Running Wide Open (16 page)

“Kasey—”

“End of discussion.” She turned and walked away.

“Ha! You gotta love a chick who knows her own mind,” I said, faking one of the punches I’d learned in karate at Race’s chest. “Anyway, at least now you can pay the rent.”

Race scowled as he caught my fist. “Kid, I could do without the commentary.”

* * *

As the Street Stocks lined up to qualify a little later, Denny strolled into our pit, an open two-liter bottle of Coke in one of his big hands and Race’s spare carburetor in the other. He handed the carb to my uncle then took a swig off the bottle, wiping his mouth with the sleeve of his firesuit.

“Thanks for the loan,” he said. “You ever get word back from the officials on what’s gonna happen to Addamsen?”

“They’re taking his payoff and letting him keep his points.”

“Typical,” Denny said, shaking his head and taking another slug of Coke. “Guess we’ll just have to work things out for ourselves.”

Race gave him a warning look. “I don’t want him wrecked.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Denny agreed. “Anyway, it’s more humiliating if you just outrun him.”

Ted shouted for the Sportsmen to line up and Denny hot-footed it back to his car.

“I’ve never seen anyone treat a two-liter as their own personal Big Gulp,” I commented.

“That’s nothing,” said Race. “You should see him when he’s walking around the pits with a gallon of milk.”

* * *

Jim had developed some kind of engine trouble during practice, and Kasey was helping him sort it out, so I helped Race get ready to time in.

“Whoa, kid,” he said as I jammed the window net into place. “Don’t be in such a hurry. I need my helmet.”

I dutifully went to get it. “This thing looks like it’s been through a war,” I said as I handed it to him.

“Yeah, I know. I need a new one. They’re just so damned expensive.”

“I bet Kasey would buy you one.”

“Kasey’s already put enough money into this team.”

Much as I wanted to note that that was the whole point of sponsorship, I held my tongue. Money was a subject he wouldn’t budge on, same as the non-existent romance I kept prodding him to pursue.

“You think the car’s gonna run all right?” I asked.

“It felt fine during practice.”

“Then I expect you to take fast time.”

“That
would
be a nice way to stick it to Addamsen.”

Race didn’t take fast time. He didn’t even make it into the top five, which meant he missed out on the trophy dash. That was something that hadn’t happened all season.

“Do we need to make adjustments?” Kasey asked. “You looked a little loose out there.”

“Nah, it’s me, not the car. I just don’t have my edge tonight.”

“I wouldn’t doubt it, after the week you’ve had.”

“It’s been no worse than yours.”

“The difference,” said Kasey, “is that I don’t have to go out there and compete.”

Without the dash to participate in, Race had more time than usual on his hands. I offered to toss the Nerf football around with him, but he was too tired. When he failed to pull out his sketchbook, I knew he must really be beat.

I shut the lid of the toolbox and parked myself on top of it, lighting a cigarette and flipping though the drawings. There must’ve been one of damn near every car in the pits, as well as several of Jim, Denny, and Kasey. There were a lot of Kasey.

“Hey, I don’t remember you drawing this,” I said, studying a sketch of myself leaning against the Dart. Did I really look that cool? I took a pull off my cigarette, and
BANG
, it exploded in my face.

“Holy shit!”

Race howled, hunching over and practically falling off the stack of tires he was sitting on. It took me a second to figure out he was more than just an innocent bystander.

“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.