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I started the car, revved the engine and zoomed off the start grid to warm the tyres. They gripped the track well. I licked my lips as I reversed back to the start. The other driver took off from the start, his tyres squealing, his car pulling slightly to the right.
I focussed on the finish line. I was ready as I’d ever be.
We waited for the Christmas tree to light up and count down the start, the rumble of our engines drowning out everything and everyone. My heart pounded against my ribs.
Red.
Deep breath in. My fingers grasped the steering wheel. I pumped the accelerator. The engine roared again.
Amber.
I exhaled. suddenly remembering the words Dad had whispered to me before I’d won the junior drag race championships.
“Everything in life comes down to the next ten seconds,” I murmured.
Green.
I slammed down the accelerator and hurtled towards the finish line.
2
STACEY
Ballydoon Community Group:
Cheryl posted 5.46 p.m.:
Sheep loose on Turner’s Creek Road. Can someone give the Turners a call and let them know? Don’t have their number. Thx.
I WON!
I’d grabbed my duffel bag, noting Phil was now gone from the support van, and then legged it in the direction of Uncle Bruce’s motorhome that doubled as our racing team’s headquarters, leaving Sam and my uncle to tow the car back to the pits.
I. Had. Won. The. Race!
I burst out laughing as I hid behind the toilet block, avoiding race officials. Once they were gone, I ran past caravans and campervans in the competitors’ area and skidded around the bumper of Uncle Bruce’s motorhome and into the privacy of the annex. I dumped my bag, ripped the helmet off and let out almightywhoop!I ran on the spot, my fist pumping the air and my hair flying around.
The thrill of the win pulsed through my toes, my fingertips, evendown there. Winning as a junior driver had never causedthatsensation before. A blush bloomed up my neck. I paced back and forth, flexing my hands, taking deep breaths to calm myself.
The race had taken just eight seconds. I still felt every detail: the throb of the engine, the vibrations through the steering wheel, the smell of the petrol and burnt rubber, the crowd cheering and the commentators screaming Phil’s name as I crossed the line, breaking his record.
I sighed.
My fingers traced over logos for Ballydoon car mechanics, the pub, and the grocery store on the racing suit. Pity I couldn’t drive in another race today, or in the future.
Maybe Phil was still here.
Maybe he would feel well enough to race in the next round.
I spun around and found a sticky note stuck to the motorhome’s door: Going home. Sick as a dog. Will wash your clothes. Phil.
I scrunched up the note. Must have just missed him. I found the spare key for the motorhome under a welcome mat and unlocked the door.
Boots crunched on the gravel around the back of the motorhome. I slammed the door shut and I moved towards the advancing footsteps.
A man appeared around the corner.
I froze.
