Yellow Flag (11 page)

The crew went nuts when the red, green, and deep-blue number 12 Family Brands Ford qualified in fifth place for the Prince Pizza 250, the best pole position the car had won all season. They hugged Kyle and pounded one another and jumped on Jackman's back. It was proof that all their hard work had paid off, the new setup worked, they had created a speedier machine. And the rookie could drive.

They were standing outside the Family Brands hospitality tent when the final qualifying numbers flickered on the scoreboard. Dad punched Uncle Kale's big chest, and Sir Walter grabbed both their heads and pretended to knock them together. A Family Brands video crew shot them. Winik and the other executives high-fived.

Uncle Kale turned to Kyle and said, “Up to you now.”

Later he wished he had thought faster and said something like It's the car, stupid. But he was caught up in the excitement of being so close to the front. Can I hold that lead? Kris won with cars that didn't even qualify in the top twenty, he was that good. I'm not Kris. Maybe that was what Uncle Kale was really saying. It's your race to lose, Kylie.

Uncle Kale signaled to the crew and lumbered off to the garage area. Jackman and the crew fell into line behind Kale like kids on a field trip. Follow the leader.

“Ready to rock, li'l bro?” Kris knuckled his head. He almost looked like himself. You'd have to know him well, Kyle thought, to notice the fatigue in his face. Kris still winced at bright lights or sudden loud noises, but he was standing straight and the quick grin was back. So was the mischief. When two Family Brands guests, a couple of twenty-somethings whose boobs were jumping out of their halter tops, came over for autographs, Kris wrote, “From Kyle Hildebrand, little brother of the future king.” They squealed and kissed him.

“How about kissing Kyle?” said Kris, pointing to Kyle. “Even ugly guys need love.”

They lunged for Kyle, but Dad pulled him away. “Gotta go. Time enough for that up the road.”

But this could be the end of the road, Kyle thought.
The last race. Family Brands had had no trouble extending his exemption for this race, but could they really get a waiver for the rest of this season? He wouldn't be eighteen until the start of next season, in the middle of his senior year.

At the garage Uncle Kale and Jackman were fussing with a rag on the engine. If that's all they can think of to do, Kyle thought, number 12 is ready. It's up to me now.

“You stay in the top five,” said Uncle Kale, “everybody's happy and you've got yourself a ride in—”

“Kale.” Dad had the stop sign up.

“One race at a time.” Uncle Kale's beady eyes swept around until they found Jimmie. “Get upstairs. Stay alert. Remember, this is no talk show.”

Jimmie nodded at Uncle Kale and pumped a fist at Kyle. She looked too wound up to let Uncle Kale's tone get to her. She hurried off to the grandstand.

“You could tap that ass,” said Kris, watching her go.

“Yeah, right,” said Kyle. He wanted to think about that, but not now.

 

It felt different this time, like number 12 was his car, not a loaner from Kris. It had been rebuilt, and he had qualified in it.

People treated him differently—heartier handshakes
from the suits, more attention from the fans, nods at the drivers' meeting. Getting through the wreck had earned him some respect.

Ruff brushed past him without a word, but Gary Nagle said to him and Dad, “Nothing personal, what I said last week,” and Dad answered, “Didn't take it personal,” and they shook hands. Elliott Slater gave Kyle a hard look. Reminded Kyle of boxing matches on ESPN Classic where old-timey fighters try to stare down each other. Kyle grinned back, and Slater walked away.

Boyd was friendly. Must be angling for a seat in the new car, Kyle thought. “Got sponsorship for this race,” said Boyd. “New FM station. Might sign for the season.”

“Good luck,” said Dad.

“Be better if I was a minority,” said Boyd, tilting his head toward the only black face in the room. “Walks in with an army sponsorship.”

“He was a real good open-wheel driver,” said Dad. “Lloyd Rogers. Experienced.”

“He's here on a diversity program,” said Boyd.

“Still got to drive,” said Kyle.

“See if he can take the bangin'.” Boyd swaggered away.

When they ran into Randall Bean, Kyle thanked him for the push.

“Ask your dad how many times I got a push from him
or Sir Walter,” he said. “Glad I was there. You could be a good one.”

Dad thanked him and shook his hand. On the way back to the garage, Dad said, “Randall's a good judge of talent.”

Kyle felt Kris's eyes on him as he climbed into the car. Must look feeble to him, he thought, one leg at a time through the window, then wriggling down into the seat. He wondered if Kris would still be able to do his famous jackknife into the car.

C'mon, focus.

He adjusted himself into the seat and mounted the steering wheel. Uncle Kale and Jackman slipped his helmet on and tightened his seat belts and his head-and-neck restraint. He tested the radio. Jackman looped the straw from the water sack hanging behind the seat. No more cups at the end of a pole. They had installed state-of-the-art cold drink systems in both cars.

“Remember to bite down for water, Kylie,” said Uncle Kale.

“Kyle,” said Kyle. “Name is Kyle.”

“Sure.” said Uncle Kale. He didn't seem offended, didn't really seem to care. Should have done this a long time ago. But he wouldn't listen until I was a racer.

 

He had never driven a car so ready to run. Number 12 felt like a stallion. On the parade lap the engine
throbbed with complaint at being held back. He needed to keep a foot on the brake even when he eased up on the gas. The wheel pulled at his arms. Let's go!

He was ready to go too.

When the green flag came down, the car behind him tried to nose inside and pass, but Kyle didn't give an inch. It was Slater. The green Ford fell back into sixth place.

“That's it,” said Uncle Kale. “Hold your line, Kyle.”

The early laps were brisk but steady. The front row cars held their places and no one got too aggressive. Gary was leading and Ruff was in third place. They had qualified ahead of Kyle, but he wasn't convinced their cars were really faster in the long haul. Just concentrate on keeping your position, he reminded himself. But number 12 felt strong enough to go the distance, maybe even move up.

Take it easy—you're just here to keep Kris's seat warm. This could be your last race.

What was Uncle Kale starting to say when Dad shut him down? Tease him with a shot at driving 12A? Forget it. Two weeks from now, when number 12 and number 12A are both racing at Lowe's Motor Speedway in Charlotte, this Hildebrand is going to be blowing the trumpet. Hire Boyd. Hire Mr. Diversity.

“Purple Toyota coming up.” It was the first he had
heard Jimmie's voice this race.

He sneaked a peek. A flash of purple three or four cars behind. Lloyd Rogers had worked his way into the top ten. Kyle remembered being briefly boxed between Slater and Rogers last week. Rogers came out of nowhere last week and left me for dead, and he's coming back up today.

Not going to pass me this time, Rogers.

Slater was blocking Rogers at the tail end of the front runners. Boyd was behind Rogers, yellow and red lightning bolts painted on his white car along with the FM station's call letters and numbers.

Time to move up? Won't be long now, Kyle thought, before the pack starts pushing forward, putting pressure on the front-runners.

“Hold your line,” said Uncle Kale, reading his mind.

He was excited but he wasn't jittery, channeling the energy into keeping control of the car and staying alert. He was relaxed enough to let his eyes flick around, check the mirror, check the windows, scope the front-runners through the windshield. Like being in the quintet, he thought. You concentrate on your part, the music, the fingering, the breath, but you keep listening to the others, be part of the whole, avoid losing the tempo, steer away from collisions of sound. You need to visualize your part in the puzzle in both places, and here you have to know where the other cars are, and you have to let your car talk to you: the reassuring thumping of the engine, the whine of the gears, the squeal of metal tortured by the wrenching left turns and
the air rushing past. The music of the cars as beautiful as the music of the horns.

Uncle Kale called him in for gas and tires.

He was aware of all the sound and movement around him, Jackman shouting orders to the crew, Peyton carrying away the old tire, then checking the front grill for bits of rubber, the gas man going for the second can while the catch-can man held the first one in place. Fourteen seconds and they were all done and he was driving back onto the track.

It was a boat race, lap after lap after lap, fast but boring as the front-runners held their positions. No crashes. There was shifting in the Pack and in the Clot, but that had nothing to do with him. Number 9, the car Uncle Kale had criticized him for not bumping into the wall in the last race, leaked oil, and the caution flag came out until it was cleaned up, and then the parade continued. He fought to keep his mind on the race, checking the lap counter on the scoreboard, forty-nine to go, briefly letting his mind split-screen: Why not bring Nicole to a race, maybe with Del to keep her company and explain what was happening, so she could understand me better.

“Slater's gonna bump,” yelled Jimmie.

It was just enough warning to tighten his grip on the wheel and prepare his feet to accelerate or brake or
both before the green Ford tapped him. Kyle held on, steered into the spin and out in time to block Slater from passing inside.

Nice try, dingleberry.

The pace picked up. Ruff moved into second place, half a length behind Gary. In the mirror Kyle saw the purple Toyota make a bold sweeping pass that brought it outside Boyd's lightning-bolt white Pontiac. They were running door to door behind Slater.

He tried to imagine what might happen next.

Boyd and Rogers were outsiders at this track, and for all Boyd's yap about diversity drivers, he might team up with Rogers for a couple of laps, at least to get them past Slater. They might be able to pull an old trick. Boyd and Rogers would drive two abreast behind Slater, maybe even tapping him. Then they would split, Boyd low to the left, Rogers high to the right. Slater would go crazy weaving left and right to keep them from passing. Sooner or later, if Boyd and Rogers kept working together, one of them would find a hole big enough to drive into. He would either blast past Slater or ride door to door with him. Then he would team up with Slater to start the process again.

Against me.

Got to think this through. If Rogers is the one makes it, Slater will never team up with him, a young open-wheeler
he can't trust and knows nothing about. If Boyd makes it, Slater might just give it a shot, figuring he's smarter than Boyd and can ditch him once they knock me off and start fighting for a top-five spot.

“Don't drift,” snapped Uncle Kale. “Keep your eyes peeled.”

Up ahead the leaders were about to lap Randall. Poor old guy never had the equipment to do much. Hey, don't feel sorry for him, he's a survivor, he's out here when most guys his age are watching races. Keep Randall in mind—he can be helpful again.

“Purple Toyota and white lightning,” said Jimmie. “Two on Slater.”

He felt piss splatter out and dry on his thigh. The stink disappeared in the gas fumes. His head began to ache from the carbon monoxide buildup.

“Slater bumping,” said Jimmie. She sounded psyched.

“No play by play,” said Uncle Kale.

In the rearview he saw Slater's green Ford lurch forward. He felt a slight touch and tapped the gas, bringing himself to the fourth-place car. The green Ford lurched again but didn't reach him this time. Slater was tough, holding his line.

For two laps Kyle watched Slater duel Rogers and Boyd in his rearview mirror. Slater was good; he blocked them both. Then the ninth-place car, a blue
Chevy, moved in between Boyd and Rogers, and they ran three wide for two more laps until one of them bumped Slater toward the wall and Boyd swooped under Slater and passed him.

Now it was Boyd on his tail, with Slater, Rogers, and the blue Chevy bumping and rubbing behind. Those three would never get untangled in time. Just have to worry about Boyd.

Twenty laps to go.

Gary and Ruff were trading the lead, the third-place car right behind them. Never break into that little clique. But the car ahead in fourth place, a black-and-yellow Dodge, seemed a little loose. Fourth place would be sweet.

Don't risk it. Concentrate on holding fifth, blocking Boyd.

“Ten laps,” said Uncle Kale. “Just hold your line.”

Just hold your lardass. I'm going to do what I want. Maybe I'll try to blast my way to the front, or maybe I'll let the car slide back, come in, say, twentieth, and then you can hire Boyd or Lloyd Rogers or even Randall Bean to drive 12A.

But it would be Dad the Family Brands suits would go for, he thought, father and son Hildebrands if they couldn't get the brothers. Dad shouldn't be driving. Well, he's a big boy now, he can make that decision.

In this family nobody makes his own decision.

Except me.

“Boyd coming up outside,” said Jimmie.

Perfect. Let Boyd take fifth place, then Slater and Rogers can pass me, just keep dropping back and back and back into the Pack, then into the Clot, then waiting to get lapped with my old friend Randall. Finish last with Randall. Been there, done that.

I'm going to hold my line, Uncle Kale. You were wrong—the kid wasn't out there to win, he was out there to do the right thing, and now he's done it and he's going back to his own life. I'm a trumpet player. I'm not going to have to pull a Ken to break free.

The fourth-place black-and-yellow Dodge was getting looser, its rear end sliding up to the wall. If I move fast to get behind him, it'll look like I'm blocking Boyd, who'll try to pass me on the left, but I'll drop down fast to block him on the inside, and Boyd, dummy that he is, will swoop around me and slam into the Dodge and I'll be fourth.

But my timing will have to be perfect, or I'll slam into the Dodge or Boyd into me and I can't see the Dodge in front and Boyd behind at the same time….

Jimmie knew. “Now,” she yelled.

Kyle wrenched the wheel to the right, and when she again yelled, “Now,” he swerved left and matted the
gas, shooting free, seeing only a splash of color in his rearview as Boyd hit the Dodge.

“Clear,” yelled Jimmie.

He swept past the spinning tangle of yellow-and-black and yellow-and-red just as the yellow caution flag came down.

Kyle was in fourth place when the race ended a few minutes later, under a yellow flag.

 

Family Brands uniforms swarmed around the car as he drove into the garage area. Jackman pulled him out of the car. Peyton poured Jump on his head. The rest of the crew were hoisting him on their shoulders. Dad and Sir Walter and the suits were tossing Family Brands packages at the fans. Jimmie was pushing through the crowd toward him. How had she gotten down so fast?

“You scumbag!” Boyd was running toward him, fists balled, his crew behind him. One of them had a tire iron and lunged at number 12. He got in one good shot on the hood before Jackman grabbed him around the waist and wrestled him down.

Kris and the Hildebrand crew rushed out to meet Boyd's crew.

Kyle felt numb. As Boyd reached him, he brought up his fists. They felt heavy.

A wall slid in front of him and Boyd slammed into it.

“Dare you touch my driver,” roared Uncle Kale.

He had Boyd by the throat, up in the air, when the cops arrived.