“So what’s the deal with the limiter again?” Bristol is nervous, though she pretends not to be. I wonder where she gets that from?
“You don’t have to worry about the limiter. It’s not something you have to do anything with.”
“But if I need to go faster than forty-two, I can’t . . . because of the limiter.” Fists on her hips, helmet dangling at her right side, she snaps her gum in her mouth like one of the Pink Ladies from Grease.
I push my tongue into my cheek.
“That is correct, though there is a little flexibility.” I don’t want to put the idea of going faster in her head, mostly because she’s my kid, and for whatever reason, seeing her speed around anything makes my heart flatten against my ribs and nearly explode. I’m proud, but damn—I don’t breathe the entire time.
“Explain flexibility.” The gum snaps again. She’s beefing up her attitude. It’s an intimidation technique she’s picked up. Another thing I wonder where she learned. Me. That’s where she learned all of this bad shit. Me. Right here. I’m ground zero.
I sign the parent waiver as the kart inspector looks over our ride, then turn to face my daughter, placing my hands on her shoulders and pushing her back a few steps.
I give her wide eyes to signal that she probably shouldn’t show off her brand of swagger in front of the guy who stamps us with the “OK to Race” sticker.
“Flexibility means a mile or two faster, on occasion. If you push it too much, the motor will fail on you, like a kill switch.”
“Can we take out the kill switch?” Her head cocks to the side and my eyes blink slowly and then open wide. She reaches forward and punches my chest. “I’m kidding, Dad. I got it. I won’t overdo it.”
I blow up at my hair and look at the sky. I deserve every second of life with a teenaged girl, especially one exactly like me.
Bristol steps up on her toes and looks around me, so I spin to see what has her attention. Hannah’s holding our youngest, Fallon, at her side while Brody kicks at the dirt behind them. My mom stands next to him and rolls her eyes at her grandson’s bitter, childish behavior.
“Someone is mad he’s not old enough for juniors yet,” my mom says.
“I’m nine! She’s literally only four years older than me. That’s nothing!” He punches the dirt with his toe again and Hannah bites her lip in an attempt not to laugh. I’m not so gracious, however, and I rock back in hysterics.
“It’s not funny!” Brody pouts, slapping his hands around his chest and tucking them under his arms. Wow. Nice show, kid. Nice show.
“One, I rue the day you learned the word literally. It’s annoying,” I say, leaving Bristol to handle the rest of kart check-in behind me. “And two, four years is an entire lifetime. Trust me.”
I kneel so our son is taller than me, which I’ve learned gives him a feeling of power when he’s utterly powerless. He stares at me, working hard to keep the resentment etched into his face, but eventually softens and glances off to the side with a huff.
“Fine. I’ll wait. But when I’m thirteen I want a better kart than her.”
I stand and ruffle my hand through his hair. He looks just like me when I was nine.
“We’ll see.” I chuckle.
“Fallon’s going to need to nap soon,” Hannah says as I lean in and kiss her cheek. Our third child was a surprise, but it never gets old seeing the glow that motherhood puts on my wife’s skin. Fallon will be one next month, ensuring that the rest of our life is pretty much taken up with child-rearing. I can’t imagine a life any other way than blossoming our beautiful family. Each of our children is born with a touch of my fire and Hannah’s courage, yet so distinctly themselves. They are all going to leave marks on this world.
Hannah checks her watch. “Looks like it’s race time. We’re going to head up and sit with my dad. You got this handled, crew chief?”
“Yeah. Tommy’s on his way down. Bailey’s at home with the twins.” One of the perks of our surprise third child is she’ll get to grow up with two boys looking after her. Tommy and Bailey went through the IVF process to get pregnant, and when they were blessed with twins I guess the universe decided we needed to give those rambunctious boys a job. Fallon will be in good hands. My best friend will raise hellions for sure, but they’ll be gentlemen too, and family will always be first and foremost.
“Okay, we’re going up.” Hannah runs her hand along my cheek and hits me with her crystal blue eyes one more time. I always thought I could see the future in those things. I reach up and touch her chin, urging her close enough to take her bottom lip between both of mine.
“Gross!” Brody whines, kicking the dirt again. Hannah and I laugh against each other’s lips.
“See you after the race,” she says, jerking her head to our son and urging him to lead the way into the stands.
My mom steps in and gives me a kiss on the cheek then pats the same spot twice.
“You make beautiful babies, Dustin, but they’re mouthy.”
I shake my head with my lips in a straight line, but truthfully? I wouldn’t want my kids any other way. We’re a loud family. People hear us coming. The kids at school know my kids’ names before they set foot in the hallways. They have reputations that, yeah, are a little mysterious and maybe have some bite to them, but they’re also strong and vocal and they know what’s right.
“Love you, Mom,” I say as she laughs at my expense and catches up to Hannah.
My daughter coughs behind me, signaling that it’s time to give her my full attention. She holds out the stamped waiver. I fold it and push it into the back pocket of my jeans, then glance down at her helmet, which is still not on her head.
“I’m putting it on,” she huffs. Five seconds pass before she actually does.
“Sorry I’m late,” Tommy says as he runs up from behind me.
“Right on time, brutha.” I hold out my hand for him to take. We pull each other into a hug then Tommy goes to work looking over every inch of the kart one more time. He can’t change anything since we’ve already gone through inspection, but he can make sure it’s safe. When it comes to my daughter, that’s the most important thing for me.
“Dad, I have to go.” Bristol has one foot in the kart and she’s twirling her finger in the air, signaling for us to hurry up.
Tommy slaps his palm on the front of the kart a couple times and points to his niece.
“She’s good to go. What do we say?” He holds his fist out for her to pound.
“Eat my dust!” she grits, punching Tommy’s fist with hers. They each pull back their splayed hand and make the explosion sound before my daughter tugs down her visor and climbs completely into the kart. It’s already running, so in seconds she’s off to the starting area, and I’m left in the fumes.
This isn’t her first race. She started at seven, like I did. This is her first junior race, though, since she turned thirteen last week. We bought her a new helmet. And Hannah painted the kart with the awesome brushwork that makes it look like flames. I’m not sure she’ll win, but she will definitely be in the sweetest ride out there.
“How are you holding up with this?” Tommy motions to the cluster of karts gathered around the first turn of hay bales about a hundred yards away. The air smells of old gasoline and dirt. We built this track as an add-on about six years ago when I realized we needed something between the youth course and the big track the teens and adults use. I guess I also wanted my daughter to be able to race close to home.