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I spun the wheel hard and got the front end around. The rear quarter panel of the car slammed into the guardrail, which tore off the bumper and flung it into the other lane and behind us.
The rest of the ride down the plateau was marred only by the smell of burning brake pads, the roar of a straining engine, and the sweat pouring off both our foreheads. When we reached flatter land, I threw the shifter in neutral and turned the car off. We coasted to a stop on the shoulder, and I put on the hazard lights, laid my head back.
“You should call Pinkie,” I said. “Tell him to make room in the truck.”
“Aren’t you going to see what happened?” Bree asked.
“I’m not a car guy,” I said. “We’re going to have to have it towed somewhere and looked at.”
“You’re going to have to file an accident report,” she said, digging out her phone and punching in Pinkie’s number.
“I’d miss Jannie,” I said. “I’ll leave a note with my name and number.”
“That’s called leaving the scene of—”
“I don’t care,” I said. “Just call him before he gets too far down the road.”
When they came back, we intentionally understated the situation, saying only that it seemed something was wrong with the brakes, but we were fine. I used my phone to find a towing company that agreed to get the car and take it to a dealership in Winston-Salem, and then I sat back, put my arm around Bree, and closed my eyes.
I fell into one of those strange, buzzing sleeps that follow stressful experiences. I didn’t remember a minute of the hour-and-a-half drive to Duke.
We blundered around before we found the track. Even with the close call, we were early enough that Jannie was able to start jogging before any of the other athletes arrived. They were all there by eleven, however, along with Coach Greene, who smiled as she came over to me.
“Glad you made it,” she said, shaking my and Bree’s hands.
“Jannie was so excited she was up before dawn,” I said.
“No way we weren’t making it,” Bree said.
The coach’s grin disappeared. “Just to follow up. Those blood and urine tests?”
“Haven’t heard yet,” I said. “But again, innocent until…”
“Of course,” she said, and then she handed me another waiver and apologized for my having to fill another one out. “This will be interesting, though.”
“How’s that?” Nana Mama asked.
The coach gestured to three women doing ballistic jumps and skips along the track to warm up. “Alice and Trisha are here at Duke. Dawn’s over at Chapel Hill. All three were second-team all-Americans this past season.”
“Jannie know that?” Bree asked.
“I kind of hope not,” Coach Greene said, and she trotted off.
“What’s an all-American?” Ali asked.
“They’re among the best in the whole country,” I said.
“Is Jannie?”
“Course not,” Nana Mama said. “Your sister’s only fifteen, but it will be a good experience for her.”
As I’d seen her do twice before, Coach Greene led the girls through a series of exercises designed to get their quick-twitch muscles warmed up, loose, and firing. When they were ready, she broke them into squads of five and ran them through an Indian drill, where they ran at 40 percent unless they were at the rear of the pack. Then they had to sprint to the front.
They did this twice at four hundred meters. Jannie seemed to have no problem coming from behind in those long, fluid strides and then taking her place at the lead. After a five-minute break for water and more stretching, Greene made some switches, bringing my daughter over with the all-Americans in their early twenties and another girl who was at least four years older than Jannie.
They were watching my daughter out of the corners of their eyes. As I’d seen again and again since earlier that year, Jannie seemed unfazed by the age and experience differences.
“They gonna race now?” Ali asked, standing on the bleacher next to me.
