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My uncle walked over, keys in hand for the support van to tow the race car into the pits. Ten cars were ahead of us, waiting for the call to proceed for the drag sprint semi-finals.
Phil staggered to the bushes at the side of the track as Sam opened the van’s back door. I tossed his helmet into the van and scrounged around for something—anything—to help him. All I could find was a reusable plastic shopping bag, which Phil snatched from me just before he was sick.
Sam, Uncle Bruce and I collectively shuddered. I grabbed a bottle of water from the esky, ready to hand to Phil.
“We’re racing in just minutes, and I mean literally five minutes tops,” Uncle Bruce said. “Phil, can you drive? It’s the semi-finals, mate!”
Phil did a thumbs up. For a couple of seconds, I thought he was okay but he clutched the bag and was sick again.
“Dunno if I can drive, Bruce,” Phil whimpered.
“Do we forfeit or something?” Sam asked.
My fingers twitched.
Just this once.
I wanted to grip a race car’s steering wheel again. My heartbeat spiked.
The race was, like, ten seconds tops. It would be a crime not to race it, really.
Phil hovered near a bin at the marshalling yard entrance, drinking the last of his bottled water.
I held out my hand to Uncle Bruce for the support van’s keys.
“Hook up the car. We’ll race today.”
My uncle surrendered the keys. “Not sure why we’re bothering. He looks bloody awful.”
Uncle Bruce moved towards the Camaro as a track marshal yelled for cars to line up for the semi-finals.
I threw the keys to Sam, who caught them in surprise. “You drive the support van,” I said. “Hey, Phil! Let’s get ready!”
“Stace, I feel terrible.” Phil said, tossing his empty water bottle into the bin, before he climbed into the van, rubbing his stomach.
I pulled down the van’s back door as Sam buckled up in the driver’s seat.
“You’re not going to race. Take off your suit,” I said, throwing my beanie at Phil’s chest. “I’ll drive the car in the semi-final.”
Phil’s eyes widened as Sam whipped around. “But you haven’t—”
“I know it’s been a while!” I snapped. Adrenaline coursed through me again.
A marshal came to Sam’s window, telling her to move ahead. She turned the engine on and drove forward five metres.
“Are you seriously doing this, Stacey?” she said over her shoulder. “We could forfeit and all go home, you know. Or … head to the bar and pick up.”
Phil’s eyes rolled back, and he let out a sob.
I took a deep breath. “I just … I really want to do this.”
Sam swore under her breath. I watched through the van’s windscreen as the international driver got into her Mustang, ready at the start grid.
“I need this,” I added as Sam moved forward another three metres.
“You and your needs,” she muttered. “Tonight was about a different need, not this.” She waved a hand towards the Camaro and the start grid.
I ignored her and poked Phil in the arm.
