The Outside Groove by Erik E. Esckilsen

under way.

Chapter 3
    The news that I’d bought a Road Warriors season’s license, news that’d evidently beaten me home from my meeting with Mr. Blodgett, who must’ve called my parents as soon as I left his office, didn’t please them one bit, especially not my father. As soon as I walked in the door, Big Daddy sat me down at the dining room table. Mom was in the kitchen, fixing dinner. Wade wasn’t home yet. Somewhat predictably, Big Daddy began griping about the money I’d spent, and would continue to spend, on getting a ride together and keeping it running—money, of course, that I wouldn’t have for college expenses come autumn. Money he’d have to come up with.
    Mom, to my amazement, offered a few words in my defense as she set the plates and utensils on the table and motioned for me to begin setting. “What if she gets a sponsor or two?” she said. “I’m sure there’s a few businesses in town who’d love to put their name on the car driven by the track’s first woman racer. You know people will be watching her closely.”
    Big Daddy groaned and turned toward the dim living room. “Right, watching her bite wall,” he said.
    Mom frowned sharply at the sink.
    â€œI’ll be fine,” I said.
    Big Daddy turned back to me. “And who’s going to crew for you? And where are you going to garage this thing? I just don’t think you know what all’s involved, Casey.”
    â€œHow could I not know what’s involved, Dad, living above a racecar garage my whole life?”
    Big Daddy furrowed his eyebrows at me.
    Mom also watched me as I stood and began setting the table. “Where
are
you going to keep this car?” she said.
    â€œAt school.” I kept my eyes on my task. “In the lab lot outside the industrial arts wing.”
    â€œAnd crew?” Big Daddy repeated.
    I took a moment to line up the silverware perfectly next to the plate I set before him. “Still working on that.”
    Big Daddy sighed. “I just don’t know, Casey. I need to think about this.
You
need to think about this—”
    The Red Snake pulled into the driveway, its growling engine interrupting Big Daddy in midsentence. He got up and started for the door leading out to the garage.
    â€œWade, we’re eating in five minutes,” Mom said with a slight edge in her voice.
    Big Daddy just grunted, “Yup.”
    When we were alone, Mom gave me a long, serious look. “Is there anything you want to tell me?” she said.
    â€œAbout what? ”
    â€œAbout this racing business?”
    I stared at her, trying to read in her eyes how much she might already know about my racing plans. She’d defended me a few moments earlier, keeping negotiations open with Big Daddy. I was grateful for that. But did that mean she sincerely supported my decision—and how fully? “What about this racing business?” I said.
    Mom’s look hardened, her eyes narrowed, her jaw muscles taut—an expression I rarely saw, since I’d never done anything to suggest to her that I was even capable of irresponsible behavior, at least not compared to Wade, whose romantic irresponsibility was the stuff of Fliverton legend. I didn’t crack, though, and a few moments later, Mom’s expression softened to one conveying simple worry. “I’m going to sign the release form,” she said. “I don’t like this idea of yours, but I’ll sign it.”
    â€œThanks.”
    â€œBut you’re going to indulge me a lecture on the dangers of auto racing.”
    â€œBut, Mom, Wade—”
    â€œYou’re not Wade.” She squinted once, quickly, a flickering reminder of that stern face I’d seen a moment or so earlier. “And you’re going to listen. It’s not open for debate. I’m your mother.”
    ***
    Cresting the hill of Uncle Harvey’s driveway, on the watch