After a few more seconds, he drops his intention of tearing into the thing and flattens it on the table under his hands.
“All right. But if I’m going to sit on this for nearly twenty-four hours, I want something in return.” His smirk is a dead giveaway.
I chuckle.
“I’ll have Douglas hook you up.”
Dale raises his hands and feigns crowd noise in response.
“Ladies and gentleman, meet the new number-one racing champion of the entire world, Dale . . . Hawkins. Hooooorahhhh.”
I level him with a deadpanned, flat-mouth gaze and slide a cup of coffee his direction.
“You’re making me regret letting you take a lap during my practice time. And that commentary? I’m pretty sure it’s for boxing.” I slip into the bench seat across from him with my cup and blow on the steamy top.
“Yeah, I know, but it’s my vision, dude. Let me have it. I write about driving for a living. Nobody’s ever let me actually do it out here before. Only on practice tracks.” He sips his steaming liquid and pulls out his notebook, ready to get to business.
“All right. Hit me with it,” I relent.
We go right into the biggest question of the week, the one he’s been prying me with for days: what are my thoughts on the new kid, and what’s my plan to handle him?
“Plan hasn’t changed a bit. When that checkered flag waves, I’m the one crossing the line under it. Nobody else.”
He holds my stare for a few seconds, his mouth caught between a smirk of amusement at my cocky attitude and one of sincerity, finally buying into my confidence—joining my team.
“Next,” I say, setting down my coffee and leaning back, hands behind my neck.
Dale shakes his head.
“Okay, then,” he responds, writing down my last answer verbatim. He scribbles every word, and I lean forward to point out the two missing words of my manifesto. Nobody else.
And I mean it.
21
My parents invited the Tingles over for the race. My dad went out and bought one of those projection screens and turned our living room into this massive theater. It’s been awhile since I watched Dustin’s race on something other than an app on my phone.
Bristol isn’t sure what’s going on but she’s gathered her stuffed animal collection, one that seems to be growing by the day thanks to my mom, and gave them all a place of honor on the ottoman right in front of the screen. Bailey, her parents, and my mom have taken up the couch, and I could join them, but I have my place. Dad brought in two pop-up chairs from the garage, and I swear these are the same ones he and I sat in when I was a kid and Dustin was racing karts.
“You think these will hold us?” I joke, noting the dust shedding onto the floor when I open mine. Mom’s going to be pissed.
“Meh, they’ll be fine. I take them fishing every month.”
That explains the slight odor.
My dad places his chair next to mine, and the only thing missing when we take our seats is a pair of binoculars. There’s a slight weather delay, and while that’s something that freaks out a lot of racers, I’m kind of rooting for it; the Texas race director has been known to call wet starts. Having to endure an entire race on a slick track is not a stress I can handle today, and I’m only watching the race.
It wouldn’t bother Dustin. I know it. He always loved speeding in the rain. It’s the only thing he could do to make me nervous, spinning out for fun in some open lot or out on an empty road. Tommy told me Dustin’s gotten good at doing donuts in the snow and on ice too. I think I’ll pass.
“Looks like we’re a go,” my dad says, checking an alert on his phone. Virgil has been messaging every five minutes, and in between we’ve been getting updates from Dustin’s uncle.
I sit on my hands to keep myself from biting at my nails.
“Team Eat My Dust, isn’t that what you guys always said?” My dad nudges my arm and holds up his beer, toasting bold confidence. I force a smile.
“That’s us, all right. Team Eat My Dust.”
My dad drinks to it then sets down his bottle and rubs his hands together, ready to get things started. I look on and let my mouth drop into the concerned flat line I’ve been wearing all morning.
I’m actually less worried about Alex showing up at our front door than I am about Dustin coming in second, or worse. I want this for him. He needs to feel success and have it fostered by the good things in his life. Today is a massive test, but I’m not sure any of us are prepared. And while I’m not concerned about Alex showing up at my house, I am more than a little on edge about the new driver in today’s race who seems to have a connection to him.
Dustin said Alex’s dad no longer owns that company, but I had Bailey help me run a few searches through the public records, and their family name shows up in a lot of important places, including a board position that one of them filled three years ago. If Dustin loses to a plant Alex put there to spite him, I think that would be worse than every threat and loss he’s endured while being held under that mad man’s thumb.
“Pace car’s on,” my dad says, bringing me out of my head and into the present.
I lean forward, feet together and on the floor, hands under my thighs, and I scan the screen for the Nine car. Bristol finds it first.
“Right there! Right there!” She runs up to the screen, knocking over a few of her furry friends on the way, and points her finger to the Miller Trucking car swerving about six cars back.
“Good job!” my mom says, calling Bristol back. She leaps onto the ottoman, wrapping her arms around some of her animal toys, and brings a handful to my mom before sinking into her lap.
“It’s a lot like boxing, this part,” my dad says, leaning to the side. He’s trying to calm me, like when I was a kid.
“I remember. You always said the pace lap is how you get your feel for things, an early negotiation for position.”
“That’s right. See how smooth he looks?” My dad grins at the screen. I think he would be at the racetrack today if it weren’t for me and Bristol. Dustin asked him to stay behind, wanting someone here to stand between us and whatever threat—real or imagined—might manifest.
“They always looked like bees to me during this part. They buzz around that circle, jerky moves while they try to find the grooves in the track.” It’s the one thing I miss about the kart days—no pace cars.
“I can see that. But in the midst of those bees is one smooth-ass butterfly,” my dad says.
I chuckle at him.
“All right, Ali. I see you.”
Dustin’s on the last turn now, still locked in the tight spot between last week’s winner and Lamont, a perennial favorite in Texas. The new kid is in the back of the pack, but I don’t let myself take too much comfort in that. Position doesn’t matter after twenty laps.
The cars are up to about eighty now, and the pace car is getting ready to peel off. The clouds seem to be opening up, a hint of sunlight and blue sky poking through the blanket of gray, and with one dip into pit row by the world’s most powerful Ford Focus, the drivers are cut loose, and those bees? They begin to roam wild.
“He’s already moved up. Atta boy!” My dad stands from his chair, fist in the air, to pace around the room. Honestly, I’m not sure why he even bothered to bring both chairs in here.