Blind Spot (11 page)

JAMIE’S AD FOR MAXIE
went in the paper the next week. She cleaned and polished both cars until they shone. She’d scraped Maxie against a concrete pole in the school parking lot, and she tried to paint it herself but couldn’t match the color. Only two people came to look that week, and one made an offer. It was half of what the car was worth.

Jamie’s dad raced at the California Speedway the next weekend, and people from their church gathered to watch at the house. It was a tradition that the people in her mom and dad’s Bible study got together and prayed before the races in the spring and fall, when the family didn’t travel with him.

Jamie was as polite as she could be, but when she saw Vanessa Moran, she couldn’t believe it.

“Jamie, you know Vanessa from church, don’t you?” her mom said.

“Yeah,” she said, not impolite but not necessarily inviting either. As soon as she could, she excused herself and retreated to the garage. She flipped on the black-and-white TV on the workbench and changed Maxie’s oil.

“So this is what you do in your spare time?” Vanessa said, venturing into the garage like it was some foreign country. When Jamie held out her oil-stained hands, the girl made a face.

“What did you think they ran on, sugar and spice?” Jamie said.

“You don’t have to get surly about it. How’s your dad doing?”

Jamie turned up the volume. “He’s having wedge problems, and he cut a tire in a spinout. Just got the blue flag.”

Vanessa squinted at the tiny screen. “How can you tell all that? I thought they just went around and around until somebody won.”

Jamie wiped her hands on a rag and pushed hair from her face. “There’s a lot of teamwork and strategy to racing.” She almost started to explain, but she figured it would be wasted on Vanessa.

“No, go on. Tell me more. Maybe I can teach my dad. All he knows is how much money everybody makes. What’s the blue flag?”

“They have different colored flags to commu
nicate to drivers. Green means go, of course. The checkered flag . . . well, you have to know what the checkered flag means.”

“They’re supposed to stop and play checkers? No, I know—it’s the one the winner gets. But I’ve never seen a blue flag.”

“It’s got a yellow stripe on it. If you get that, you’re supposed to let the lead cars pass you.”

“Kind of like a yield sign.”

“You got it.”

“That can’t be good.”

“Like I said, he’s had his problems. But the race is 500 miles, so he’s got time to catch up.” Jamie looked at the screen again. “These guys in the lead are on the same team. They’re going to work together to finish as high as they can.”

“You mean they help each other out?”

Jamie nodded. “You get points for leading the most laps, for winning a race, and other stuff. The driver with the most points at the end of the year wins the cup. They also have team winners. Now the guy in third, he’s drafting them both to go faster, and at some point he’ll try to pass—”

“Why are they all in a line like that?”

“Cuts down the wind resistance.” She used her hands to explain. “When the cars go 180 or 190 in the straightaway, like at Daytona or Talladega, the wind
slows them down. But if a car pulls right up behind them, the wind is displaced—it just goes over the cars easier and makes them go faster. Add another car or two, and it makes the whole group move faster. The California Speedway isn’t as long, so you don’t get those speeds. But if you try to pull out and pass from that pack, you can find yourself all the way at the back.”

“How do they know when they can pass?”

“That’s where the spotter comes in. The drivers have radios to communicate with people on the roof of the grandstand. They tell them when they’re clear to pass.”

“Wait, they don’t look in their mirrors? That would be freaky just to take somebody’s word for it.”

“That’s why you basically trust your spotter with your life. Make a mistake there and you wipe out a lot of people’s chances to win.”

Vanessa glanced at the TV. “And this is what you do in your spare time? Race that car?”

“Not Maxie. I race that one over there.”

“Looks kind of old.”

“It’s a Legend car. It’s supposed to look like that. But don’t let looks fool you. I can go fast.”

“You have to wear those big coverall thingies?”

“It’s called a fire-retardant suit. Yeah, I wear that along with a full-face helmet, gloves, neck brace. The whole deal.”

“Ever wreck?”

“A couple of times.”

“What happened?”

“Went to the hospital. The first one gave me whiplash the size of Montana. In the second one I jammed my knee into the steering column. Had a bone contusion and pulled a muscle. Oh, and a concussion.”

“Just a little thing like that.”

“Yeah. Once you get into a bad wreck, you know whether you really want to race or not. They don’t bother me that much.” Jamie could tell Vanessa was on information overload, so she screwed the oil filter on and checked for leaks.

When she stood up, Vanessa was focused on the screen. “What’s all that white smoke coming out of your dad’s car?”

“Great,” Jamie muttered. “That’s just what he needed.”

The mood in the house was somber when Jamie went back inside. Jamie’s mom frowned, and Kellen was lying in front of the TV, his knuckles on both cheeks, staring at the screen. “He drove straight to the garage.” He sighed.

The yellow flag was out, and a camera caught one of the main sponsors for the Maxwell car.

“That look says it all,” the announcer said. “There
are rumblings of a sponsor shake-up in the Maxwell camp—”

“A shake
out
you mean,” a commentator said. “Unless there’s a major turnaround, we could be seeing some big changes.”

Jamie’s mom turned down the sound, and the room got really quiet.

“It’s only one race,” Vanessa said. “Why are they making such a big deal?”

No one said a word.

“Well, Nicole,” Mrs. Moran said, “have you heard any more about your addition?”

Jamie caught her mom’s gaze, and there seemed to be a bit of fear mixed with nerves. “No, uh, it’s sort of on hold.” She glanced at Jamie. “But thanks for asking.”

Jamie didn’t know exactly what was up, but those looks meant her mom was hiding something. And Jamie was determined to find out what it was.

TIM WATCHED ABOUT HALF
the California race until it was time to go to work. He was supposed to clean up after a middle school meeting in one of the upstairs rooms. When he got there, it was still going, and he kicked himself for not staying at home longer and catching more of the race.

He spotted a TV in the church kitchen. A couple flips of the channels and he found the California Speedway—a bit grainy, sure, but he could still see it.

With 15 laps to go, the #13 Devalon car was in third, a sign that the Demon of Daytona was back. With his first-place finish there, he was in a good spot to challenge the perennial leaders for the Chase. Of course, any lead this early in the season was suspect, but if the guy kept driving like this, he’d be able to buy several more RVs.

Tim couldn’t help standing close to the TV, feeling the excitement of the last laps and the jockeying for position. A nudge here. A push there. This was always the most tense moment of any race—and the most fun to watch.

The door opened, and one of the pastors stuck his head in. “The middle schoolers are finished.” He glanced at his watch. “We’ve got senior high in the same room in less than an hour, and there’s Silly String everywhere.”

“I’m on it,” Tim said.

He took one last look—only nine laps to go—then switched off the TV and locked the door. He grabbed his stuff and headed to the room, which was worse than he imagined. There wasn’t just Silly String everywhere; there was Silly String mixed with ground-in pizza and soda.

Tim worked as fast as he could, mopping the tile first, then cleaning the carpet. He imagined he was changing tires on a pit crew. He wanted the pastor and the others at the church to like his work, but his real reason for going so fast was that he wanted to be finished before the high schoolers got there.

The room was looking respectable when the first few kids hit the door. Loners like him. A girl with long curly hair, her nose stuck in a book. A fat kid who crossed his arms over his chest and sat in the back.

He had everything ready and was wheeling the huge, gray trash can into the hall when a gaggle of high schoolers echoed through the hall. He pulled his hat low and went out the side door. He thought he heard Kimberly’s voice, and he was glad he didn’t have to face her.

After the noise died, Tim wheeled the squeaky trash can and the bucket and mop toward the service elevator in the back. He had just entered the hall when he heard footsteps.

“That’s him,” someone whispered.

“You sure?” another said. “He’s punier than you described.”

“Check out his pants. Low budget all the way.”

Though he knew he ought to keep going, Tim stopped in the middle of the hall. He recognized one voice.

“Hey, Tim,” Jeff said. “Not very good etiquette dumping your friends on the highway like that. Get it?
Dumping?
”

Tim turned. Jeff stood with two guys—neither of them from the car. They looked like they were football team material. Big shoulders. Mops of hair hung over their eyes. Tim tried to think of something snappy to say to put Jeff in his place, but all he could do was stare.

“I hear you like a cold Coke,” one of the hulks
said, smiling. The guy had perfect white teeth, and Tim wondered how much his parents had paid for the dental work.

“He likes ’em cold and full of liquid Ex-Lax,” Jeff laughed. “Hey, you get the room clean in there? Or did you just eat all the leftovers? If I find any crumbs, I’ll fix a plate for you.”

“What a loser,” the other hulk said.

“Yeah, if I was his dad, I’d have died too.” Jeff pushed Tim as he passed the trash.

Jeff didn’t see the mop coming, and Tim scored a direct hit to the side of the guy’s face. He fell back and gasped as the wet mop stuck to his head.

Tim cursed. “You owe me for those tickets!”

Jeff wiped wet pizza bits from his face and shirt, but when he tried to stand, Tim hit him in the mouth again, shoving him back. The other two were up and on Tim in a flash, wrestling him to the ground, then dragging him toward the stairwell.

“Hey, stop it!” Kimberly shouted. “Let go of him!”

“Get back in the room,” Jeff yelled, pulling his shirt up and wiping his face. “This is none of your business.”

Tim kicked and thrashed as the three pulled him to the fire door. He managed to get a look at the hall before the doors closed. Kimberly was running the other way, toward the pastor’s office.

AS USUAL, WHEN JAMIE
got upset, she didn’t care that there were people from church around. She didn’t care if no one was there or if the room was as full as a shopping mall at Christmas. She let her questions fly. “Why do I have to find out stuff about our family from somebody I don’t even know? Do you know how that makes me feel?”

Her mother pulled her into the kitchen as the volume on the TV went back up. “Keep your voice down.”

“So your church friends won’t hear us fighting? So they’ll think we’re the perfect family?”

“No. They know we’re not perfect.”

“Yeah, you’ve probably told them all about how bad I am.”

“Jamie, I don’t care what they think of me. I don’t want you making a fool of yourself. These are nice people who
care about us. They know we have struggles just like they do. Now sit down.”

Jamie crossed her arms and kept standing, her back against the wall, knee out, foot propped halfway up the wall. “What was Mrs. Moran talking about? What ‘addition’ are we adding? Are you and Dad expanding the house?”

“No, nothing like that. We’ve been talking about a change. We would have told you, but—”

“Mom, what’s going on?”

She ran a hand across the tablecloth. “You know I can’t have any more children.”

“Yeah, I know.” Jamie’s voice softened. “And you want to adopt some Chinese-Russian baby.”

Her mom smiled. “No. Overseas adoption was our first choice because there are so many kids out there who need a home.”

“Was?”

“Well, it’s still a dream. There are a lot of costs we can’t swing right now, but something else has come up. We were going to tell you and Kellen soon. . . .”

“Why did I have to hear it from Mrs. Moran?”

“We asked the people in our Bible study to pray with us about this decision. It’s not an easy choice because it’s going to change things around here. But this is something your dad feels really strongly about.”

“The classes you’ve been taking—is that connected with this?”

Her mom nodded. “We have to take classes to qualify—”

“Mom, just tell me.”

“Honey, let’s talk after everyone leaves.”