by Jenny Martin
That was a mistake, and it won’t happen again.
“Who’s waiting?”
“Auguste and what’s-his-face . . . Dradha.”
I’m certain he knows Cash’s name well enough, but I let him pretend. “Oh. Practice today?”
Bear shakes his head. “Check your schedule. You’ve got some hair and makeup drama. Then gear pickup and media training for your first circuit press conference.”
I take his advice and glance at the schedule they’ve loaded onto my card. I keep scrolling, but there seems no end to the events. I’ve got a handful of days to practice for this season’s races, but this morning, there’s nothing but makeovers, media training, and other nonsense.
“So basically, today is really going to suck exhaust.” I blow at a few flyaway strands of hair.
Bear smiles, tucking them behind my ear. “Pretty much. Sorry, short stuff.”
I don’t think he’s called me short stuff since we were eleven. The memory’s a comfort.
“You’re coming with me, right?” I ask.
“I’ll meet you at the press conference,” he says. “Until then, Gil’s going to work with me at the track. He says there’s room on the crew for an alternate pacer—”
“That’s good, isn’t it? I could talk to him and tell him that you—”
He shakes his head. “I’ve got this. I need to do this on my own.”
“You don’t have anything to prove,” I soothe.
“I do—”
“Not to me, you don’t.”
“But I need to prove it to them. That I can pace you just as well as . . .” Just as his voice edges toward impatience, he doubles back, teasing again. “Just let me do this, short stuff. You go off and get your hair extensions or whatever, and I’ll show Gil I can earn my keep.”
I nod, then haul myself out of bed like a condemned prisoner. Ridiculously, I groan. “I am not getting hair extensions, Bear.”
“I know.” He smiles. It’s a small thing, but it’s enough. I know we’ll make it through the next twelve hours.
Goose and I walk into the salon. It’s over-the-top, the kind of snooty henhouse I’d never dream of visiting on my own. Stepping inside now is enough of a nightmare to make me cuss under my breath. We pass through a funhouse of booths—the whole place is wall-to-wall mirrors and rich women and mile-high hair—to get to a VIP room in the back, a space that is, today, reserved just for me and the most stubborn hair stylist on the planet. Oh, and Bijan is here too, just to twist the knife. Apparently, not only is she an expert in clothes, she is also a “cosmetics color specialist.”
This means she’s in charge of lining up lipsticks and dangerous-looking jars of waxy goop. Every time I try to stand up and walk out, Auguste pushes me back into the hydraulic chair.
I look at Penelope, the stylist, who’s comparing sample tresses. “You can shake those rattails in my face all you want,” I say. “But you are not putting them on my head.”
Penelope says nothing, but Bijan purses her pout- perfect, fat-enhanced lips. “We get it, no extensions,” she says. “These are designer pigments. We need to decide which color, and then which gloss to brush in.”
I stare at the sample strands in Penelope’s hand. All are bright shades of copper and ginger. “No way. I’m not going red. Don’t try to make me into something I’m not.” I shake my head, scuttling out of the chair before Goose can pin me down.
Bijan starts to protest, but he raises a forefinger to silence her. Hand still in the air, he paces back and forth twice before wheeling on me. “Sit,” he says.
“I’m not going along with some stupid—”
“Sit.” It’s nothing less than a command this time.
So I sit.
“Listen, my friends.” He circles my chair. “This spitfire girl is right. We are wasting time making her over, when we should be accenting what is already there.”
I wince when he pulls and holds up a tangled handful of my hair. “See? Look at this. It is dark, noire. All we need to do is finesse this into something . . . more. Make her a Phoenix, yes, but ma lune et les étoiles! Save the red for her lips.”
He lets my hair fall back onto my shoulders and stares at Penelope. “Cut it. No color, clear gloss. Keep it black.”
“Yes, Mr. Chevalier,” Penelope and Bijan both answer at once.
Thanks to Goose, by the time they are finished with me, I look a little less like a Sixer doll and a little more like a circuit vixen. My chin-length bob has been shined into a glossy black waterfall and I make them take it easy with the makeup. No lotions or creams. Just a little powder on my pale nose, some black eyeliner, and a dab of velvety lipstick.
I look older, and it’s the only thing I like about this whole ordeal.
The color on my lips is a shade between ruby and dried blood. I jokingly suggest they should match it to the exact red in my rig’s paint scheme, but Bijan shrieks approval. No doubt, by next week, Benroyal’s engineers will have a thick tube of gloppy, custom-made crimson and I’ll be a laughingstock among circuit drivers.
No, no, Auguste keeps saying, I am a fierce femme fatale. It sounds dangerous enough, so I’ll settle for it.
The final uniform fitting is much easier to endure. Everything is delivered to the back of the salon, and I use an adjacent dressing room. Once I’m alone with my new gear, I allow my giddiness to show. My hands quiver as I fasten each snap and latch and zipper. Unlike the rest of my team’s, my new zip-front jumpsuit is black with a stripe of red. My gloves and boots are also black, along with my helmet, which is finished with a flame-colored wing motif. On each side of my head, a wing stretches out, the last golden feathers arcing back. My number is painted on each side as well.
Six. Of course I’m six.
I feel a stab of pain behind my rib cage. It could be my skintight gear, or it could be remorse. I say I don’t want to be here, but do I really mean it? Am I so easily bought? With black leather and fireproof suits?
Yes. Maybe I am. I cannot deny the thrill of this moment. I step out of the dressing room. When I look in the full-length flex wall mirror outside my door, the sight makes me gasp.
I am a tiny superhero, a black-booted femme fatale. A real circuit driver.
Auguste will be pleased, I’m sure. But I wonder, if he were here, would my father be proud? Is this fierce- looking creature the girl he wanted me to be? Or was he just as trapped, caught between the sport he loved and the keepers that controlled him?
When I picture my father’s face—the sunbaked crow’s-feet under his eyes, the perpetual shadow of red-brown whiskers on his jaw—I’m struck by something more than melancholy longing. I’m angry at him for being dead and gone, absent but not invisible to my heart. For leaving me with his flaws—his stupid need to always run, smashing into every wall. Suddenly, the gloves, the clothes—everything is too heavy and stifling hot. I fuss with the straps on my helmet and pry it off just as Goose comes in to check on me.
His hand sweeps over his chest and he feigns a heart attack, as if one look at me had left him a dying man. I tug at my collar and gulp a breath of much-needed air. Auguste starts to laugh. The sound builds and builds until I can almost see tears in his eyes. For a split second, I misread him, and think he is making fun, but then I realize, he is overjoyed, overcome with more than one emotion.
That makes two of us.
“Ah, ma fille! You are my greatest triumph, Miss Vanguard. Yes, you will be une légende!”
It’s only one in the afternoon, but I’m already worn out. I change back into my tee and gray cargoes. For now, I just need some food and room to breathe.
I’m only getting the food.
Auguste and I still have an appointment with Benroyal’s PR team. We’re in a suite at the Grand Delian, Capitoline’s fanciest hotel. The circuit will be hosting this year’s first press conference in t
he ballroom downstairs. All the biggest Castran racers will be there, so we’ve just enough time to inhale some room service while Benroyal’s media goons put me through the paces.
There are a lot of rules, things I have to remember, not just for this press conference, but for pretty much every occasion that takes me outside the Spire. The way they talk, I’m three hours from diving into a public pressure cooker, complete with tabloid reporters, stalker-like fans, and corporate bookmakers starving for insider information.
My role has been all but spelled out: Dazzle the public and above all, perform for the stockholders.
To them, I’m a variable in a spreadsheet. There will always be someone watching, analyzing my every move, waiting for me to win or lose. I’m a name in a bracket, a made-up girl. Property of Benroyal Corp, bought and branded. This, my handlers explain, is the normal price of circuit fame.
For me, there’s nothing normal about managing my body language, crafting deflective answers, and staying “on message” eighteen hours a day. I’m not thrilled about the “key takeaways” the PR drones want me to hammer home during the press conference either.
1. I’m so grateful Mr. Benroyal discovered me through Capitoline’s UrbanReach youth program. As soon as I turned eighteen, I jumped at the chance to sign with his team.
2. I’m just happy to be here and I’m not worried about my standings on race day.
3. I’ve idolized circuit racers all my life, and I’m honored to work with such a capable team, especially my crew chief, the legendary Gil Gates, and my new pacer, Cashoman Dradha.
At best, one of these statements is a half-truth. Aside from these answers, I’m not to reveal any more details about my personal life. If anyone asks anything off limits, I’m supposed to grin and make eye contact, all while explaining what a private person I am, and how excited I am to get behind the wheel and let my driving speak for itself. Under no circumstances can I frown or grumble or cuss.
During our practice interviews, I frown and grumble and cuss a lot. Every time I do, I have to backtrack from the beginning and answer the list of questions again. By the fifth time, I surrender and smile until my face feels like it’s going to fall off.
“Very good,” the evil inquisitors say. “Just like that.”
Just like a sellout.
“Are we done now?” I ask. “I’d like to actually have two minutes to chew my food.”
They nod, backing away like wild-animal handlers. The thought makes me howl with laughter, and I choke on my rice-leaf wrap. I’ll never be completely housebroken, and it makes them afraid.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
A mob waits for us in the ballroom. Turns out the media trainers weren’t kidding about it being intense. Journalists of every stripe are crammed into this giant hall. On the walls, flex glass panels are framed with gilt scrollwork. Sprays of yellow limonfleur and imported white poppies grace marble-top tables along the periphery of the room. Circuit drivers will be herded onto a dais, three or four at a time, to answer questions. While we wait in the wings, in hallways on either side of the ballroom, live feeds of the action on the floor and the stage flood the screens.
Two minutes until show time.
I look for Eager’s face in the crowd, but I don’t see my old crew-mate. I’m not the only new driver—on the press conference list, there’s at least one name I don’t recognize. Maybe, like me, Eager’s another fresh recruit, forced to take an alias. He could be here, somewhere backstage. Surely that ambush was not just for me.
The sight of so many jostling reporters leaves me white-knuckle nervous. In a moment, it will be my turn to run this media gauntlet. Cash and Bear arrive, accompanied by six guards from the Spire. At first, I don’t understand why they gape at me like I’m a stranger. But then I remember they’ve never seen me in this gear before.
With Bear, there’s a gasp. I detect the wince under his smile—a part of him is wary of my transformation. Am I still the same girl underneath the black armor? In contrast, Cash is all approval. He bares his teeth and bites his lip, all the while stepping back to get a better look. Without apology, he grins and drinks up the sight of me.
I hear the snap of flex cameras as reporters jostle to capture the moment. I’m sure they’ll have plenty to say about the way Cash is checking me out. This could be trouble.
Mercifully, Cash steps back. Bear takes his place beside me. “You look different,” he says. “You look . . . dangerous.”
“In a good way?” I ask.
Bear touches the Benroyal logo on my collar. “Is this what you want?”
I don’t have an answer. I don’t know anymore.
I turn into his shoulder. Bear won’t let this go, and he’s picked the worst possible moment to hash it out. So many eyes are on us now.
“It’s time,” Auguste says.
Even as Bear stands aside, my eyes flick to Cash.
“Don’t let them push you around too much, Vanguard,” he says.
I take a deep breath and let go. My security detail clears a narrow path and I follow them all the way to the stage, and then I’m on my own. By the time I make it up the steps, one of the other drivers has already taken his seat.
I know his red hair and freckles and light blue eyes, at least from feeds, anyway. Cooper Winfield may be past his prime and he may not win many races, but people love to watch him. Who am I kidding? I love to watch this guy.
Coop is the last independent driver, the son of a rig parts salesman who to this day still refuses to go corporate or sell his father’s company to any conglomerate. Year after year, the Winfield crew manages to roll out on a shoestring budget, with only one or two cars to crash. Every race day, they face down the moneyed elite, high-tech rigs backed by the most powerful men on the planet. The Sixers bid and make their offers, but Winfield Mechanical always refuses to incorporate or sell out. They race, not for stocks, but purely for the glory. How could I not root for an outfit like that?
The corporates hate him, but the rest of us scream his name, from the stands and from our living rooms. Even when ole Coop finishes in seventh place. And now, as unworthy as I am, he sits at my left. Soon enough, he’ll be my rival on the track. For the second time today, my hands tremble.
At my right, there is an empty chair. The placard marking the space reads MAXWELL COURANT. I don’t recognize the name, but the placard reveals he’s driving for AltaGen, the Sixer medical giant. Maybe it’s Eager, or another new recruit, plucked from the streets like me. I’m guessing Max Courant is another silly alias, contrived by the same minds who thought up Phoenix Vanguard, the world’s most pretentious-sounding driver.
A hand touches my elbow and I realize Coop is trying to get my attention. He actually wants to shake my hand.
“Hey there,” he says, reaching out. “I’m—”
“I know who you are,” I blurt. “You’re Cooper Winfield and you’re my favorite driver and I’ve watched the last thirty minutes of the ’87 Sand Ridge Rally 400 at least a million times and I can’t believe I’m sitting here talking to you and—”
“Well there.” He’s laughing. At me. “Nice to meet you too, young lady.”
Mesmerized, I stare back. He is sitting right here. In the flesh. Shaking my hand. I might actually pass out from the sheer brilliance of this moment.
“Um . . . So you must be . . .” He trails off.
It occurs to me Coop is waiting for me to speak. My jaws flap up and down, but I can’t quite spit anything out. If you toss me a headset and put me behind the wheel, I’m never at a loss for words. But two minutes in a camera- filled ballroom and I’m hopelessly mute. Rescuing me, Coop lets go and turns my placard to read my name.
“Phoenix Vanguard,” he says. “That’s what I thought. So you’re the new kid everyone’s talking about.”
Surely Coop is just blowing exhaust to put me at ease. I’ve just about wor
ked up the courage to smile and thank him, but a chair-pulling scuffle and bump distract me.
Maxwell has arrived, and he is definitely not Eager. Without an ounce of grace or common courtesy, he’s plopped himself into his seat and elbowed my right arm off the table. Before I can get a word in, he stares me down.
Somehow, I know this guy. I may not recognize the bleached hair or the crazy violet contact lenses, but . . . Did he really shave his eyebrows completely off?
“Watch it, will you?” he says, reaching across me for a glass of water. Not the one in front him. Mine.
I know that voice. Even with the forced accent. Maxwell. I turn the name over and over in my mind.
Winfield is too classy to scowl at him, but his high- wattage smile fades a bit. “Guess we can get this show on the road now,” he says.
A speaker blares and I hear the moderator’s voice. For all I know, they’re beaming her in from some better air- conditioned, alternate universe. “Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to this year’s pre-series launch. Please text your questions to the registry number for this event, which is now listed on all screens. We will try to get to as many as we can in the next half hour.”
With that, there’s a flurry of activity as four hundred reporters fumble over their flexes and race to get in their questions first. An eye-in-the-sky-camera, equipped with a laser pointer, is ready to tag the lucky few who submit the ones deemed harmless enough to answer.
After a few moments, the red light shines on a man in the front row. I recognize the silver-haired suit—he’s a well-known correspondent for CSF, Castran Sports Feed. “This one’s for Winfield,” he says. “Coop, there are more new drivers this year than ever before, what do you think? Is this year a game changer?”