“Just took a cold shower! Really refreshing.” Crossing my arms, I haul in a deep breath and smile at Christine. Well, what’s visible of her. She’s pulled an oversized hoodie over her trademark curly hair, and she’s mostly button nose and gray cotton fabric with hands poking out from the sleeves. I’m not the type of fashion girl who prays the rosary when someone wears leggings as pants, butpaired with everything else? I’m worried. “How was media morning, Christine? Ready to go shopping?”
She nods, her lips curling into a tentative frown. Uh-oh.
On the long car ride to Ginza, I work on a message to Maisie. I’d tried to convince Mei that we could make Christine’s shopping-montage day work in Nagoya, a city closer to the Japanese Grand Prix’s home base of Suzuka, but Mei had insisted that we needed to go all out. And who am I to argue that all out doesn’t mean the shopping wonderland that is Ginza, a last bastion for department stores everywhere? Plus, it guarantees that today is Faust-less. A small mercy while I figure out what the hell to do with all of that.
Hi Maisie Mouse, I’m so sorry we haven’t had time to chat recently. I had to get Paris ready for you!! Working with Stark-Benzin was a really last-minute thing, and I know how busy you have to be with school/finals/prepping for the internship…
I bite my thumb nail. Is “I know” too patronizing? Like,oh, I know you’re sooo busy, you’re taking too many classes—you can’t handle it? I tap the delete button.
Hi Maisie Mouse, I’m so sorry we haven’t had time to chat recently. Working with Stark-Benzin was a really last-minute thing!! I just flew into Japan from Paris, so the time differenceis kind of aggressive, but what if we talk later tonight? (My time. )
I rest my phone against my knees. It’s noon in Japan, so it’s the middle of the night on the opposite side of the world. Texting her now will wake her up or disrupt an all-night cram session. I pivot, sending my text update to Dad instead, who could sleep through a train passing through the living room. Those were always the best moments—when I was the only person awake, listening to my favorite people sleep in my favorite place in the world. That silence was a blessing. It said they were safe.
Everyone has to stretch after we pile out of the car, me and Mei and Christine and a very bored-looking security guard assigned from Stark-Benzin. It isn’t lost on me that Faust’s shopping trips don’t require the same.
Super normal day for a super normal nineteen-year-old woman, nothing I can’t power through by sheer charisma. “I’ve literally always dreamed of coming to Tokyo. I wish we could stay the night and actually get carried away.” As I talk, I guide our merry band of women plus bodyguard to a towering department store on the corner of the busy intersection.
Christine hops around a cluster of tourists. “You haven’t been here before?”
“Never, so please tell me what’s cool.”
“Uh, I don’t know.” She ducks her head. “I like… Uniqlo?”
“Uniqlo is sick.”
That surprises her, and she peeks up nervously. “You’re not going to make me spend all day in, like, Givenchy?”
“Some of the day. But I’m easy to distract, and I, too, enjoy a basic.” I make a show of glancing back at Mei, who’s on the phoneagain, looking almost as annoyed as our bodyguard. “I bet we could get him to wait outside the store, too. I feel like we need time to really dig into things on our own, right?”
Christine smiles, cheeks dimpling, and I’m bowled over by howyoungshe looks. Is this the curse of turning thirty? All teenagers are children, and children are infants. Christine sticks close to me as we make our way through the department store’s hectic entrance, people and stores and windows and lights. And it’s probably just an aftereffect of working on that text to Maisie, me and my stupid maternal instincts that kick into gear at the drop of a feather—but I stick close to her, too.
I get our designer shopping out of the way first. Celine feels too intense for Christine’s current rattled state, and I do agree that she’s probably not a Givenchy girl, so we hop from Louis Vuitton to Prada. There, we’re ushered into a coolly lit changing room the size of a studio apartment by our sales associate, Ema. “I’ll be right back with drinks and options,” she murmurs to me. “Let me just clear my afternoon schedule.”
“I’m so sorry we came last-minute.”
Ema waves my apology away, and I get the feeling that she lives for last-minute celebrity shopping trips. Hell, I would, too. This is beyond what I’m used to. Our room is separated from the others, with floor-to-ceiling curtains the same sage green as the sofa I sink into. For a couch used primarily by nervous stylists, uninterested spouses, and small dogs, it’s shockingly comfortable, and I set my chin on my hand as Christine flips through a lookbook of next season. “Why is fashion always a season ahead?” she asks. “This is all fall and winter.”
“So fancy people like you can get your orders in ahead of time. And smart people like me have time to tell you what to order.”
She snorts, then glances at the door. No sales associate, and Mei must be hanging outside with security. “This isn’t going to help, you know,” Christine mumbles. “I know you guys are trying to make me feel all girly and shit after what happened, but it’s a waste of time.”
I circle a seam on the couch with my finger, trying not to look too surprised that she’s brought the subject up. “This is when I ask how you’re adjusting to the pressures of Formula 1.”
“I mean, badly?”
Nodding, I keep my eyes on the couch, a tried-and-true technique from cheering up my sisters. Approaching a teenager with too much eye contact and empathy is like running up on a gazelle. “Clearly, I don’t understand what it’s like, because I am not half as talented as you, but… it was one crash. One really shitty, kind of misogynistic crash that obviously targeted you, but it’s over now. You’re still you. And I’m not saying you need to shop your problems away, or start dressing differently than you want to, but don’t let them score more points off you by letting him live in your head.”
Speaking from the heart on this one. There’s a soft shuffle, Christine setting the lookbook down and leaning against the other green sofa. “What pisses me off is, I never talked to Bernard myself. I just wasn’t going to drive for Stark-Benzin. They chose Faust to be his teammate, and I had come to terms with it.”
“And he took his frustration about their situation out on you.”
“Yeah.” She takes a little breath, her voice going scratchy. “He made my debut abouthim. My first race. Everyone’s going to associate it with him now.”
And it isn’t fair. My heart hurts for her, and for every woman who’s had a once-in-a-lifetime moment ruined by the ego of a man. Weddings. Birthdays. A race you’ve worked toward your entire life,broken barriers to get to, forever documented on film. “I understand how you feel,” I say before I can think better of it.
“You do,” she says flatly. “Sorry, but you’re—you seem really chill.”
I try not to smile. “I have experienced pain, yes.”
