Yellow Flag

by Robert Lipsyte

  “How about kissing Kyle?” said Kris, pointing to Kyle. “Even ugly guys need love.”

  They lunged for Kyle, but Dad pulled him away. “Gotta go. Time enough for that up the road.”

  But this could be the end of the road, Kyle thought. The last race. Family Brands had had no trouble extending his exemption for this race, but could they really get a waiver for the rest of this season? He wouldn’t be eighteen until the start of next season, in the middle of his senior year.

  At the garage Uncle Kale and Jackman were fussing with a rag on the engine. If that’s all they can think of to do, Kyle thought, number 12 is ready. It’s up to me now.

  “You stay in the top five,” said Uncle Kale, “everybody’s happy and you’ve got yourself a ride in—”

  “Kale.” Dad had the stop sign up.

  “One race at a time.” Uncle Kale’s beady eyes swept around until they found Jimmie. “Get upstairs. Stay alert. Remember, this is no talk show.”

  Jimmie nodded at Uncle Kale and pumped a fist at Kyle. She looked too wound up to let Uncle Kale’s tone get to her. She hurried off to the grandstand.

  “You could tap that ass,” said Kris, watching her go.

  “Yeah, right,” said Kyle. He wanted to think about that, but not now.

  It felt different this time, like number 12 was his car, not a loaner from Kris. It had been rebuilt, and he had qualified in it.

  People treated him differently—heartier handshakes from the suits, more attention from the fans, nods at the drivers’ meeting. Getting through the wreck had earned him some respect.

  Ruff brushed past him without a word, but Gary Nagle said to him and Dad, “Nothing personal, what I said last week,” and Dad answered, “Didn’t take it personal,” and they shook hands. Elliott Slater gave Kyle a hard look. Reminded Kyle of boxing matches on ESPN Classic where old-timey fighters try to stare down each other. Kyle grinned back, and Slater walked away.

  Boyd was friendly. Must be angling for a seat in the new car, Kyle thought. “Got sponsorship for this race,” said Boyd. “New FM station. Might sign for the season.”

  “Good luck,” said Dad.

  “Be better if I was a minority,” said Boyd, tilting his head toward the only black face in the room. “Walks in with an army sponsorship.”

  “He was a real good open-wheel driver,” said Dad. “Lloyd Rogers. Experienced.”

  “He’s here on a diversity program,” said Boyd.

  “Still got to drive,” said Kyle.

  “See if he can take the bangin’.” Boyd swaggered away.

  When they ran into Randall Bean, Kyle thanked him for the push.

  “Ask your dad how many times I got a push from him or Sir Walter,” he said. “Glad I was there. You could be a good one.”

  Dad thanked him and shook his hand. On the way back to the garage, Dad said, “Randall’s a good judge of talent.”

  Kyle felt Kris’s eyes on him as he climbed into the car. Must look feeble to him, he thought, one leg at a time through the window, then wriggling down into the seat. He wondered if Kris would still be able to do his famous jackknife into the car.

  C’mon, focus.

  He adjusted himself into the seat and mounted the steering wheel. Uncle Kale and Jackman slipped his helmet on and tightened his seat belts and his head-and-neck restraint. He tested the radio. Jackman looped the straw from the water sack hanging behind the seat. No more cups at the end of a pole. They had installed state-of-the-art cold drink systems in both cars.

  “Remember to bite down for water, Kylie,” said Uncle Kale.

  “Kyle,” said Kyle. “Name is Kyle.”

  “Sure.” said Uncle Kale. He didn’t seem offended, didn’t really seem to care. Should have done this a long time ago. But he wouldn’t listen until I was a racer.

  He had never driven a car so ready to run. Number 12 felt like a stallion. On the parade lap the engine throbbed with complaint at being held back. He needed to keep a foot on the brake even when he eased up on the gas. The wheel pulled at his arms. Let’s go!

  He was ready to go too.

  When the green flag came down, the car behind him tried to nose inside and pass, but Kyle didn’t give an inch. It was Slater. The green Ford fell back into sixth place.

  “That’s it,” said Uncle Kale. “Hold your line, Kyle.”

  The early laps were brisk but steady. The front row cars held their places and no one got too aggressive. Gary was leading and Ruff was in third place. They had qualified ahead of Kyle, but he wasn’t convinced their cars were really faster in the long haul. Just concentrate on keeping your position, he reminded himself. But number 12 felt strong enough to go the distance, maybe even move up.

  Take it easy—you’re just here to keep Kris’s seat warm. This could be your last race.

  What was Uncle Kale starting to say when Dad shut him down? Tease him with a shot at driving 12A? Forget it. Two weeks from now, when number 12 and number 12A are both racing at Lowe’s Motor Speedway in Charlotte, this Hildebrand is going to be blowing the trumpet. Hire Boyd. Hire Mr. Diversity.

  “Purple Toyota coming up.” It was the first he had heard Jimmie’s voice this race.

  He sneaked a peek. A flash of purple three or four cars behind. Lloyd Rogers had worked his way into the top ten. Kyle remembered being briefly boxed between Slater and Rogers last week. Rogers came out of nowhere last week and left me for dead, and he’s coming back up today.

  Not going to pass me this time, Rogers.

  Slater was blocking Rogers at the tail end of the front runners. Boyd was behind Rogers, yellow and red lightning bolts painted on his white car along with the FM station’s call letters and numbers.

  Time to move up? Won’t be long now, Kyle thought, before the pack starts pushing forward, putting pressure on the front-runners.

  “Hold your line,” said Uncle Kale, reading his mind.

  THIRTY

  He was excited but he wasn’t jittery, channeling the energy into keeping control of the car and staying alert. He was relaxed enough to let his eyes flick around, check the mirror, check the windows, scope the front-runners through the windshield. Like being in the quintet, he thought. You concentrate on your part, the music, the fingering, the breath, but you keep listening to the others, be part of the whole, avoid losing the tempo, steer away from collisions of sound. You need to visualize your part in the puzzle in both places, and here you have to know where the other cars are, and you have to let your car talk to you: the reassuring thumping of the engine, the whine of the gears, the squeal of metal tortured by the wrenching left turns and the air rushing past. The music of the cars as beautiful as the music of the horns.

  Uncle Kale called him in for gas and tires.

  He was aware of all the sound and movement around him, Jackman shouting orders to the crew, Peyton carrying away the old tire, then checking the front grill for bits of rubber, the gas man going for the second can while the catch-can man held the first one in place. Fourteen seconds and they were all done and he was driving back onto the track.

  It was a boat race, lap after lap after lap, fast but boring as the front-runners held their positions. No crashes. There was shifting in the Pack and in the Clot, but that had nothing to do with him. Number 9, the car Uncle Kale had criticized him for not bumping into the wall in the last race, leaked oil, and the caution flag came out until it was cleaned up, and then the parade continued. He fought to keep his mind on the race, checking the lap counter on the scoreboard, forty-nine to go, briefly letting his mind split-screen: Why not bring Nicole to a race, maybe with Del to keep her company and explain what was happening, so she could understand me better.

  “Slater’s gonna bump,” yelled Jimmie.

  It was just enough warning to tighten his grip on the wheel and prepare his feet to accelerate or brake or both before the green Ford tapped him. Kyle held on, steered into the spin and out in time to block Slater from passing inside.

  Nice t
ry, dingleberry.

  The pace picked up. Ruff moved into second place, half a length behind Gary. In the mirror Kyle saw the purple Toyota make a bold sweeping pass that brought it outside Boyd’s lightning-bolt white Pontiac. They were running door to door behind Slater.

  He tried to imagine what might happen next.

  Boyd and Rogers were outsiders at this track, and for all Boyd’s yap about diversity drivers, he might team up with Rogers for a couple of laps, at least to get them past Slater. They might be able to pull an old trick. Boyd and Rogers would drive two abreast behind Slater, maybe even tapping him. Then they would split, Boyd low to the left, Rogers high to the right. Slater would go crazy weaving left and right to keep them from passing. Sooner or later, if Boyd and Rogers kept working together, one of them would find a hole big enough to drive into. He would either blast past Slater or ride door to door with him. Then he would team up with Slater to start the process again.

  Against me.

  Got to think this through. If Rogers is the one makes it, Slater will never team up with him, a young open-wheeler he can’t trust and knows nothing about. If Boyd makes it, Slater might just give it a shot, figuring he’s smarter than Boyd and can ditch him once they knock me off and start fighting for a top-five spot.

  “Don’t drift,” snapped Uncle Kale. “Keep your eyes peeled.”

  Up ahead the leaders were about to lap Randall. Poor old guy never had the equipment to do much. Hey, don’t feel sorry for him, he’s a survivor, he’s out here when most guys his age are watching races. Keep Randall in mind—he can be helpful again.

  “Purple Toyota and white lightning,” said Jimmie. “Two on Slater.”

  He felt piss splatter out and dry on his thigh. The stink disappeared in the gas fumes. His head began to ache from the carbon monoxide buildup.

  “Slater bumping,” said Jimmie. She sounded psyched.

  “No play by play,” said Uncle Kale.

  In the rearview he saw Slater’s green Ford lurch forward. He felt a slight touch and tapped the gas, bringing himself to the fourth-place car. The green Ford lurched again but didn’t reach him this time. Slater was tough, holding his line.

  For two laps Kyle watched Slater duel Rogers and Boyd in his rearview mirror. Slater was good; he blocked them both. Then the ninth-place car, a blue Chevy, moved in between Boyd and Rogers, and they ran three wide for two more laps until one of them bumped Slater toward the wall and Boyd swooped under Slater and passed him.

  Now it was Boyd on his tail, with Slater, Rogers, and the blue Chevy bumping and rubbing behind. Those three would never get untangled in time. Just have to worry about Boyd.

  Twenty laps to go.

  Gary and Ruff were trading the lead, the third-place car right behind them. Never break into that little clique. But the car ahead in fourth place, a black-and-yellow Dodge, seemed a little loose. Fourth place would be sweet.

  Don’t risk it. Concentrate on holding fifth, blocking Boyd.

  “Ten laps,” said Uncle Kale. “Just hold your line.”

  Just hold your lardass. I’m going to do what I want. Maybe I’ll try to blast my way to the front, or maybe I’ll let the car slide back, come in, say, twentieth, and then you can hire Boyd or Lloyd Rogers or even Randall Bean to drive 12A.

  But it would be Dad the Family Brands suits would go for, he thought, father and son Hildebrands if they couldn’t get the brothers. Dad shouldn’t be driving. Well, he’s a big boy now, he can make that decision.

  In this family nobody makes his own decision.

  Except me.

  “Boyd coming up outside,” said Jimmie.

  Perfect. Let Boyd take fifth place, then Slater and Rogers can pass me, just keep dropping back and back and back into the Pack, then into the Clot, then waiting to get lapped with my old friend Randall. Finish last with Randall. Been there, done that.

  I’m going to hold my line, Uncle Kale. You were wrong—the kid wasn’t out there to win, he was out there to do the right thing, and now he’s done it and he’s going back to his own life. I’m a trumpet player. I’m not going to have to pull a Ken to break free.

  The fourth-place black-and-yellow Dodge was getting looser, its rear end sliding up to the wall. If I move fast to get behind him, it’ll look like I’m blocking Boyd, who’ll try to pass me on the left, but I’ll drop down fast to block him on the inside, and Boyd, dummy that he is, will swoop around me and slam into the Dodge and I’ll be fourth.

  But my timing will have to be perfect, or I’ll slam into the Dodge or Boyd into me and I can’t see the Dodge in front and Boyd behind at the same time….

  Jimmie knew. “Now,” she yelled.

  Kyle wrenched the wheel to the right, and when she again yelled, “Now,” he swerved left and matted the gas, shooting free, seeing only a splash of color in his rearview as Boyd hit the Dodge.

  “Clear,” yelled Jimmie.

  He swept past the spinning tangle of yellow-and-black and yellow-and-red just as the yellow caution flag came down.

  Kyle was in fourth place when the race ended a few minutes later, under a yellow flag.

  Family Brands uniforms swarmed around the car as he drove into the garage area. Jackman pulled him out of the car. Peyton poured Jump on his head. The rest of the crew were hoisting him on their shoulders. Dad and Sir Walter and the suits were tossing Family Brands packages at the fans. Jimmie was pushing through the crowd toward him. How had she gotten down so fast?

  “You scumbag!” Boyd was running toward him, fists balled, his crew behind him. One of them had a tire iron and lunged at number 12. He got in one good shot on the hood before Jackman grabbed him around the waist and wrestled him down.

  Kris and the Hildebrand crew rushed out to meet Boyd’s crew.

  Kyle felt numb. As Boyd reached him, he brought up his fists. They felt heavy.

  A wall slid in front of him and Boyd slammed into it.

  “Dare you touch my driver,” roared Uncle Kale.

  He had Boyd by the throat, up in the air, when the cops arrived.

  THIRTY-ONE

  Standing with Kris on Grandpa’s enormous wraparound porch, Kyle remembered their races, the ones that always ended with him in the flower bed. The day he climbed back up the stairs with a garden rake and whacked Kris across the chest as he skateboarded past was the last day they raced around the porch. Kyle was eight, he thought, Kris ten and already a two-time quarter-midget champ.

  “You never beat me.” Kris must have been having the same thought.

  “But I whipped your ass once.”

  “You needed a shovel. Blindsided me.”

  “A rake. You saw it coming.”

  “Whatever.” He threw an arm over Kyle’s shoulder. “Man, was I proud of you yesterday.”

  “A monkey could’ve driven that car….”

  “The way you stood up to Boyd.”

  I think I just froze, thought Kyle. “Never saw Uncle Kale move so fast.”

  “When it comes to the family or the car, he’s a tiger.” Kris puffed out his cheeks and his stomach. “Rest of the time, Shamu.”

  They laughed. Mom and Dad had taken them to SeaWorld just before Dad’s accident. As Shamu, the killer whale, rose out of his pool, they had looked at each other and both said, “Uncle Kale.”

  Kyle felt close to Kris on top of Hildebrand Hill. It had been years since Grandpa had thrown one of his last-minute Sunday-afternoon barbecues on the front lawn. My fourth-place finish yesterday was worth a celebration, Kyle thought, and I’m happy and a little scared.

  He wondered what Kris thought about it. Not really Kris’s style to think too much. The Intruder keeps his eyes on what’s ahead. No mirror driving.

  “Look who’s here.” Kris elbowed him. Cowgirls were piling out of a van. “One for you, li’l bro. Do they love racers, especially after they get their pictures in the paper.”

  He hadn’t thought the picture on the front page of the Sunday sports section looked much like him, b
ut he’d enjoyed the headline: “Another Hildebrand Coming on Strong.” He got almost as much space as Gary, who had won the race in another thrilling duel with Ruff on their way to big-time NASCAR careers. The reporter who interviewed Kyle wanted to know all about high school, and he told her about the quintet. The reporter called Mr. G Kyle’s other crew chief. It was pretty stupid.

  He had thought about inviting Nicole to the barbecue. They could go on together to Mr. G’s dinner. Friends and girlfriends were always welcome on Hildebrand Hill, but he wasn’t sure she would be comfortable. Maybe, he thought, she would be too judgmental about his family or they would find her too New York—or maybe it’s you, Kyle, not ready to handle your worlds colliding. She’s got moves, she can be cool, and everybody would be nice to her because of you; even Uncle Kale could be a charmer at a party, so what’s your problem? Maybe you don’t want Jimmie and Nicole in the same place. Why? Maybe your problem is you think too much. Mirror driving. Keep your eyes up front.

  Kris pulled him down the steps to the lawn. Low clouds of smoke drifted off the barbecues where Jackman and some of the crew were grilling burgers, franks, chicken parts, racks of ribs, and heaps of pork strips. Tables were crowded with corn, baked beans, salads, mounds of chips, soda, beer, even Jump. Once Kris reached the cowgirls, Kyle was able to slip away from him. Kris could handle a herd of cowgirls by himself.

  Neighbors and friends and cousins he hadn’t seen in a while were hugging and pounding shoulders. Sir Walter cruised among them, kissing, squeezing. He spotted Kyle, beckoned him over. “That was something, Kyle. That was racing with your head.”

  Kyle tried to sort out what he was feeling. How could you be happy and scared at the same time?

  Mom and Dad were talking to Aunt Susan and a tall, gaunt man in white pants, a white shirt open to his belly button, and flip-flops. Kyle had never seen him before.