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Jerry throws a fatherly arm over my shoulder, side hugging me. “Aw, our little Rix is growing up, falling in love.”
I cringe, knowing he means well, but shit. He’s going overboard here, and I don’t want anyone to overhear him and swipe away my hard-earned reputation with some softie Emily-style romance fluff. I shrug his arm off as kindly as I can. “I’m not that girl, Jerry. Brody and I are good, though.”
He doesn’t take offense at my moving a step away. “He met Keith yet?”
“Abso-fucking-lutely not,” I snort. “And don’t go saying his name again. You’ll conjure him like Beetlejuice.”
“Beetle-who?” Jerry asks, turning his head like he misheard me. I almost repeat myself and explain the say-his-name deal, but Jerry laughs. “Just messing with you. I saw that movie with the kids when they were little.”
I push at his shoulder, teasingly glaring as he looks mighty pleased with himself. “Really, though, you’re gonna have to introduce him to Keith.” Jerry looks around like Dad is going to magically appear. If he does, I’m totally fucked. Luckily, that’s just a movie, not real life. Still, I look around too, smiling at Jerry when there’s no one but the two of us around.
“I know. I will when the time is right.” Or never, which is preferable.
I care deeply for them both and don’t want to hurt either of them. Their paths never crossing seems like the most surefire way to be kind. Dad won’t get upset over the reality that I’m never going to marry Reed, Brody won’t have to lie to my dad’s face about the racing, and I can keep on doing exactly whatever the fuck I want. Win all the way around.
I’m saved from any further fatherly advice by Ed calling my name. “Rix versus Mike Senior.” I nod toward the middle-aged guy standing across the crowd from me. He’s a good driver, with a great car—a tweaked-out NISMO Skyline GT-R. But I’m a great driver with a great car . . . Foxy.
“Let me go kick this guy’s ass real quick, then we can talk more,” I tell Jerry as I strut away. Half of racing is mental, and if Mike Senior thinks I’m better than him, I will be.
We all know each other’s strengths and weaknesses well, but posturing is always a factor. Especially when you’re a tiny woman in a male-dominated field. I’m more than happy to let him think I’ve got some advantage, maybe a recent tweak to my engine that he doesn’t know about yet.
Oh, I haven’t done anything major to Foxy in ages, but that doesn’t mean Mike Senior knows that.
I do my walk around Foxy, verifying that she’s ready, and then climb in. I shut the door, but really, I’m shutting out everything but me and Foxy. The rest is unimportant white noise.
I pull up to the staging area, and Ed leans in, his voice loud to be heard over the engines. “You good? You ready?”
What might seem like casual questions are anything but. He’s asking if I’m ready mentally and physically to drive ridiculously fast while maintaining control and responsibility. He’s asking if I’m comfortable with my car as she sits. Man and machine is a powerful relationship, and he’s asking if I’m ready to test its limits.
“Yes and yes. Let’s go,” I yell, nodding my head to be clear.
“Track rules,” he states as always before going over to Mike Senior to do the same pre-race check.
Track rules are simple. Be honest, responsible, and safe. You have to know your own skills and limits, and your car’s, and not push either too far. Good sportsmanship is an expectation. We give each other shit, but at the end of the day, we’re a community of racers that backs each other up, so all ‘fights’ are on the track only.
I pull up to the burnout box and heat my tires. Some people love the smell of Christmas trees or warm cookies out of the oven. I love the smell of burning rubber, acrid and pungent and a reminder of so many happy memories. I pull up, triggering the pre-stage light and then the stage light, and wait for Mike Senior to do the same.
I’m poised, my entire focus on the shades of yellow in the three lights on the tree. I see the third start to darken and floor it, letting off the clutch simultaneously. Right as the green illuminates, Foxy crosses the line and we’re off.
The car glides down the lane accompanied by a deafening roar. The vibration of the seat beneath me spurs me on, the engine screaming at me to shift, shift, shift.
I have no idea where Mike Senior is. Somewhere behind me would be my guess. I cross the yellow line and slow down to turn onto the return track, stopping to get my time slip from Patricia, Ed’s wife. She mostly stays in the booth with her fan these days, claiming heat exhaustion if she has to help in the staging area.
