizzy drowned Jerry. They stopped at a store outside town to pick up the barbecue meat Billy would cook for the crew at the track, then hit the highway. They drove for more than an hour before Billy punched out the Dead CD and signaled Kyle to unplug his ears.

  “Need my Dead fix to start every trip. What you listening to?”

  “Dizzy Gillespie.”

  Billy grunted. “Miles the man. Could always calm Sir Walter down with Sketches of Spain.”

  Kyle caught Billy glancing at him from the corner of his eye and grinning. Am I showing the surprise I feel? “He listened to jazz?”

  “Sometimes you got to get away from that she-stolemy-heart-and-my-pickup-too, ’specially if no fans around. Got to drive to your own music, right?” Billy had his eyes on the road again. “What’s with Kris?”

  “How do you mean?”

  “He shaky or anything?”

  “You notice something?”

  “Just like your grandpa, cat and mouse.”

  “What do you know?”

  “They were up all night repainting the right fender. Figured Kris scraped the wall.”

  “Happens.”

  “At Goshen? Wonder how come they weren’t testing at Monroe. Makes more sense to try out a car on the speedway you’ll be racing on than your little old home-town track.” Billy seemed angry. “Unless something was wrong you didn’t want people to know about. Usually it’s something wrong with the car, not the driver.”

  Bring your helmet and shoes. That’s what they tell the backup driver. But you need to be eighteen years old to drive in American Racing League–sanctioned events, so I can’t fill in for Kris.

  Billy wasn’t finished. “How long I been working for Hildebrand Racing? Before you were born. Before your daddy started driving. They don’t tell me nothing no more.”

  “Maybe they figured you too busy getting your tests and all.”

  That seemed to calm him down a little. “Yeah, maybe.” Then he squinted at Kyle. “You don’t think they’re writing me off?”

  “Seemed real glad you’re going back upstairs today.”

  He chuckled at that. “After your little sling deal.”

  “Kale was pissed.”

  “Always gotta be in control, that boy. He’s good, but prickly. Wouldn’t’ve won without the sling.”

  “Or got hurt.”

  “Kale lay that on you?” Billy shook his head. “That was Slater’s fault, plain and simple. That mean sonuvabitch needs to get a good neck stretching. Sir Walter loved the sling deal.”

  “He say that?” Kyle was surprised by the eagerness in his voice.

  “Your grandpa told me you and Kris the best set of brothers since Ken and Kale.” Billy coughed. “Meant to say Kerry and Kale.”

  Billy put the Grateful Dead back on.

  THIRTEEN

  Kyle got his first look at the new paint job after Billy pulled into their space in the Monroe Speedway garage area. He climbed in the back of the hauler and ran his hand over the smooth metal skin. The green-and-red Family Brands logos clashed with the Hildebrand deep blue, but maybe that was okay. He thought of a jazz riff, dissonant and forceful. The blue was the bass line, the red and green were trumpets. He couldn’t decide if it was beautiful or ugly, but it got to him. The letters across the hood, Jump Start Your Life, seemed to shimmer.

  “Kind of in your face,” said Jimmie. He’d been so absorbed by the paint job, he hadn’t heard her walk into the hauler. “What do you think?”

  “Never judge a car by its paint job.”

  “Sounds wise. Kris here?” She sounded confident, like she thought she belonged.

  “So what’s your deal?” He heard the annoyance in his voice. Not cool. But it flared her nostrils. He liked being able to get to her.

  “Same’s everybody,” she said. “I want to win.”

  “Who you think you are, just walk in and—”

  “Hold on.” A red flush rose on the pale skin of her neck. “Just ’cause you got the name don’t mean you got the game.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” He felt angry, but in control.

  The flush had reached her clenched jaw. “You got the chance to be a Hildebrand driver and you’d rather be a band fag.” Her eyes flicked over his shoulder, and her mouth snapped shut. Kyle turned to see Billy. He had heard the exchange.

  “Give me a hand,” said Billy. He avoided looking at them.

  They rolled the car out of the hauler and through a crowd of crew members and fans milling along the main road of the garage area. Kyle didn’t look at Jimmie as they pushed the car. What she had said didn’t bother him; he had heard worse in the hallway at school, but he felt angry that she had felt confident enough to say it in a Hildebrand hauler. Who the hell was she?

  Engines roared and whined, hammers banged on metal. Gas fumes and dots of debris stung Kyle’s eyes and nostrils. They pushed the car across the road and into an enclosed bay reserved for Hildebrand Racing. Dad and Uncle Kale were waiting. They opened the hood and ducked their heads into the motor.

  Kyle started back to the hauler to help Billy unload the rolling toolboxes, but Jimmie grabbed his arm. She had a strong grip. “I’m sorry. I had no right—”

  He jerked his arm free. I’m not going to snap back at her and I’m not going to take her apology. She can go to hell.

  “Hey, Kyle, introduce me.” It was Ryder. He hip-checked Kyle out of his way and extended a hand to Jimmie. “You can call me Ruff.”

  “Call you meathead the way you drive,” she said.

  “Whoa, a redheaded ballbuster.” Ryder laughed and backed off, hands up. “Enjoy the new paint, folks—I’ll be scraping it off tomorrow.”

  “They’ll be scraping you off the wall,” said Jimmie.

  Ryder looked like he didn’t want to mess with Jimmie. He turned to glare at Kyle. “You got something to say?”

  “Save it for the track,” said Kyle. “You’ll need it.”

  Ryder seemed to be measuring the distance between them. Would he swing? Kyle felt relaxed but alert reading him. He decided Ruff wouldn’t do anything. The bully was confused.

  “Kyle.” Jackman loomed up, the crew behind him. Ryder cursed and stormed away. “What he want
?”

  “Just rubbin’ around,” said Jimmie. “Kyle set him straight.”

  “That’s my boy.” Jackman knuckled Kyle’s head. It didn’t feel good, but it was a small price for big old Jackoff having your back. “Let’s look at the car.”

  Dad and Uncle Kale were still under the hood. Kris was in a corner fussing with his fire suit. He still looked lousy. When he spotted Kyle, he jerked his head and winked, but the old signal seemed more pleading than demanding. Something was wrong. Am I reading too much into this? Kyle strolled over.

  Kris draped a limp arm over his shoulder. “Glad you’re here, li’l bro.”

  He climbed up to the top of the grandstand for Kris’s test laps, as much to get away from everybody as for the view. The car performed well enough, smooth and steady on the straightaways, no sign of looseness or push in the turns, but Kris never opened it up. Kyle figured they must be massaging the new engine. Time enough to let it rip in the qualifying run, when speed mattered.

  Kyle saw a flash of red hair down in the pits. How had she moved in? Gives me crap, then props in front of Jackman. What was her game? Hildebrand Racing had always been a closed shop. Even Jackman and Billy were related to the family, by marriage but still related. And she just prances around like she belongs. Who is she related to? Or sleeping with?

  Kris was the thirty-first of forty-six signed up to qualify for thirty spots. The track would be a mess, grooved and littered with rubber and bits of metal, but he’d have the advantage of knowing what most everybody else had done, whose time he’d need to beat for better position. Ruff and Gary had run fast times. Slater had run fast enough to qualify in a decent position.

  Kris’s run was cautious. You’d never have known The Intruder was at the wheel. He stayed away from the wall and braked easily on the turns. Be lucky to place in the top twenty. Was there a strategy here? Were they playing possum so nobody would know what they had under the hood, trying to lull the opposition into over-confidence, then blast by them in the final laps?