Page 15 of The Fast Track

“Eh, it was okay,” I say through a mouthful of sorbet, doing my best to play it casual.

My acting skills must be lackluster, judging by the way Mom gasps and nearly drops a carton of eggs. “What happened?”

“I was a little late and he was kind of not nice about it.” I deliberately skip over the part about why. I’m not in the mood to hear a lecture about the importance of getting along with teammates, especially from someone whose biggest sporting achievement is passing the swim test in college.

Mom sighs. “What have I told you about always keeping your eye on the clock?”

I wince. “I already know I screwed up. Can you just let me be depressed?”

To my surprise, Mom puts down the pack of Yakult she was on her way to transferring to the refrigerator. She takes a step closer and pats me on the back. “If that’s what’s going to make you stop eating your weight in sugar.” She rubs at a spot on my cheek. “What is this? Is this grease?”

“They, uh, had breakfast sandwiches at media training.”

Luckily, Mom doesn’t call me out on my lie. (Frank is about as likely to serve cheese and bacon to young drivers as Mom is to buy me jumbo bags of potato chips.)

She gives my hand a squeeze. “I know relocating to England, getting used to all this, hasn’t been the easiest. But you can do this. I believe in you.”

I’m grateful Mom has decided to be supportive for once, but it doesn’t get rid of the kernel of doubt that’s been germinating since the ink dried on my contract last winter.

“What if no one else does?” I think of Dietrich’s cold, clipped words this afternoon and Cameron and Georgios’s ugly gossip at the kickoff party. “What if everyone in the paddock thinks I’m only here as minority eye candy?”

“Gougou,” Mom says, using her pet name for me. “It won’t matter what people think once the season gets started. Remember Pittsburgh?”

It was my first realawayaway race. The first time I traveledso far from home there wasn’t a Culver’s every mile. It’d been hard for Mom to find sponsors to fund the trip, not helped by the fact they were all used to hearing from Dad, who’d just left. But she persevered, and I wound up lapping everyone but the second-place finisher.

“We do our talking on the track,” I say, citing what Mom said when I suggested we call up sponsors who rejected us and shout, “IN YOUR FACE.” Over the years, it’s become our rallying cry. A familiar refrain I reach for anytime I get the urge to gloat. Or when I’m hurting.

“I’ve lost count of the number of skeptics you’ve shut down with every new category,” Mom says. Her sunny demeanor reminds me exactly where I learned the wholefake it till you make itthing from. “There’s no reason F3 shouldn’t go our way too.”

I chew my lip, thinking about what I saw Cameron and some of the others pull off during testing. The drivers here are a huge step up from the competition I’m used to. Not to mention it’s a whole new set of off-track politics that I’m still learning.

But Mom’s right, I’ve made it past every category so far. And I’ll never know unless I try.

The knot in my stomach loosens slightly. “I’ll show them on the track.”

7.

Spielberg, Austria

Red Bull Ring

Austrian Grand Prix

Our first race of theseason is in Spielberg, Austria. Set in the lush, undulating hills of the Styrian Alps, the scenery is so quaint, part of me wouldn’t be surprised if Julie Andrews popped out of nowhere, twirling and singing.

Race morning, Lizzie and I line up third on the starting grid, thanks to a solid performance in Qualifying the day before. Cameron and J. P. Ribeiro from Triton Racing are ahead of me on pole position and in second, respectively. Roz hovers, making last-minute adjustments.

“How you feeling?” she shouts over the thrum of Lizzie’s engine.

“More than ready!” I holler back. My heart is in my throat at the prospect of going wheel-to-wheel with Cameron and the other drivers. It’s my chance—to redeem myself from testing,rack up points, and show the paddock, and myself, what I’m made of.

At the signal that buzzes its way up and down the grid, mechanics and support staff pick up their equipment and step off the track, leaving only the drivers in our cars. I try to ignore the drone from the grandstand audience that grows louder every second. Only a fraction of the Austrian Grand Prix’s three hundred thousand pass holders show up for the F3 race—F1 events are the marquee headliner—but it’s still the most eyes I’ve had on me at one time.

The red starting lights blink on one by one. I push all thoughts out of my mind and focus on the impending signal. Time seems to expand itself. Seconds become minutes become hours all while cold sweat drips down the back of my neck, moistening the collar of my fire-resistant undershirt.

Five.

Four.