“True.”
I think that’s going to be the end of the conversation, but then Delaney says, “I’ve known Arthur for eight years. I was an employee at Leone at first, a liaison between the team andtheir drink sponsor Coca-Cola. He was Leone’s golden boy. Racing royalty and Formula 1’s future.” Her steady gaze shifts from him to me. “But I was there when Leone fired him during the post-crash season, and when every journalist hated him for taking time off, and then hated him more for taking the reserve offer from Ignition. By the time Arthur turned twenty-nine, he’d been fired by one of the most prestigious motorsports brands in the world, was living in a brand-new country under his uncle’s thumb, and had been accused of ruining the Bianco family legacy. Not by drinking or flirting, of course, because that’s forgivable in racing. But by losing.”
Heat prickles across my cheeks. I’ve read about Arthur. I researched his media archive. Tried to piece together the timeline.
There weren’t any articles about apost-crash season.
“So, the better question may be, do I think anyone should drive for Leone?” Delaney’s more professional demeanor returns. “I wouldn’t recommend it.”
Silence follows. I should say something. Any second now. But I’m speechless, my flowcharts tangling in my head, any appropriate response drowned out by those three words sprinting laps around my brain.Post-crash seasonimplies a crash season… implies an accident big enough that it merits a “before” and “after.” I hadn’t seen anything about a specific accident when I’d been reading about him. An accident that got him fired. And he wants to be on their team again?
I clear the nervous knot in my throat. “When was the crash? What happened?”
“Oh, that.” Delaney’s eyes skid away from me and my camera. “It happened in Monza at the Italian Grand Prix. Bad place for a Bianco to wreck, as you can imagine.”
“Makes sense,” I say, mostly to free up my mental schedule-flipping. Monza is a name you remember. I’m pretty sure it’s the last race Black & Graywood is supposed to film, on September 1.
My heart gives one impressive thump of empathy. Arthur is filling in for Faust this weekend, but there’s no telling what might happen after, like he’d said on the plane. “Do you think Arthur will get to drive there this year?”
“Maybe. Maybe not. It’s a long time until September.” Delaney sighs. “Faust’s issues must be serious, but the team won’t make any decisions until they have to. They’ll play Faust and Arthur against each other for as long as possible. Drum up sales. Get buzz on social. It’s all a part of the narrative.”
I think about Arthur on the plane, his lies, the implications of him telling me about his offer from Leone and not Delaney. And I don’t know why, since I don’t care which hotshot race-car driver gets to drive in Italy, but the idea of Arthur stuck as a reserve driver, getting a taste of the action this weekend, and then not getting to redeem himself in Monza is kind of…
Sad?
No. Nope. I’m not sad forArthur Bianco. He’s my subject; I don’t feel anything toward him other than impartial, unbiased curiosity. Also, he isn’t even trying to stay on this team. By this time next year, if all goes according to plan, he’ll be living in Italy, driving for a team that apparently hadn’t treated him that well.
And I’ll be back in D.C., where I belong.
“I wouldn’t bring it up,” Delaney says abruptly.
I snort. “The crash? Yeah. Not the best interview topic before a race.”
“That’s what I’m thinking.” She rewards me with a tight smile. “I appreciate it.”
Feeling oddly heavier, I turn my camera toward Arthur again, Ignition’s drink slogan waving on the backdrop behind him:You’rein the Driver’s Seat. The bright orange of his race suit has thrown off my white balance, and I have to adjust between the early sunlight and the pale blue sky and his tall, annoyingly orange brilliance, the center of the circus, a temporary sun in a far-off galaxy I hadn’t known existed this time last month. Ironic, that we call the Arthurs of the world “superstars.” They really do burn brighter, faster.
Chapter Eight
As I stand in the open door of the track-side Ignition garage, watching a Union Jack flag wave far above the jam-packed Silverstone Circuit, my ears start to ring.
Funnily enough, getting a single hint that Formula 1 might not be the safest thing in the universe is making me jumpy. A certain type of person lives in D.C.; self-important lobbyists, NDA-clad federal workers, pastel-pants consultants, and my camp, drawn to document the blood. Putting your all into your job is normal to me. Losing sleep over it, losing friends.
But car crashes? A high-speed accident that alters your life trajectory—then you getbackin the car?
Damn.
Also, Delaney had been correct: the grandstands are full, people are everywhere, and the noise is overwhelming. There’s fans yelling, music playing, and people all over this garage, a mosh pit of Ignition polo shirts and headsets. Really, calling this screen-covered room a “garage” instead of “mission control” feels wrong. Engineers helm every keyboard, technicians pass blanket-wrapped tires, mechanics circle like sharks. Earlier, Arthur’scarwas in here, and that’s when I started to feel truly anxious. A Formula 1 car is not like a regular car. It’s waspish but also shockingly big, all four tires and the cockpit exposed, the body too close to the ground for comfort. It’d taken three people on either side to push it, withanother man in front and a woman guiding the dramatically flared rear wing. Seeing Arthur climb into it had made me seasick.
For once, he’d looked… well, not small, but like just an orange helmet in a great big orange car. That’s my view of him now as he waits in the pit lane so he can go out there and, I hate to say it, drive really super fast.
“Out of the box,” someone snaps, and it takes me a moment to realize they’re talking to me. I nod, hold my camera to my stomach, and navigate to a spot deeper into the garage. Ignition didn’t receive permission for me to film closer to the track, with the other purple-outfitted media folks, from the Fédération Internationale de l’Automobile—aka the FIA. Though Sarah had promised,Footage from the garage will be just as fun!
I don’t notice I’m next to Cameron until he leans over from his computer screen—by far the biggest in here—and shoots me a lazy smile. “Ready for your first Quali?”
“Um. Yes.” I bite my lip. “Shouldn’t you be busy?”
“I am busy.” He looks back at his screen, reads something, then back to me. “Remember how this works?”
