by Chris Fabry
“You’re not picking that guy up? What’s his name?”
“It’s Tim Carhardt, and we thought what happened tonight was pretty important. I wanted to drive down and spend some time talking to him on the way back. Guess we’ll need to make other arrangements.”
Jamie nodded. “Well, Texas is coming up this weekend. Maybe you could—”
Her dad gave her the look that said Stop talking, so she did.
“The thing that bothers me isn’t that you would drive a Devalon car,” her dad said. “And I’m not upset that you would think about joining his team.”
“Did Kellen mention it? That little rat. I even thanked him for not telling you about it.”
“It doesn’t matter where I heard it. The point is, what really upsets me is that you would keep all this from us.”
“I was scared you wouldn’t let me, that you’d be mad. And I was right—you are mad.”
“I’m upset that you thought you had to keep this a secret. I’ve told you I want to help you be the very best driver you can be.”
“You keep secrets from us,” Jamie said and regretted it as soon as she said it.
“Like what?”
“Nothing.”
“Like what?” her dad said a little firmer this time.
“Like the guy in Florida. You knew way back in December that you wanted him to come live here.”
“That’s not fair. We didn’t even know if it was possible or if he’d agree to come here.”
Jamie turned her head, her face hot, pretending that she’d been hurt. Silence filled the room, and she focused on a stack of NASCAR Illustrated.
Her dad took a deep breath. “Devalon has suggested you for something.”
“He told me he was thinking of signing me to his team. That they might offer me a contract.”
“It’s not that. You’ve heard of the Skylar Jennings school, right?”
“They do those ride alongs with NASCAR wannabes. Old guys who can hardly get behind the wheel.”
He smiled for a second, which almost felt like a checkered flag waving. One small victory. “Yeah, they do that at tracks around the country. A pretty successful business. But Skylar also teaches rookies and kids whose parents have enough cash. It’s expensive, but they say it’s worth it.”
“What’s this got to do with me? I don’t even have enough money for a new car.”
“A few months ago some owners got together to identify the top prospects around the country, with an eye on diversity, bringing minorities and more female drivers into the program.”
Jamie’s heart raced, and she sat straight. “Sounds like a good idea.”
“The program will last four weeks. It starts in May. Intense classroom instruction. Lots of seat time. They have a few simulators, you’d learn from some of the best PR people, and there are races—”
“Dad, why are you telling me this?”
“Devalon picked you.”
She scooted forward, her eyes wide open. “Me?”
“There are already 42 from around the country who’ve been picked. Most of them are older than you and have more experience. They need one more.”
She tried to catch her breath. She had a million questions.
“Devalon and Shane made the decision when they saw you run Chad’s car. They have the last spot. You know how NASCAR is all about leveling the playing field and making things more equal. This is one way they can instruct privately and let the cream rise to the top.”
“It sounds like a dream come true,” Jamie said.
“There’s more.” Her dad crossed his legs. “They’re keeping score throughout the process. Classroom. On the track. Simulator. The top three drivers at the end of the four weeks get an actual license by NASCAR.”
Jamie’s mouth dropped open. All she could say was, “Awesome!”
“Obviously those three would have to keep their qualifications up, and they’d still need to work their way through—”
Jamie jumped toward him and threw her arms around him. “Thank you! I can’t believe it!”
“Wait a minute. That’s the good news. The bad news is that there’s school to contend with—”
“I can do some kind of independent study. I’ll do homework every night and finish.”
“Well, hang on. The cost of the school is covered, but living expenses aren’t. Students pay for the hotel and food.”
“How much?” Jamie said.
He told her.
“That shouldn’t be a problem if I can sell the car.”
Her dad ran a hand through his hair. “I guess that’s your choice. It’s your car. But there’s one other problem. A big one.”
“What?”
“Your mother.”
Jamie’s heart fell. “She has to know this is a great opportunity. Once in a lifetime.”
“Yeah, she’s a smart woman. She knows this is about the best thing that could ever happen to a young driver who wants to move up.”
“So what’s the problem?”
“Letting go of you.”
“What do you mean?”
“You’re growing up. It’s one thing to drive you to some track and sit on the infield and watch you run. But having you go away like this means you’re going to be out of here someday. Soon.”
Jamie laughed. “I have another year of high school. I’m not going anywhere.”
Her dad put a hand on her shoulder. “Sweetheart, you’re a rocket and your fuse is lit. It’s only a matter of time before you blast off.”
“What do I do?”
“Go talk to her.”
Chapter 7
Family, Faith, and a Fast Car
TIM TOOK A WALK to the nearby convenience store. The only thing worse than listening to Tyson and Vera fight was listening to them fight while they brought groceries in from the truck. Vera didn’t like Tyson opening stuff on the way home, and it always led to some kind of quarrel, so Tim tried to be gone when they got home.
At the store Tim bought a bottle of soda, a king-size Snickers bar, and a copy of NASCAR Scene. He sat on the sidewalk outside, flipping through the pages of race results, point standings, and pictures.
Toward the back, after the news about the top drivers, was a picture of Dale Maxwell standing by an old barn. In the background was a house—out of focus and fuzzy. He had his arm around his wife, a pretty woman with long red hair, and his kids, Kellen and Jamie, were beside them. Tim recognized Jamie from the Daytona coverage when she had taken over for a sick spotter.
“Family, Faith, and a Fast Car” was the title of the article. It detailed Dale Maxwell’s current sponsor problems and described him as a “devoted husband and father first” and a NASCAR driver second.
That’s probably why he’s got sponsor problems, Tim thought. He ought to put his racing first.
“Some people say God and racing don’t mix,” Maxwell said. “I can’t imagine climbing into the cockpit of a race car and not believing in God.”
Great, Tim thought. I’m moving in with a gang of Christians.
The article went on to talk about Maxwell’s record of “clean driving,” his philosophy of racing (“When you cross the finish line first, act like you’ve been there before”), and his devotion to his kids. “Racing is a family affair with us. We’ve chosen to send the kids to a public school and let them have a ‘normal life,’ but we wouldn’t do this if everybody didn’t enjoy it. I’d rather flip burgers or change oil and have a close family life than win every race and lose my kids.”
An old beater of a car pulled in to the gas station as Tim looked through the rest of the newspaper. He kept coming back to the Maxwell page. From traveling with his dad he’d known plenty of guys who were nice when you first met them but turned out to be snakes. Was this Maxwell guy just a good talker, or did he actually live the words he spoke?
“Guess I’ll find out soon,” Tim said out loud.
He was engrossed in his reading and didn’t notice anyone behind hi
m until the silhouette of someone’s head blocked the light. He turned and saw three pairs of tennis shoes behind him. Tim looked up.
“Well, if it isn’t the NASCAR janitor himself,” Jeff said.
Chapter 8
Two Hearts
JAMIE’S MOM WAS HELPING Kellen fill out paperwork for an end-of-the-year field trip for his fifth grade class. Some Civil War battlefield or plantation or something. They had to complete everything early in order to go. Next fall he’d be in middle school, and Jamie thought her mom might be upset about all the changes the family was going through. If her mom would just hear her out, everything would be fine.
Her mom looked up, then studied the form closely. When she was done, she put it in Kellen’s backpack, along with a check for the cost of the trip, and told him to brush his teeth and crawl into bed.
Jamie hovered around the door, not saying anything, believing her mom knew she wanted to talk. She followed her mom downstairs to the kitchen and watched her open a container of low-fat yogurt. She sat at the table, running a spoon around the top, stirring and staring.
“You always told us not to play with our food,” Jamie said.
Her mom stifled a smile. “I remember when you were little. All I could get you to eat was cottage cheese and applesauce.”
“I don’t remember that.”
“You were about two. I’d sit you in your booster seat at the table, and you wouldn’t touch anything I put in front of you. And the applesauce always had to have cinnamon in it. You said you wanted some ‘cimanon.’ It was the cutest thing.”
“Mom, about the driving school . . .”
Her mom stuck her spoon in the yogurt and left it there. “I’ve tried to let go of you a little at a time. Over the years I’ve allowed you to make decisions on your own. Letting you start racing was hard, even in the go-kart stage, because I knew you’d probably like it. But I gave in on that.” She looked up. “But on this, Jamie, I’ve got to tell you that I have a bad feeling.”
“Mom, you don’t have to worry. I’ll probably be the worst in the whole class.”
“No,” her mom said. “I know you’ll do well. You have what it takes to do anything you set your mind to . . . except one thing.”
“What’s that?”
Her mom teared up and ran the spoon around the yogurt again. “A mother who has enough faith to give you to God and let him take over.”
“Oh, Mom,” Jamie said, and she could feel the emotion welling.
“It’s true,” her mother said. “I’ve prayed for you every day of your life and even before we knew we were going to have you. I prayed that God would protect you and give you a heart for him.”
“You’re probably disappointed.”
“No. I know he’s still working on you just like he is on me. And I’ve prayed about the man you’re going to marry, and—”
“I hope you’ve prayed that he’s cute.”
They both laughed. Then her mother stood and embraced Jamie. “Life gives us a lot of twists and turns. Your father and I have had a number of those through the years. I want to protect you from making mistakes and getting hurt, but I know that’s not going to be my job much longer. I’m having a hard time with this.”
“Is it the schoolwork you’re worried about? Because I can talk with my teachers, and I can do the rest of the semester on my own. Is that part of the problem?”
Her mom shook her head.
“Then if it’s the money, I had a guy call tonight about my car. Selling that will give me enough for the room and board.”
“Jamie, I don’t expect you to understand this. . . .”
“You always say that right before you say something that’s not fair.”
“What do you want me to do? Just say you can go and not care?”
“I want you to say you believe in me and really mean it!” Jamie said. “To follow it with action. You’ve told me all my life to follow my dreams and dream big. I’m doing that, Mom, but now you’re the one standing in my way. I thought it would be Dad, but it’s you. What’s up with that?”
Her mom stared at the spoon. “You’re asking me to ignore what I feel in my gut, what I feel deep inside. I can’t shut that down.”
Jamie sank to a kitchen chair. “I don’t want you to ignore your gut. I want you to believe in my gut.”
“You haven’t even thought this through.”
“Mom, this is the kind of break I’ve been waiting for. Instead of racing in Dad’s shadow, I can make a name for myself. I can learn from the best. I can follow my heart, like you’ve always said. Instead, you want me to follow your gut.”
“You know that’s not fair,” her mom said. “You’re using my words against me.”
Jamie stood, her arms held up as if in a prayer. “I don’t know what to do. I can’t get you to see this. I’m still your little girl asking for cinnamon on my applesauce.” She headed for the stairs.
“Jamie, don’t leave.”
“I can’t talk, Mom. I’ll say something I’ll regret.”
Chapter 9
Swamp Confession
TIM STRUGGLED AGAINST the three guys, but Jeff had seized his arms and held them behind his back. The other two grabbed his legs and carried him toward the old beater of a car.
Someone behind the counter at the store walked out and yelled at the guys, but one of them said, “He’s a friend of ours. It’s his birthday, and we’re taking him to his party.”
“It’s not true!” Tim shouted. “Call the po—”
Jeff clamped a hand over his mouth and whispered in his ear, “If you want to survive this, you better keep your mouth shut.”
He threw Tim in the backseat, and the other two sat on either side of him. Jeff started the car after a couple of tries—Tim listened to the engine and was pretty sure it needed a new head gasket and probably wouldn’t last another 100 miles—and sped away from the store. They zoomed past Tyson’s trailer, going too fast through the trailer park.
“You might want to slow down,” Tim said. “Kids play in the street here all the time.”
“Thanks, officer,” Jeff said with a straight face, then broke into a laugh. “If kids are playing out here this time of night, they deserve to get hit.”
Jeff’s friends tightened their grip on Tim’s arms as they drove past the playground and onto a gravel path. A sign said No Autos Allowed beyond This Point. Jeff turned on the radio to a country station, and the guys laughed loud and pretended to enjoy it, making fun of a song about a guy kissing girls and shooting squirrels.
The headlights illuminated a man and a woman walking on the path. The man waved his flashlight wildly, and the two had to jump into the weeds to avoid getting hit.
Jeff drove faster and slid to a stop in a hail of dust and gravel. They were at the pier of the lake. “Time to go for a swim, little buddy,” he said.
Tim hated hearing those words coming from Jeff’s mouth because his father had called him little buddy when Tim was young. He seethed, clenching his teeth as they pulled him from the backseat. As a kid, Tim had loved playing the Hulk. He’d turn into a strong, menacing character and win any battle single-handedly. He shut his eyes and tried to turn into the green monster, a maniac with rippling muscles. He didn’t necessarily want to split his clothes—he just wanted to show these guys who was boss. Unfortunately it was a kid’s game and only in his mind.
They easily dragged him to the railing of the pier, where couples in love usually stood to watch the sunset and kids threw pieces of bread to ducks who survived gator attacks. A sign by the overlook said Danger: No Swimming.
Jeff’s friends held Tim against the railing and pushed his head toward the water.
Jeff put his face next to Tim’s and spoke through clenched teeth. “You have no idea the trouble you caused me. I promised myself that if I ever found you again, I’d make you pay.”
“You’re the one who stole my tickets to Daytona,” Tim said. “I’m the one who deserves to get payback
.”
“After what you did at that church?” Jeff yelled, jerking Tim’s hair back so hard that Tim thought it would come out in clumps. “Do you know how much it cost to get my tooth fixed?”
It made Tim feel a little better that their scuffle in the church stairwell had cost Jeff something. But when he noticed a ripple in the water below and a greenish gray back floating on top, he tried to grab hold of the railing.
“After this, we’re even,” Jeff said. “You got it? You leave me alone and I’ll leave you alone.”
“How can we be even if you kill me?” Tim said.
“Not going to kill you, just going to let you get a little wet.”
“I can’t swim,” Tim said.
The three laughed and pitched him over the railing.
Chapter 10
Autographed Car
JAMIE’S MOM AND DAD were talking in the kitchen early the next morning, sipping coffee and flipping the onionskin pages of Bibles. They did this every morning whether her dad was on the road or not. When he was at a race, they talked on the phone and prayed together. Part of Jamie liked that they were in love and made God the center of their lives. Another part of her felt it was schmaltzy, like some figurine of Jesus with his arm around a race car driver. She was sure their belief wasn’t fake like some. Still, she didn’t know if she could ever be that good.
Jamie paused on the stairs, looking through the door at her parents holding hands, their eyes closed, heads bowed. She wished they would find some verse in the Bible that said, “Thou shalt let thy daughter follow her NASCAR dream and not hinder her, for she wilt one day win the Nextel Cup,” but she’d read enough of the Bible to know there was nothing like that in there. Although there was some verse about running a race so you could win the prize.
She slipped out of the house without facing them and hopped in Maxie, her restored 1965 Ford Mustang. She’d bought the car and worked on it for a solid year before getting her driver’s license. It was almost a part of the family, and she hated the thought of selling it (though an ad had already run in the paper), but if she couldn’t sell her Legend car, she’d have to sell Maxie. She needed the money.