side and the decals—everybody knew there would be one or two cars that were faster than the others. Jamie watched as the first 11 qualifiers climbed in and got set, revving their engines.
As the track warmed up, the times came down. Rosa was third in line and turned in a good time, beating the first two drivers by more than half a second. She held the pole position until the seventh driver ran faster.
Jamie took deep breaths and tried to block out the noise. She closed her eyes and tried to picture the line she’d take around the track.
Bud touched her shoulder and pulled his headphones to one side. “You want to hop in your car or you want to just visualize yourself with the fastest time?”
Jamie smirked and walked to pit road. She put both legs through the window, dipped her right shoulder, and slid in easily. How many times had she seen some wannabe at one of those driving schools do it wrong and get their shoulder stuck outside the car in some impossible position? She clicked her harness and fastened the HANS device.
Bud handed her the steering wheel, and she popped it on. He tapped her helmet and spoke into the radio. “All right, Maxwell, follow the car in front of you to the end of pit road. Stay there until you get the signal.”
Another deep breath and Jamie rolled forward.
Chapter 15
Tyson
TIM’S STOMACH CLENCHED as soon as Tyson said, “Yeah?” on the other end of the phone. Tim had been calling every day and just getting a ring for so long that he was surprised to actually hear a voice.
The experience of living with Tyson and Vera flooded over him like a hurricane—the hum of the refrigerator, the smell of the trailer (like spoiled cheese), Tyson’s drinking and shouting, and the bad feeling Tim had every time he heard Tyson fire up his dad’s truck.
“That you, Timmy boy?” Tyson said, his voice raspy and a little slurred. It was Friday afternoon, and there was no reason for Tyson to be home. He should have been at work.
“Hey, Tyson,” Tim said in a choking kind of voice.
“How you doing up there? They treatin’ you okay?”
“Sure,” Tim said. “It’s a nice place. They even found me a job working in a garage.”
“Is that so? Well, that means you can pay me back for the room and board you owe me.” Tyson laughed and Tim could tell he was taking a swig of something. He didn’t have to guess what it was because a second later he heard the familiar clink of the beer can hitting the metal trash can in the kitchen. Tim could set his watch to that sound.
There was an awkward moment of silence before Tyson sighed. “So what can I do for you, little buddy?”
Tim’s dad had called him that, and every time anyone said it, especially somebody like Tyson, his flesh crawled. “I wanted to apologize for taking something of yours. I guess you’ve heard by now that I got the key to that safe-deposit box of my dad’s.”
“Yeah, somebody called. I don’t have any idea what’s in there, do you?”
“No.”
“You shouldn’t steal people’s mail. They put people in jail for stuff like that.”
Tim thought that if they had a game show where people had to know all the reasons you put people in jail, Tyson would be the all-time champion. “I’m sorry I took that key. I should have just asked you for it.”
“Yeah, you should have,” Tyson said quickly. Then a pause. “But we all make mistakes.” The top popped on another can. “Did you hear Vera left?”
“No.”
“Yeah, I guess she got tired of living in the lap of luxury. I got tired of paying her bills and watching her eat everything in sight. . . .”
Tyson continued but Tim tuned him out. It was just a sad-sack story of Tyson’s life, how somebody had done him wrong again. It was always somebody else’s fault that he got drunk or got arrested or was late for work. In the middle of his long rant about Vera, Tim heard words he never thought he’d hear.
“. . . but I don’t care anymore about what your
As the track warmed up, the times came down. Rosa was third in line and turned in a good time, beating the first two drivers by more than half a second. She held the pole position until the seventh driver ran faster.
Jamie took deep breaths and tried to block out the noise. She closed her eyes and tried to picture the line she’d take around the track.
Bud touched her shoulder and pulled his headphones to one side. “You want to hop in your car or you want to just visualize yourself with the fastest time?”
Jamie smirked and walked to pit road. She put both legs through the window, dipped her right shoulder, and slid in easily. How many times had she seen some wannabe at one of those driving schools do it wrong and get their shoulder stuck outside the car in some impossible position? She clicked her harness and fastened the HANS device.
Bud handed her the steering wheel, and she popped it on. He tapped her helmet and spoke into the radio. “All right, Maxwell, follow the car in front of you to the end of pit road. Stay there until you get the signal.”
Another deep breath and Jamie rolled forward.
Chapter 15
Tyson
TIM’S STOMACH CLENCHED as soon as Tyson said, “Yeah?” on the other end of the phone. Tim had been calling every day and just getting a ring for so long that he was surprised to actually hear a voice.
The experience of living with Tyson and Vera flooded over him like a hurricane—the hum of the refrigerator, the smell of the trailer (like spoiled cheese), Tyson’s drinking and shouting, and the bad feeling Tim had every time he heard Tyson fire up his dad’s truck.
“That you, Timmy boy?” Tyson said, his voice raspy and a little slurred. It was Friday afternoon, and there was no reason for Tyson to be home. He should have been at work.
“Hey, Tyson,” Tim said in a choking kind of voice.
“How you doing up there? They treatin’ you okay?”
“Sure,” Tim said. “It’s a nice place. They even found me a job working in a garage.”
“Is that so? Well, that means you can pay me back for the room and board you owe me.” Tyson laughed and Tim could tell he was taking a swig of something. He didn’t have to guess what it was because a second later he heard the familiar clink of the beer can hitting the metal trash can in the kitchen. Tim could set his watch to that sound.
There was an awkward moment of silence before Tyson sighed. “So what can I do for you, little buddy?”
Tim’s dad had called him that, and every time anyone said it, especially somebody like Tyson, his flesh crawled. “I wanted to apologize for taking something of yours. I guess you’ve heard by now that I got the key to that safe-deposit box of my dad’s.”
“Yeah, somebody called. I don’t have any idea what’s in there, do you?”
“No.”
“You shouldn’t steal people’s mail. They put people in jail for stuff like that.”
Tim thought that if they had a game show where people had to know all the reasons you put people in jail, Tyson would be the all-time champion. “I’m sorry I took that key. I should have just asked you for it.”
“Yeah, you should have,” Tyson said quickly. Then a pause. “But we all make mistakes.” The top popped on another can. “Did you hear Vera left?”
“No.”
“Yeah, I guess she got tired of living in the lap of luxury. I got tired of paying her bills and watching her eat everything in sight. . . .”
Tyson continued but Tim tuned him out. It was just a sad-sack story of Tyson’s life, how somebody had done him wrong again. It was always somebody else’s fault that he got drunk or got arrested or was late for work. In the middle of his long rant about Vera, Tim heard words he never thought he’d hear.
“. . . but I don’t care anymore about what your
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