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STACEY
Ballydoon Community Group:
Ryan posted 5:27 p.m.:
Brigade fire truck headed to grass fire north of town. Presently no danger to property. Close windows and doors for smoke.
Given a choice between watching a movie or being pit crew for Turner’s Racing, I’d choose petrol fumes and revving engines every time. The commentators at Walston Park Raceway announced the drag race semi-finals were about to start. I grinned as the crowd roared.
My best friend Sam wrapped her arm around me, bumping her hip against mine.
“Miss it, Stace?” Sam asked.
“A little,” I shrugged, tamping down the adrenaline pulsing through me. “Okay, a lot.”
When Uncle Bruce had called earlier desperate for pit crew, Sam and I readily agreed, ditching our plans for pizza and Netflix at Sam’s house.
A female race driver strutted past with her pit crew. Her silky-smooth hair and make-up were flawless, and her suit was covered in US company logos: an international competitor. She posed against her car as the official race day photographer took photos.
“That could have been you. Stacey Turner: drags and sprints champion of Australia.” Sam wrapped her arm around my shoulder. “Actually, that was you at sixteen. Junior champion.”
I snorted. “Don’t recall the US sponsorship deals.”
“You totally could have got them. You were the best.” Sam scowled at the photographer. “And I could take better photos than what he’s doing.” Sam popped her gum. “Ryan should fix your race car to get it up to spec again.”
My old race car was rusting away under a thick layer of dust in the machinery shed at home.
“My brother and I don’t have those sorts of funds. Or my uncle.”
I’d be lying if I told her I didn’t want to get behind the wheel and compete again. But that wasn’t going to happen anytime soon. Ten long years had passed since I’d competed in a race event. Now I just pretended, driving the farm ute around the paddocks as if I was on the track.
I pushed aside thoughts about international drivers and a career that never happened as a call came over the loudspeakers:Drivers for the drag sprint semi-finals need to proceed with your crews to the marshalling yard.
Our driver, Phil, drove a 1989 Chevrolet Camaro IROC-Z painted black, with red stripes on the driver’s door, and covered in decals ofTurner’s Car Repairs: let us take care of your wheels.
Sam let me go with a sigh, glancing around the crowd, her gaze zeroing in on me.
“What?”
“You know, this is the perfect place to pick up.”
I rolled my eyes. Sam was perfectly dressed as pit crew and was getting looks from several men. Skin-tight leggings, a fitted tank top with a plunging neckline, her hoodie unzipped, her ponytail swept under a bright purple Turner’s Racing cap.
I dusted the front of my wool coat and rearranged my scarf, and caught Sam staring.
“Now what?"
“I thought you were going to change into something more, well, ah …”
“Morewhat?” I knew what she was going to say, tucking a stray hair under my woollen beanie.
I’d dressed for warmth, not for male attention.
“Well, to be honest, something slutty.” Sam grinned.
I groaned.
