when I baby-sat them, before they got so studious and I became their tutor. I shortened the name to Theo, which was also the name of artist Vincent van Goghâs less-famous brother, the one of the two that actually had some common senseâa quality I felt dwindling within me.
***
If Theo looked like a tugboat on the outside, on the inside he was more like the storage hold on a tuna trawler. There was nothing in this car. Nothing. Everything had been stripped out. There was just a seat sunk way down low, a harness to strap myself in, and a wide rearview mirror. Not exactly riding in style.
But what Theo lacked in style he made up for in nimbleness. This was a quick car. He felt a bit loose in the clutch and steeringâhe didnât respond immediately to turns of the wheelâbut as I rolled into the pasture behind the shop and gave him some gas, he lurched at the tap of my foot, like a dog eager to run off-leash.
I circled Uncle Harveyâs pasture a few times, not opening Theo up too much, since the ground was bumpy in spots. I was afraid that, if I went too fast, I might bounce through the roof, even with the harness holding me like a fly in a spider web.
After about a dozen laps or so, I started to get a feel for this guy. I put him tight in the turns and accelerated. That was going to be the cornerstone of my racing strategy: Take the inside corners, geometrically speaking the shortest distance around the track. Maybe Bean St. Onge, the Demonâs Run track announcer whoâd coined the nickname Wade âthe Bladeâ LaPlante, would give me a nickname like Casey the Insider.
The pasture turned to asphalt in my mind, the trees framing the field becoming grandstands. I could see the fans on Beer Belly Hill cheering and clanging beer cans as I came screaming around turn three. I could see Big Daddy and Mom smiling as I whiplashed through traffic like a huge metal eel. Maybe even Wade, standing in his pit, would look out onto the track as I ripped the racecourse apart. Maybe Fletcher, too.
Chapter 4
In the week before the Demonâs Run season opener, no one said much to me at home. Big Daddy and Wade were consumed with preparations for his first race as defending track champion. Mom seemed almost as frantic as they were, and I donât suppose that my decision to race did her nerves any good. Ever since Iâd got my license and started driving Hilda to work at the Egans, sheâd let me come and go without asking too many questions. She trusted meâboth my parents did. Still, every so often that week before the season opener, Mom would give me a fretful look as I passed through the kitchen, car keys twirling on my finger, as if I were heading out on a date with a dangerous man. Her suspicion was correct.
At the dinner table, Big Daddy would occasionally shoot me a concerned look and ask me how my race prep was going (âOK, I guessâ), if I needed any driving tips (âNo, thanksâ), and where I was practicing (âA big pasture on public land out near the interstateâânot a lie but not the whole truth either). I could tell that he didnât like the idea of me behind the wheel of a Road Warrior car, but I could also tell, from the way heâd glance at my mother after I answered his questions, that he considered my racing plans more her responsibility than his.
Â
When Sunday, the day of the season opener, finally arrived, I got up at dawn but skipped my morning jog. I stretched out, though, and pulled on some cargo pants and my cross-country team sweatshirt. I tied my hair back in a ponytail and slid into my old black Chuck Taylors, knowing their rubber soles would grip the accelerator, clutch, and brake while allowing some bottom-of-the-foot sensitivity.
I crept downstairs as quietly as I could, grabbed a couple of energy bars from the cupboard, and headed out the kitchen door leading to the garage. As I crossed the garage, I heard the kitchen
***
If Theo looked like a tugboat on the outside, on the inside he was more like the storage hold on a tuna trawler. There was nothing in this car. Nothing. Everything had been stripped out. There was just a seat sunk way down low, a harness to strap myself in, and a wide rearview mirror. Not exactly riding in style.
But what Theo lacked in style he made up for in nimbleness. This was a quick car. He felt a bit loose in the clutch and steeringâhe didnât respond immediately to turns of the wheelâbut as I rolled into the pasture behind the shop and gave him some gas, he lurched at the tap of my foot, like a dog eager to run off-leash.
I circled Uncle Harveyâs pasture a few times, not opening Theo up too much, since the ground was bumpy in spots. I was afraid that, if I went too fast, I might bounce through the roof, even with the harness holding me like a fly in a spider web.
After about a dozen laps or so, I started to get a feel for this guy. I put him tight in the turns and accelerated. That was going to be the cornerstone of my racing strategy: Take the inside corners, geometrically speaking the shortest distance around the track. Maybe Bean St. Onge, the Demonâs Run track announcer whoâd coined the nickname Wade âthe Bladeâ LaPlante, would give me a nickname like Casey the Insider.
The pasture turned to asphalt in my mind, the trees framing the field becoming grandstands. I could see the fans on Beer Belly Hill cheering and clanging beer cans as I came screaming around turn three. I could see Big Daddy and Mom smiling as I whiplashed through traffic like a huge metal eel. Maybe even Wade, standing in his pit, would look out onto the track as I ripped the racecourse apart. Maybe Fletcher, too.
Chapter 4
In the week before the Demonâs Run season opener, no one said much to me at home. Big Daddy and Wade were consumed with preparations for his first race as defending track champion. Mom seemed almost as frantic as they were, and I donât suppose that my decision to race did her nerves any good. Ever since Iâd got my license and started driving Hilda to work at the Egans, sheâd let me come and go without asking too many questions. She trusted meâboth my parents did. Still, every so often that week before the season opener, Mom would give me a fretful look as I passed through the kitchen, car keys twirling on my finger, as if I were heading out on a date with a dangerous man. Her suspicion was correct.
At the dinner table, Big Daddy would occasionally shoot me a concerned look and ask me how my race prep was going (âOK, I guessâ), if I needed any driving tips (âNo, thanksâ), and where I was practicing (âA big pasture on public land out near the interstateâânot a lie but not the whole truth either). I could tell that he didnât like the idea of me behind the wheel of a Road Warrior car, but I could also tell, from the way heâd glance at my mother after I answered his questions, that he considered my racing plans more her responsibility than his.
Â
When Sunday, the day of the season opener, finally arrived, I got up at dawn but skipped my morning jog. I stretched out, though, and pulled on some cargo pants and my cross-country team sweatshirt. I tied my hair back in a ponytail and slid into my old black Chuck Taylors, knowing their rubber soles would grip the accelerator, clutch, and brake while allowing some bottom-of-the-foot sensitivity.
I crept downstairs as quietly as I could, grabbed a couple of energy bars from the cupboard, and headed out the kitchen door leading to the garage. As I crossed the garage, I heard the kitchen
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