Checkered Flag Cheater (2 page)

“That's me on the billboard back there.” He gave her his winner's circle smile.

The deputy didn't blink or turn. “Say again?”

Trace repeated himself and kept smiling; this time she turned to look. Then she glanced back at him. “Stick by your car,” she said. “I'm going to run your license.”

He leaned against his car and waited while she sat in her squad car and looked at her computer. The night air was heavy with a chilly dampness; he shivered in his T-shirt. Inside her squad car, the deputy held a cell phone to her face as she talked. After a couple of minutes the officer came back. “You
are
the guy on the billboard back there.”

“That's me,” Trace repeated, mustering another winning smile.

“I called my dispatcher. Your name popped up with Team Blu racing,” she said. “No wonder your face seemed familiar. I spend a lot of time parked beneath that billboard.”

As Trace tried to think of something clever to say, she moved her flashlight beam up and down him. “So, are you a model or something?”

“Nope. I'm a race-car driver.”

“Really?”

“Really.”

“Well, considering your speed, that makes sense,” she replied.

“Sorry,” Trace said. “As I said, I'm just going home.”

“What's the rush?”

Trace paused.

“Be honest,” the deputy said. “I can be a sucker for a really good reason, but I've also got great radar for liars.”

“Tomorrow night is my senior prom,” Trace said. “I'm trying to make it back for prom.”

“Your prom,” she repeated, and narrowed her eyes. She looked again at his license.

“That's right. I drive for Team Blu, and I've been on the road, doing exhibition races—Texas, Kansas, Arkansas, last night in Bloomington, Indiana—all over,” Trace explained.

“Whoa there,” the patrolwoman said. “How is it you're in high school but on the road all the time, racing?”

“I do my classes online,” Trace said. “It's the only way I could race full-time and still graduate.”

“Okay,” the officer said. “Go on.”

“There's this girl back home—I need to see her,” Trace continued. “Find out where we stand.” Trace heard himself blurt the last part; he was way short on sleep.

“A girl. Well, Mr. Bonham, why didn't you say so?” the officer said. She handed him his license. There was a faint smile around her eyes.

Trace blinked. “I can go?”

“Just two more things. My dispatcher, Mary Jo, is a real stock car racing nut. She's not going to believe me—that you're really the billboard guy. Do you mind?” she asked. The deputy produced a silvery, pocket-size camera.

“No problem,” Trace said. He leaned close to the officer, who stretched out her arm, turned her wrist—and with her thumb fired off a flash photo.

“Thanks,” she said, slipping the camera back into a breast pocket. Then she pulled out her booklet and began to write.

“I'm getting a ticket?” Trace exclaimed.

“You may be on billboards, but you can't drive seventy-five in a sixty—not on my highway, okay?”

“Okay,” Trace said flatly.

“I am reducing it to seventy in a sixty,” she said, “but it still goes into the big computer in the sky. If you get caught speeding again this trip, the next cop is going to be very unhappy.”

“Got it,” Trace said. He glanced at his watch.

“Another thing: you look way better on your billboard than you do right now. I suggest you stop and take a nap—or get some coffee—or both,” she said as she finished scribbling on her pad. “There's an all-night truck stop, the Highway 61, about five miles ahead.”

“I'll look for it,” Trace muttered.

“I might even call up there and make sure you stopped,” she said, tearing off the warning ticket—
zzrrppp!
—and handing it to Trace.

“Don't worry, I'll stop.”

“And one last thing,” she said.

“I thought we were done,” Trace said.

“Good luck with that girl when you get home.”

Trace made sure to signal as he pulled back onto the highway. In his rearview mirror, the officer made a U-turn and headed back to her billboard. His billboard. Whatever. As soon as the deputy was out sight, Trace pinned the gas pedal to the carpet.

At the Highway 61 Gas-n-Go, he filled up with gas, then parked his car. Inside the restaurant, a long counter with red stools was empty. A couple of booths were occupied by late-night losers, some gothy-looking teenagers in one, and a burned-out, long-haired guy nursing a cup of coffee in another. He had used about a dozen creamers; the torn-open white plastic containers were arranged in a star shape.

Trace took a counter stool. He set his cell phone within reach.

“Hey, sailor,” the waitress said as she came his way. She had pale blond hair pulled back, and a blouse with food spots on the front. “Coffee?”

“No thanks.”

She handed him a menu. She was thirty-something, tired around the eyes, but had been pretty once, probably in high school. As Trace scanned the smudged list, looking for the least greasy choice, his cell phone buzzed and started to table-walk. He turned it over, checked the incoming number, then let it lie. Soon the waitress returned.

“Three eggs over hard, extra toast,” he said.

She turned away and shouted to the cook.

Eating on the road was mainly a process of choosing foods that could not be totally screwed up, such as eggs and toast. Beyond those, everything was fair game for bad cooks. Racetrack food was worse than truck-stop fare; right now he missed his little refrigerator in the cabin of the Freightliner hauler—that and his comfy single bed. He let out a long breath as exhaustion hit him. He had a strong desire to lean over the counter and put down his head, but then he'd look like the rest of the late-night losers.

He went to the bathroom, took off his cap, and splashed water on his face. For a moment he didn't recognize himself in the mirror: tired brown eyes, heavy beard shadow that felt like sandpaper, cap hair that stuck out every which way. He slicked back his brown curls, which he had let grow longer lately. He wasn't superstitious, but he had won three features in the last five shows. Why change anything?

Back in the restaurant, he sat down just as the waitress brought his plate.

“Your phone was ringing,” she said.

“It's always ringing,” he said. He checked the number, then slipped the phone into his shirt pocket. As he bent down to eat—some protein would wake him up—the waitress remained in front of him.

“My deputy friend, Sally, tells me you were speeding tonight.”

He looked up at her over a forkful of eggs. “She said she might call up here. I thought she was kidding.”

“She's not a kidder,” said the waitress, who was missing a tooth, upper left. “And she don't cut people much slack.”

“That's for sure,” Trace mumbled through a mouthful of food.

“Maybe she thought you were lucky enough already,” the waitress said. She bent over and put her elbows on the counter and her face in her hands and watched him eat.

Trace took another forkful of eggs.

“You're only eighteen and you drive a race car and you're on billboards,” she continued. “What's that like?”

Trace shrugged slightly. “Different,” he said. He swallowed, then reached for his toast.

“Different how?”

He glanced around the diner. With any luck, some more customers would come in and the nosy waitress would leave him alone. “I'm on the road most of the time. Haven't been home for months,” Trace said. “I get to eat at truck stops like this one.”

“But you wouldn't trade it for anything,” she said.

“That's right,” Trace said.

“A lot of local dirt track drivers come in here,” she said, straightening up, and wiping briefly at the counter. “They're all broke, and they all got some excuse why they didn't win their last race, but they all still believe they're gonna make it to the big time,” she said. “Get a NASCAR ride and be on television.”

“What's wrong with thinking that?” Trace asked.

“Nothing,” the waitress said with a shrug. “Except that they put every dime into their race car, which means the family is living in some dump of a trailer—freezing in the winter, burning up in the summer—and the wife is working a second crap job and wants a divorce, and their kids are never going to college, all because their old man is chasing a dream that's never ever gonna come true.” By the time she finished, her mouth was tight and hard.

Trace glanced at her wedding ring finger, which was bare.

“But hey,” she said, turning away, “maybe it will be different for you.”

2

He finally stopped for a nap at a Casey's Quick Stop in Soldiers Grove, Wisconsin. After a short hour slumped in the driver's seat, he got back on Highway 61 and headed north in the early morning blackness. Watchful for cops, he eased through the little towns of Viroqua, Westby, and Sparta. His route would take him north to Eau Claire, and a brief pit stop to see his mother, Sharon Bonham.

He slid open his phone and brought up
MOM
. She was an early bird, but it was still only 4:30 a.m. He tossed the phone onto the empty rider's seat, and kept driving. He didn't want to frighten her, but he also didn't want to surprise her by showing up at her door unannounced.

In another hour the darkness faded to predawn blue,
and in Brackett, a tiny town only twenty minutes from Eau Claire, he opened his phone and pressed her number. The phone rang and rang.

“Trace!” his mother answered. Her voice was half asleep but fearful. “Are you all right?”

“Sorry,” Trace said. “I'm fine. Just wanted to let you know that I'll be stopping in Eau Claire to see you.”

“Where . . . when . . . where are you?”

“Just south of town. About twenty minutes out.”

“So you're stopping in Eau Claire. Just you? Your team? What's going on?” she asked. She was waking up fast.

“Just me,” Trace said. “It's complicated. We raced in Bloomington, Indiana, last night, and I'm taking a little break. I'll see you soon, okay?”

“Uh, okay, sure, honey.”

His mother's town house was in the central part of Eau Claire, not far from the Chippewa River. She and Trace's dad were officially divorced now, though there was some settlement thing going on that Trace stayed out of.

He parked street-side, checked his face and hair in the mirror, rubbed a finger across his front teeth to clean them, then headed toward her front door. He rang the bell; the door swung open quickly.

“Trace, honey!” his mother said. She was in her bathrobe, and she pulled him forward into a hug.

“Sorry about the time,” Trace said.

“No problem. I usually get up early—as you know.”

Trace could only smile.

“Are you here racing? Nearby? Are you—Tell me what's up!” his mom said.

“I'm actually taking a couple of days off,” Trace explained as he came into the small living room. He flopped down on her couch—the brown leather one, from home, his all-time favorite napping couch. “I'm headed home for prom.”

Her mother blinked. “Prom?”

“Yes.”

“When is prom?”

Trace glanced at his watch. “Tonight.”

“Tonight?” His mother seemed befuddled.

Except for the couch, her living room contained not one thing from home. With its little gas fireplace, it felt like the lobby of chain motel.

“You never mentioned that you were going to prom,” she said as she turned away to make coffee.

“I just decided. Yesterday,” Trace answered.

“Do . . . you have a date?”

“Nope.” Trace leaned back, kicked off his shoes, and put his feet up.

His mother blinked. “Does anyone know you're coming? Like Melody or—”

“Nope. She has a date—at least that's what I hear.”

“With whom?” his mother asked.

“Patrick Fletcher.”

“Patrick Fletcher? He's the guy you let drive your race car at the end of last summer.”

“That's right.”

“Well, he's moved right in, hasn't he?” his mother said in a teasing voice.

“No kidding,” Trace muttered.

Then his mother pursed her lips in one of those are-you-sure-you-want-to-do-this looks. “So you're just going to show up?” she said. “Crash your senior prom?”

“Hey, I'm not crashing it. I'm a senior there, too,” Trace said.

“Even if you're taking all your classes through MOHS?” his mother asked. That was Midwest Online High School, an arrangement made for Trace by the corporate side of Team Blu.

“That's the deal,” Trace said. At least he thought it was. No reason to go down that road right now. In her fluffy robe his mother appeared to have gained a couple of pounds, which for her was a good thing; even her face was fuller, but that was probably because her hair was cut shorter, and lightened, too.