“You—you!” I sputtered, throwing down the shredded remains of my smoke.
Race grinned wickedly. “Told ya it’d be a mistake to think I was writing off your pranks.” He dug a tin of Cigarette Loads out of his firesuit pocket. I’d used the tiny explosive devices on my friend Mike, so I recognized the package immediately.
“I think I’ll hold onto these,” Race said. “Just in case.”
* * *
Without Race to provide competition, Addamsen won the trophy dash. In the heat, Race drove like he was operating under some kind of weird two-second time delay. He made all the right moves, just not at the right time. I’d never been able to put a finger on exactly what was so cool about the way he could maneuver a car around the track, but whatever it was, Race didn’t have it tonight. He barely managed a fourth place finish, and that was only because Jim, who’d been second, blew his engine.
Addamsen won again, sneaking up to within two points of Race’s lead. It wasn’t a very big margin.
“Something better change before the main,” Race said as he crawled out of the car. “Or I’m in trouble.”
Kasey looked at him sympathetically. Even though she didn’t say anything, I could tell what she was thinking. Unless Addamsen had a four-tire blowout or was abducted by aliens, Race was gonna lose the points lead.
Between the Super Stock heats, Jim and Denny sprinted across the track. They came back fifteen minutes later towing a car I’d never seen before. It sported the same number 9 as Denny’s Camaro, but instead of being school bus yellow, it was red.
“Big Red?” I guessed, looking to Race for confirmation.
He nodded.
Jim went to work with a roll of duct tape, transforming Denny’s 9 into his own familiar 4. Then he and Denny began checking tire pressures and gassing up the car. Engaged in an animated discussion, the two of them glanced occasionally toward Addamsen’s pit.
“Isn’t Jim third in points?” I asked as I watched.
“That’s right,” Race agreed.
“And Denny’s fourth.”
“Uh huh.”
“That’s just plain nuts, throwing away a chance to move up.”
“No, kid,” Race corrected. “That’s what’s known as class.”
* * *
While the Sportsmen got into position, Kasey and I found ourselves a good viewing spot along the pit wall.
“He’s not gonna be able to hold off Addamsen, is he?” I asked.
“Most likely not.”
“He’s crazy. I can’t believe what he puts himself through for that stupid championship.”
Kasey smiled. “He’s no different than any of the others,” she pointed out.
“Well, they’re all crazy, then.”
Race started the main event mid-field. It was strange seeing him there instead of in the last row, but at least it gave him a buffer against Addamsen. Since Jim was driving a different car than the one he’d qualified with, he’d been bumped to the back of the pack. He got a good jump, though, because Denny, who sat directly in front of Addamsen, seemed to forget where his accelerator was. Surging up beside Denny’s yellow Camaro, Jim left Addamsen all by his lonesome.
Pandemonium reigned for the first few laps until the pack began to thin out. Race gained a couple positions on slower cars then lost one to Tom Carey, settling into sixth place. Toward the back, Denny made a move on the 22 car, while Jim used up the whole track in his fight to get around Denny’s Camaro. It seemed to be a futile battle, but Addamsen hadn’t found a way around either one of them.
Race squeaked by another of the slow guys then dropped back to sixth a lap later when Randy Whalen ripped past him coming out of turn two. Holly Schrader challenged the Dart next. I was so busy worrying about Race that it took me a while to catch on to what Jim and Denny were up to. They’d moved into eighth and ninth place, but Addamsen still hadn’t passed them. As Denny put the heat on Schrader, I began to see the reason. Each time Addamsen made a move on Jim, Jim would slide up or down the track, so he couldn’t get by. Big Red wasn’t as fast as Addamsen’s Camaro, but with Denny right in front of it helping to block the track, it didn’t need to be.
“Are they running interference for Race?”
“It looks that way,” Kasey said.
“Won’t they get black-flagged?”
“No. It isn’t the most sportsman-like behavior, but it’s not illegal.”
“That is totally cool.” It occurred to me that Denny, who’d had second fastest time, was sacrificing his chance at winning the main. I pointed that out to Kasey.
“Sometimes it’s the principle of the thing,” she said. “Jerry Addamsen’s been shoving people around for years, and I can guarantee you those two aren’t the only ones who’d like to put a stop to it.”
“Don’t you think it’s gonna piss Race off? He’s got such a weird sense of honor.”
“Race isn’t the only one they’re doing this for. Besides, Jerry took the matter beyond the normal rules when he wrecked the Dart. If Race hadn’t put in overtime repairing that car, he wouldn’t be so exhausted that he needed someone to run interference for him.”
I worried Addamsen would take Jim out, but after last week he seemed to be watching himself. While he rode Big Red’s bumper hard, and even nudged it a couple of times, he kept his driving clean.
When Jim and Denny came up behind the Dart, their forward progression stopped. They finished in seventh and eighth place. Addamsen once again trailed Race by four points.
The cars slowed and exited the track. Kasey stopped me as I turned to head back to our pit. “I know it’s a point of pride for you, coming up with new ways to get Race up every morning,” she said. “But you might take pity on him and let him sleep in tomorrow.”
I laughed. “I think I can do that.” Anyway, I was gonna have to reconsider my strategy now that I knew he’d fight back.
Chapter 14
On Sunday, Race managed to get his ad finished and life dropped back into a less frantic pattern. It was the last week of school and I was glad to be almost done with it. When you don’t know anybody, school is a pretty lonely place.
Still, no homework meant no excuse for my reading habit. I figured Race was used to seeing me with a book, and I was sure he’d never say anything to hurt me, but I couldn’t stomach the idea of him thinking I was some kind of geek. The worry lurked at the edges of my mind Tuesday afternoon as I kicked back in the laundry chair, reading The Red Pony for probably the sixth time. It was one of my favorite stories, even though it depressed the crap out of me and gave me the creeps every time I read the part about the buzzard plucking the dead pony’s eye out. Something about the way Steinbeck used such simple language to say so much really got to me.
A sudden movement caught my eye and I glanced up. Race, who was allegedly working at the drafting table, had abandoned his project in favor of one of those ever-present sketchbooks. I shrank down in my chair, knowing I was the focus of his artistic outburst.
“What are you doing?” I asked, a little cranky because that kind of attention always made me feel like I wasn’t wearing any pants.
“Just a quick sketch.”
“Again?”
“You make a good subject.”
I snorted.
“Seriously,” Race said, scribbling on the pad. “You’re visually interesting.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Well, there’s your hair, for starters. That rooster tail of yours is a real attention grabber.”
Almost unconsciously, I reached up to touch my bangs, which, with the aid of a great deal of super-hold gel, arched out over my forehead.
“Hold still,” Race said.
“Wait, I just remembered something.”
Apparently sensing I wasn’t gonna hold the pose much longer, Race quickly scratched at the sketchpad. “What is it?”
“You’re supposed to make an appointment with my guidance counselor.”
?
??What’s that about?”
“How should I know?” My tone might have been a tad too defensive. There’d been a couple of pranks, but I couldn’t see how anyone would’ve found out. Most likely it was just some routine end-of-the-school year bullshit. Or at least I hoped so. I got up, causing Race to sigh, and retrieved the note from my backpack.
“You’re supposed to give him a call,” I said, handing it over.
“You haven’t done anything wrong, have you?”
“No!” I swear Race could see right through me.
He let out a second, more exaggerated sigh. “Then why do I have this feeling of impending doom?”
* * *
On Thursday afternoon, Race met with my adviser. I was surprised at how nervous I felt, waiting for him to get back from the school. Not wanting him to know, I chilled in my room and didn’t come out when I heard the van pull into the driveway.
Race knocked on my open door before walking into the room where I was sprawled on my bed, pretending to read. He eased himself down in my desk chair wearing a poker face that would have made him rich in Vegas.
“So what did the counselor say?” I asked casually.
Race swiveled the chair back and forth, grinning. “Oh, we just had a nice little talk.”
“About what?”
“Don’t you know?”
“It didn’t have anything to do with a fetal pig, did it?”
“A fetal pig? No, not that I recall.” Race flashed me a broad smile. “But maybe you’d like to tell me about the fetal pig.”
“Another time.” Like in twenty years. The way that substitute had shrieked when she’d found the formaldehyde-infused pig brain in the top drawer of her desk had been hilarious, but I wasn’t sure if my uncle would appreciate the humor.
“Actually,” Race said, “it wasn’t anything bad. He was impressed that you’d pulled the D’s and F’s you were getting at your old school up to B’s and C’s. He just wondered if putting you in an advanced English class next year would be too much pressure.”
Slightly dazed by this turn of events, I stared at Race.
“What I’m wondering is why you never told me any of this,” Race said. “I’d think you’d be proud of your accomplishments.”
I shrugged. “You never asked.”
Race sighed. “Well, it’s obvious you’re no idiot. I told him to put you in whatever classes he felt were appropriate.”
“So in other words, I have to work harder next year.”
“The advantage to that,” Race said, “is it’ll give you less time to mess around with fetal pigs.” He pushed away from the desk, hesitating as something in one of the piles of papers attracted his attention.
“You still have this?”
I propped myself up on one elbow to see what he was holding. It was the Superbird sketch he’d done for me that Thanksgiving we’d spent in Eugene.
Race studied the picture and shook his head. “I must’ve drawn this—what—eight or nine years ago?”
“More like ten.”
“Times sure change.” He returned the paper to the stack. With another slight shake of his head he looked at me and smiled. “I can’t believe you haven’t thrown that away.”
I couldn’t believe I hadn’t put it on the wall, where it belonged. When Race left the room I got up and pinned the Superbird drawing to the cheap wood paneling above the desk.
* * *
I don’t know whether Race was in complete denial or didn’t trust the local weather forecasters, but he always seemed shocked and insulted when the races got rained out. Saturday, the first day of summer vacation, was no exception. It didn’t help that my dad called again.
“Why won’t you talk to him?” Race asked. “I can understand you being ticked off at your mom, but your dad’s a decent guy.”
“That’s your opinion. He had his chance while I was living with him.”
“You didn’t exactly make a good case for yourself, staying out till all hours and flunking half your classes.”
I looked away. “That’s no excuse for kicking me out.” Why did Race have to take his side of it, anyway? He hardly knew my father.
“Kid, you got busted for vandalism. Your dad felt like he had to take drastic measures to keep you from messing up your life.”
Right. “He coulda tried listening to me.”
“He’s making an effort now. You oughta take that into account.”
I gave Race a pointed look. “Let’s see, you last talked to Grandma and Grandpa what—five years ago?”
“That’s different. You know what my dad’s like. And Mom hasn’t even tried to keep in touch.”
“Yeah, I’m sure you left her a forwarding address.”
Race scowled. “She has connections. If she wanted to know where I live it wouldn’t be that difficult for her to find out. Your mom managed to.”
* * *
By Sunday morning, Race had recovered from his rainout blues. “I’ve gotta go meet Kasey to run an errand,” he told me through a mouthful of frozen Twinkie. “You okay here by yourself?”
I paused in the middle of the karate punches I was practicing. “Can I come with you?”
“No.”
“Then why’d you ask?”
Ignoring my question, Race pawed through the usual chaos on the coffee table for his keys.
“Is this a date?” I persisted.
“Get real, kid.”
“Well, why not? When are you gonna tell Kasey how you feel, anyway?”
“Did it ever occur to you that maybe I have?” Race located his key chain and pulled it free.
“You did?” I couldn’t believe he’d given me a serious answer. Usually he told me to mind my own business.
“Yeah. She’s not interested. And I’m not gonna push it. I’d rather have her friendship than nothing at all.” Race pulled a sweatshirt over his head. The rain was still falling, and the temperature hadn’t broken sixty-five degrees in two days. He reached for the doorknob.
“Dude, you can’t give up hope.”
“I appreciate your support kid, but it’s a lost cause.”
* * *
Once Race was gone, I spent an hour practicing the stuff I’d learned in karate that week. My second lesson had gone a lot better than the first. Even though the sensei had rambled on about respect, balance, and self-control, I’d kind of dug what he was saying. I liked the idea of having the discipline to stick with something until I was excellent at it. The things he and the more experienced students could do were pretty intense.
When I got bored with the punches and kicks, I sat down at my desk to work on a story. Time disappeared, and suddenly Race was leaning through my bedroom door.
“Hey,” he said, startling me. “Let’s go down to the shop.”
I glanced at my watch, shocked to see that it was almost five o’clock. “Now? It’s dinner time.”
“We’ll grab a pizza at Track Town. I’ve got something to show you.”
Never one to let anything stand between me and a pizza, I stuffed my notebook into a drawer and followed him to the van.
While we ate, I pestered Race to tell me what he had down at the shop, but he refused.
“Does it have something to do with the Dart?” I asked.
“No.”
“Is it alive?”
“Of course not. I have enough trouble feeding you.”
“Is it bigger than a breadbox?”
“Definitely.”
At the shop, a light mist fell, slicking my leather jacket as I stood waiting for Race to unlock the door.
“Close your eyes,” he said.
“You’ve gotta be kidding.”
“Nope. Close ’em or I won’t show you.”
Groaning, I complied. Race led me inside.
“Okay. You can take a look.”
It took a second to get my bearings. Then I saw it. Tucked away in the back corner sat a pale yellow ’65 Galaxie. For a minute all I could do was stare.<
br />
“Dude . . .” I said softly, shaking my head as a stampede of emotions ran roughshod over me. I slipped closer and touched the fender, needing proof the car wasn’t some kind of mirage.
“It doesn’t run,” Race said. “But Kasey can get us a good deal on an engine kit. I’ll show you how to do a rebuild then help you go through the brakes and check the suspension. By the time you get your license in December, we oughta be able to have it on the road.”
I stroked the Galaxie like it was some kind of living thing, the metal cool and smooth beneath my fingers. No one had given me anything like this in my life. Race could hardly pay his bills—I couldn’t believe he was willing to spend the little money he had on me.
Blinking hard, I turned to him. His face was lit with a satisfied grin.
“Why?” I asked, my voice cracking.
Race shrugged. “I just wanted to.”
“I can’t believe this . . .” My throat tightened around the words.
Race spared me the embarrassment of losing it in front of him by stepping forward to lift the hood. “How ’bout dragging that toolbox over here? If we get on it, we might be able to pull this engine tonight.”
* * *
“Morgan thinks he has this race all wrapped up, folks, but in a brilliant surprise move Cody Everett screams past him to take the lead!”
It was nearly midnight, and Race and I had stopped at the supermarket to pick up some groceries on the way home. Still stoked about the Galaxie, I challenged my uncle with an empty shopping cart.
“It’s a true battle,” I said. “Engines scream down the straightaway, tires squeal through the corners—”
“Everett cries out in terror as Morgan stuffs him in the wall.” Race swerved his cart at mine.
“But as always, Everett is undeterred by this terrible setback! He regains control and chases Morgan down the front stretch.”
Race tossed a bottle of dish soap into his cart, squashing the bread. “And the crowd roars in laughter, watching Everett try to race with two flat tires, a bent frame, and half his suspension scattered across the track.”
“Minor mechanical difficulties are no problem for a driver as talented as Everett,” I countered. “It’s a bitter fight, ladies and gentlemen. Both drivers are tough and experienced. But in the end superior skill wins out and Everett takes the checkered flag!”
Letting go of the shopping cart’s handle, I pumped both fists in the air. The cart was traveling pretty quick, and like any good stock car, it pulled to the left—straight into a display of Charmin. Packages of toilet paper cascaded over the tiled floor.