Overdrive (4 page)

JAMIE STARED AT CHAD
a few seconds, like a ghost had walked into the room.

Rosa and Kurt obviously knew of him and his dad, because they asked questions and wouldn't stop. Chad just smiled and answered politely, but he didn't take his eyes off Jamie.

Finally Kurt and Rosa said good-bye and left the two of them alone. Jamie didn't know whether to thank them or yell at them to get back to the table.

“What do you think?” Chad said. “Of me being here and all?”

“I think you can't keep a promise,” Jamie said.

“What do you mean?”

“Don't you remember what you said back at the Pit Stop? You sat in that booth and told me you'd never be a problem for me again. Never block me or run into me on purpose.”

“I never did that anyway,” Chad said. “Besides, you take everything personal. It's not—it's just racing.”

“So it's my problem and you're innocent of everything.”

“You're a good driver. You wouldn't be here if you weren't. But not everything that happens on the track is about you.”

Jamie rolled her eyes. “Like you being here, jumping in when the rest of us have worked really hard to stay.”

“That has nothing to do with you.”

“Can't you see how it makes us feel for them to let you in this far into the session?”

Chad threw up his hands. “Ask
them
that. My dad talked to the people running it, and they thought it would be good for me to mix things up a bit. It's not my fault.”

“What about your wreck? I thought your pinched nerve or whatever it was in your neck knocked you out. You could have been killed.”

Chad bit into his burger and chewed like Brad Pitt in a nonspeaking scene. “That was a big deal over nothing if you ask me. But I did lose a good car.”

Jamie shook her head and tried to calm down. “You've already been on the simulator, haven't you?”

“I got on it late last night and took a few spins to catch up with you guys. Didn't do half bad.”

A couple of guys from the school slapped Chad on the back and gave him high fives. Roger and Kenny were both hotshots as far as Jamie was concerned, so she looked the other way while they talked.

“Good to see you up and around,” Roger said. He was short with dark, wavy hair and an attitude twice his height.

“I see you know the fastest girl in the school,” Kenny said, nodding toward Jamie. He was taller and wore wraparound sunglasses to every class meeting. “Fastest behind the wheel, that is.”

“We're old pals from way back,” Chad said. Then he added, “She's telling me there's not much competition here.”

Jamie's mouth flew open. “That's—I never said anything like that!”

“That's okay,” Roger said. “Bud said we're getting some seat time on the track tomorrow.” He leaned close to Jamie. “I'm thinking you'll get plenty of time to look at my spoiler.”

Jamie laughed, but when the two were gone, she fumed at Chad. “Why'd you have to do that? I don't want to tick these guys off.”

“They're just playing with you,” Chad said. “They know how good you are. Probably shaking in their boots because of you. They either want to beat you or ask you out. Maybe both.”

Jamie blushed. She couldn't remember Chad ever giving her a true compliment—at least one without all the smarm. Had he changed? Was he just looking for an angle to make her let her guard down so he could push the pedal to the floor and pass her on the inside?

She put aside their differences for a moment and thought about her friend Cassie Strower. Cassie had said that Chad didn't need a new car or a win in his next race but a relationship with God. That seemed far-fetched to Jamie. Chad had said he didn't like going to church and his dad provided everything he needed.

“Let me guess,” Jamie said after taking a drink of soda. “Your dad said if you don't come here, he won't fund any more racing for you.”

Chad snickered. “You're not just pretty. You got a pretty good head on your shoulders.”

“Thanks. I think.”

“B.D. knows he holds the purse strings. I can't do much of anything without his say-so.”

“You call your dad B.D.?”

“It's a lot better than what my mom calls him.” Chad laughed. “He can be just as hard at home as he can be on the track.”

“So you're mad at him for sending you here.”

“Hey, he just wants what's best, right? ‘Honor your father and mother' and all that junk.”

Well, he knows at least a little about the Bible,
Jamie thought.

“I'll do whatever it takes to get back out there. If it means coming here and finishing on top to prove I'm good enough, I'll do it.”

Chad finished his burger, but Jamie picked at her salad. She had gotten used to being out of Chad's shadow—at least for a few weeks—and she liked the feeling. Now she was back in it, and she wasn't sure which she liked more.

THREE WEEKS LATER

TIM SAT ALONE
in the Maxwell Motorsports garage, cleaning tools and watching the Chicago race on a wide-screen TV mounted on the wall above an air compressor. It wasn’t the fanciest setup he’d ever seen, and the garage was small compared to some teams’, but it was still roomy.

He had to hand it to Maxwell—he’d done the whole racing thing his own way, refusing to work for some big owner with a team of drivers who could throw a lot of money at him. There were pictures on the wall of those days when Dale had done his time on other teams, but when he’d established himself as a top-10 driver, he’d struck out on his own. He’d gone from a front-runner with the best equipment money could buy to a middle-of-the-pack racer. He’d kept his
reputation and was trying to hang on to his family, but he hadn’t won much money. He was the racer a lot of people in the stands cheered for but who knew at the end of the day he’d probably be somewhere other than the winner’s circle.

That had changed a bit over the past few races. Dale seemed to shine on the intermediate tracks, and at Michigan he finished in the top 10. New Hampshire brought a #12 finish, and Dale kept the momentum going, racing from back in the pack late in the race at Daytona to capture the seventh slot. He was moving up in points, but the problem was, all of the front-runners were moving up as well. By Chicago, Dale was in 17th place with not a lot of hope at reaching #12 to qualify for the Chase.

As Tim watched the coverage, he remembered one of the times he and his dad had been to Chicago. The race was in July, in the heat of summer, and the year his dad had died they’d been given tickets to a Cubs game at Wrigley Field. They’d gotten a ride from the Joliet cornfields to a train station and rode it the whole way into the belly of the city. His dad had as much trouble following the track changes as he did, and once Tim thought they’d have to turn back, but they finally found the Red Line and got off at Addison, a short walk from the ballpark.

Tim had been to minor league games before
but never to a park like Wrigley, with the ivy on the outfield walls and players so close that it felt like he could reach out and touch them. Babe Ruth had played here, though he didn’t know much about him. The bases seemed twice as white and the grass was three times as green as anything he’d ever seen. His dad had told him to hold off on the hot dogs because he had a special dinner planned, so Tim did and his stomach nearly growled louder than the crowd around them when the Cubs won.

They filed out with the other fans and headed back to the train. When they reached downtown, they went underground and his dad looked at a piece of paper he’d scribbled on. They got off the train and walked up the stairs, his dad pointing out a big brick building a block away and saying it was Moody something or other and that some famous preacher started the school. Tim’s stomach was past growling and had begun snarling. He followed his dad to a little restaurant with a green awning above it. It had a funny Italian name he couldn’t pronounce.

“They say this is the best pizza you’ll ever have,” his dad said.

“I could eat a horse pizza right now. With a side of porcupine quills.”

His dad had laughed, and now Tim wished he
could bottle that sound and open it up any time he felt lonely.

It was dark inside, and the tables all had those red-and-white checkered tablecloths. His dad ordered a pitcher of Coca-Cola and something called a deep-dish pizza, and Tim thought they’d have to order at least two of them to satisfy him. He ate a salad down to the bottom of the bowl while he waited.

When the server brought the pan out still sizzling, Tim couldn’t believe his eyes. The thing was a good six inches thick and had all the ingredients he loved stuffed inside it instead of on top. He started to pick it up but decided on cutting it with a fork. The taste of the crust and the sausage and pepperoni and onions and peppers and mushrooms made him want to move to Chicago.

His dad just watched him and smiled. “Something special, isn’t it?”

Tim nodded as he cut another piece and put a little of his Thousand Island dressing on the side of the pizza and covered it with Parmesan cheese. The tastes melded together perfectly.

They had two pieces left, and Tim carried the bag home on the train ride, not believing the two pieces he had eaten had filled him to overflowing. The only thing better than that dinner was breakfast the next morning when Tim pulled the bag out of the little
refrigerator in his dad’s truck and ate both slices. The taste stayed with him all day at the track as they set up for the race.

“You think we could go back to that place sometime?” Tim said.

“Why don’t we make it our tradition?” his dad said. “We get one Chicago-style pizza every time we come here.”

That memory rushed back, and Tim could almost taste that thick crust as he watched the green flag drop and the grand marshal (who was some famous football player or coach with the Bears) say, “Gentlemen, start your engines.”

Dale had qualified in the fifth spot, so he was inside on the third row when they started. The Chicagoland Speedway was one of those places where fuel strategy came into play, and Tim knew that Dale’s crew chief, T.J. Kelly, was one of the best.

Early in the race, Dale had trouble getting loose in the turns, especially number three, and he dropped back. After a wreck that took out two of the top contenders happened around lap 40, the crew made an adjustment and Tim could tell the car was handling a lot better.

Before the halfway point, one of the top points leaders, a favorite in the race who had been running at the front almost since the beginning, blew out his
right rear tire. The explosion sent rubber flying and spun him around and into the wall. On his way to the infield care center, the driver said, “I thought somebody had dropped a bomb behind me—the explosion was that loud. I figured it was either that or my driveshaft had fallen through. But it was just a tire.”

Tim was so engrossed in the race that he didn’t realize he’d been cleaning the same air wrench for about 20 laps. It was nice and shiny when he shelved it. He turned and noticed a shadow outside the window. Kind of strange because the place was deserted.

He opened the door and stuck his head out, looking both ways. “Hello? Anybody out here?”

No one was there.

JAMIE SAT IN THE COCKPIT
of the #1 RS 43 watching the Chicago race from the pits. The team around her was flying through a four-tire change and refuel. The simulator allowed a student to ride along with her favorite driver or actually race with the field. The only drawback was that there was no digital spotter to talk you through. You were on your own. Jamie chose to ride with her dad and watch his technique rather than race.

Over the weekend, the organizers gave the students a much-needed break and didn’t schedule races or activities. Most students had chosen to go home—Chad wasn’t around, and Jamie guessed he had flown to Chicago—but some had stayed behind because of lack of funds. Jamie felt she needed to work out some kinks in her passing technique, so she
stayed. There were times in her recent races, especially when she found herself in heavy traffic, that she’d head into a turn and slow up too much. It was a mental leap of faith to go more than 150 mph and run up on a car ahead of you and not slow down. Instinct and safety kicked in, and you had to overcome that through seat time and experience.

Jamie had taken a driver’s safety course in school because her dad said it was a good idea, and it also saved him money on his car insurance. She had passed easily, but she nearly scared her instructor to death. One day she passed the Velocity Racetrack and saw her dad’s hauler outside. The man at the gate let her drive inside because he knew her, and she wound up taking her instructor for a couple of spins around the track. He made her promise that no one would find out about it.

However, somebody did and wrote a letter to the editor of the local newspaper about the incident. The teacher was disciplined, and Jamie felt bad about it.

Fortunately for Jamie, in her kart and racing career, she had spent so much time out in front, in “clean air,” that she only had to slow down when she came to lapped traffic. Here at the driving school, it was different. These students were the best of the best, and there were plenty of times when she found herself in midpack or at the back, having to maneuver around several opponents.

“If you’re gonna go around a car on the right side, you gotta do it,” Bud had said. “Don’t just think about it and do the pussyfoot dance.” Everyone had laughed at that line. “Mash that sucker to the floor and go. You don’t get points for being nice. You’re here to win a race.”

Jamie had always been known as aggressive and fast on the track. Now she was even more committed to beating the competition.

The Chicago race was half completed when Jamie switched to race mode in the simulator. The machine required her to come out of the pits and merge into race traffic. It was easier, of course, when a yellow flag was out, but even more of a challenge during the green flag.

She watched the leaders approach and pass her, picking up speed and getting into fourth gear. When the #13 car of Butch Devalon screamed past, she got in behind him and hit the third turn and tried to keep up. Since it was a virtual machine, anyone following could drive right through her (a weird feeling to watch another car pass through hers), but as long as she kept pace, she was fine.

Butch was her father’s nemesis. He was mean, had a reputation as a dirty driver, and always accused Christians of being Bible-thumpers with no place in the sport. Actually, he was an equal opportunity
basher who didn’t like anyone winning but himself. He had lots of trophies and money to prove it.

Jamie closed on him down the straightaway, and she looked at her RPM gauge. Unlike real cars, the simulator showed how fast she was going in miles per hour. The speedometer read 193. A blistering pace that she couldn’t hold in the turn, so she backed off the accelerator slightly and drove to the right of Devalon.

Remembering Bud’s words, she punched the accelerator about halfway through the turn and shot out the other side, hanging on to the steering wheel for all she was worth, then pulled up beside Devalon, who was right up on the steering wheel. Suddenly she caught sight of another car behind them, stealing some air from Devalon. The #13 car slid to the right slightly, and she saw Butch struggle to keep it under control. She mashed the accelerator down just as Devalon lost control. A plume of smoke rose behind her, and a yellow flag flashed at the top of her screen.

“He crashed,” Jamie said, mouth open. “Devalon’s out of the race!”