Yellow Flag (13 page)

Fresh coats of white and deep-blue paint glistened in the Saturday-morning sun. Even from the hill overlooking the track, Kyle could smell the paint. He imagined the grandstand still sticky, but Goshen Raceway looked sparkling and new, the way he remembered it from childhood, when the family was riding high.

“It's beautiful,” said Nicole. “A jewel box.”

He liked her response, felt proud. Below them several hundred local people were being ushered into the Walter Hildebrand section of the grandstand by production assistants. One newspaper notice, a couple of radio spots, and an e-mail invitation to the Hildebrand fan club had brought them out to be in the commercial, in return for lunch and a T-shirt. The paint better be dry
on those seats, he thought.

On the newly shiny black track, Wolf, the director, was supervising the placement of the cars. A camera crew was setting up in the bed of a truck. Kyle spotted Jackman and the crew stuffing themselves at a long food table while Dad, Sir Walter, and Uncle Kale stood talking with Family Brands types, down to their shirtsleeves in the heat. Dad was wearing the new Family Brands fire suit. When had he been fitted for that?

Nicole said, “Shouldn't you be down there?”

“Kris isn't here yet.”

She laughed. “Sibling rivalry. You're not going to stand around waiting for him, right?”

He wondered if he felt annoyed because she saw through him or because it made him feel childish. Why do I think so much? Why do I have to be such a mirror driver?

“Let's go.” He grabbed her hand. They slung their gig bags over their shoulders and danced down the hill to the track.

“Oh, my God, look!” she said. He followed her pointing finger to a far section of the grandstand, where fresh deep-blue letters spelled out:

KYLE HILDEBRAND

“That's new,” he said. “For the commercial.”

“Didn't you use to race here?”

“When I was a kid.” When she made a funny face, he said, “I started when I was five, in quarter-midgets and go-karts. By the time I was into modifieds, the action moved to Monroe Speedway.”

“That was after your grandfather retired and your dad got hurt.” She smiled at his surprise. “Don't you think I Googled you? Even my dad was impressed. This is the big Hildebrand comeback.”

“We'll see.” He felt uncomfortable. It was one thing to read about it in the paper, another to actually talk about it.

She squeezed his hand. He wondered if she really got it. If he did.

Jimmie was the first to spot them. She marched across the track toward them, square shouldered, her red braid swinging, and gave Nicole an obvious once-over before she extended a hand. “Hi, I'm Jimmie. I'm with the crew.”

“I'm Nicole. I'm with the band.”

That broke the ice a little, Kyle thought. At least Jimmie grinned. He couldn't see Nicole's face past the cloud of curly black hair.

“You better get dressed for the shoot, Kyle. Your suit's in the makeup trailer.” Jimmie pointed to a construction trailer in the garage area. “The band's
in a tent behind the trailer.”

“See you later.” Nicole kissed him before she headed for the tent.

Jimmie watched her go. “You guys making music?”

He decided to ignore that. “Where's Kris?”

“This some kind of race to see who arrives last? He's on his way.”

He followed her inside the double-wide. Two identical fire suits hung from a clothes pole, and a woman was sitting in a barber chair dabbing at a thick layer of makeup on her face. Her lipstick was bright red. She spotted him in the mirror and jumped up. “You must be Kris.”

“Kyle,” he said.

“He's gonna be better than Kris,” said Jimmie.

“Better at what?” The woman cackled and stuck out her hand. “Hi, Kyle, I'm Darlene, gonna make you up.”

He felt embarrassed by the bold way Darlene was looking at him. She was younger than he had first thought.

“Better driver,” said Jimmie. On her way to the door, she said, “They're getting impatient out there. It's hot.”

Darlene said, “Get dressed, Kyle. Then I'll do your face.”

“Right here?”

“You've got something I haven't seen before?”

He stripped down to his underwear and pulled on the suit. He couldn't tell if it was the one he had worn in the races or a new one. When he sat in the barber chair, Darlene covered the suit with a smock. “Just a little powder to cut down the shine,” said Darlene. He had never been made up before. Once he relaxed, he liked the feel of the soft brush. He closed his eyes as she dabbed at his lids.

“The redhead your girlfriend?”

“She works on the cars.”

“She'd like to work on you, Kyle, trust me.” Darlene trimmed his hair around his ears and rubbed in gel. She combed it up. Looked like Kris's hair. “There you go. I'll be outside, touch you up when you need it.”

He climbed down from the trailer in time to see Kris roar onto the track on one of Jackman's Harleys. A cowgirl was hanging on to him. He circled the track once, spotted Kyle, and made a gravel-spitting stop a few feet away.

“Hey,” said Kris. He was laughing. He looked wasted and happy. Back to normal. “You must be Kyle. Heard a lot about you. They say you can drive.”

Shooting the commercial was almost as boring as sitting through environmental science at Goshen High. The director stomped around like a skinny Uncle Kale, shouting orders, complaining about the bright sunlight, pushing cameras around. Then he'd go off to check the picture setups on a bank of TV monitors in an air-conditioned trailer while almost everyone else baked in the heat.

Kyle spent most of the time in the makeup trailer with Kris, Dad, and an assistant director, going over their scene. The lines were simple. The three of them argued over which one of them got to drive number 12 until Sir Walter appeared and said, “Easy, boys. Here at Family Brands there's something for everyone.” The
camera then zoomed out to reveal two more identical cars. In the next scene they would be driving three wide down the track while Sir Walter waved a flag with the Family Brands logo.

Kyle remembered his dream. But in the script Dad was in the middle car.

“Pretty stupid,” said Kris cheerfully.

“Let's just get through this,” said Dad. He was nervous.

“We'll race the cars,” said Kris.

“You are joking,” said the assistant director, a young woman, looking horrified.

“Then forget it,” said Kris, pretending to start tearing his script.

“He's joking,” said Dad, glaring at Kris.

“I'll take the show car and still whip Kyle's ass,” said Kris. Something in his voice flipped a switch in back of Kyle's mind. He thought of Grandpa's porch. Kris is not joking.

“Save it for Charlotte,” said Kyle.

“You won't be there,” said Kris. “You're retired.”

He really wants to race me, to beat me, thought Kyle. Where does that come from? It excited him. Pleased him.

The makeup woman started touching them up again. “They're ready for you.”

 

Kris was totally relaxed in front of the camera. Dad seemed as self-conscious as Kyle felt. Each of them had to yell, “No, I'm the designated driver.” Kris was the only one who didn't sound as if he were reading lines. He meant it. The crowd broke out laughing and applauded him. On the sixth take, when he yelled “How many times do I have to tell you, I'm the designated driver!” even the director applauded and yelled, “Cut! That's it. Let's break.”

The assistant director led Kyle to a spot in front of the grandstand crowd, where Mr. G and the brass players were sweating in their marching band uniforms. They managed the trumpet flourish from
Aida
in three takes, then played a few minutes of Dixieland before they went to lunch at the long tables.

Kyle was too hot to eat more than a turkey sandwich and drink three bottles of water. Nicole just drank water.

“What if you have to pee during a race?” she said.

“Most of it comes out in sweat,” said Kyle, but when he noticed Del laughing, he added, “The rest just comes out. Dries fast.”

Mr. G wrinkled his face. “Sounds horrible.”

“Unless you're leading,” said Kyle.

 

In the final big scene, Kyle, Kris, and Dad were supposed to sprint to their cars, climb in, and drive off while the people in the grandstand clapped and cheered. They did it eight times, which took most of the rest of the afternoon, since after they were in the cars, the director had to stop the action while crews ran out to help them put on their helmets and hook up the head and neck restraints. Kris tried his old jackknife into the car, and even after he made it on the second try, the director told him they all had to climb in the usual way and at about the same speed. He sulked about that but agreed. Then he shot ahead of the other two cars, and they had to restart. Everybody was cranky by the time it worked and the three cars, door to door, were moving slowly past the grandstand as Sir Walter waved the flag.

They were halfway around the track, Kris on the outside near the wall, when the public address system crackled and the director shouted, “Cut. That's a wrap for the day. Thank you, everybody.” Everybody cheered.

Dad dropped back in the show car and turned into the pits.

Kris stuck his hand out his window and waved Kyle alongside. “Let's see what you got.” He mashed the gas.

Without thinking, Kyle accelerated after him.

They were back on grandpa's porch and it was exhilarating. Somewhere in the distance he could hear Dad
and Uncle Kale yelling, but they had yelled on Hildebrand Hill when he and Kris were racing trikes, so what was the difference now when the porch was a quarter-mile oval and the chairs and relatives they slalomed around were production assistants and video equipment?

Just racing.

Number 12A felt a little loose in the turns. Have to tell Uncle Kale about it. Car feels like a lot to handle but eager to go and hair-trigger on the gas. For the first two laps he was right behind Kris, and by the third he was back alongside. Kris grinned at him and cocked a finger and shot ahead half a length, but Kyle caught him a lap later. The cars were a match. It was about who was a better driver.

Dad and Uncle Kale were running along the yellow line, frantically waving them in, and Sir Walter's deep voice was booming over the PA, “That's it, boys, bring 'em in, bring 'em in right now,” but there was no way they were going to stop right now—they were going to keep going around the porch until one of them drove the other off into Grandma Karen's flower bed even if the flowers were made of concrete. Let's see what you got, big bro, this time I'm gonna whip your ass without a rake. I kept your seat warm, and now I own it.

Kyle took the lead on the sixth lap and blocked when Kris tried to pass.

Kris tapped him.

If he hadn't expected it, he would have spun into the wall.

The thought was an electric shock: Kris was going to do it again, he was going to bump him out of the way even if it meant wrecking him to win this silly little jerk-off race in front of people who weren't going to appreciate what he did because their jobs depended on these two cars making it to the races. Kris was going to do it because he had to win.

That's all he has.

That's not my problem.

I don't have to let him win. I just might have the car and the smarts to beat him today, to use his craziness against him, to lure him up into a corner and leave him smoking, let him wreck himself.

Am I crazy too?

The family is depending on us.

Kyle blocked right, and when Kris tried to pass him on the inside, he let him go. Kyle flipped him the bird as he passed, just to let him know I gave you this one, big bro, you didn't win it.

Kyle cut left and dove into the pits. Sir Walter was waiting for him, the flag tucked under his arm, smiling, his thumbs up.

By the time he got to Nicole's house, it was night. He saw the burning red tip of a cigarette before he made out the cloud of black hair and then Nicole on the porch glider.

“You don't smoke.”

“Today I do.” She was in a mood.

“That's stupid. Paying to get lung cancer.”

“You should talk.” She sounded cranky. “How can you blow a trumpet after hours of breathing all that smoke and fumes and crap at the track?”

He plucked the cigarette out of her hand and ground it out on the porch deck. He expected her to react, but she didn't. “You okay?”

“I thought you were coming hours ago.”

“Sorry. I got your voice mail but I didn't have time to call back.” He reached for her. She pulled away once, then let him hold her hands. “When did you guys split?”

“Your dad and this really fat guy—”

“My uncle Kale.”

“Whoops.” She laughed. “Well, they were screaming and the commercial people started herding everybody out, and Mr. G thought we should go too.”

“You got any beer?”

“Let's see some ID.” She stood up and hugged him. “I thought you weren't going to come. That you had something better to do.”

“It was sort of intense.” He liked the way she led him into the house, pushed him into a chair at the kitchen table, and plunked a cold can in front of him.

“You guys must have caught hell.”

“Well. There was some discussion.” He waited for the day to fall into place in his head, like a shuffled deck. “They screamed for a while, but then the director said the race was great, they got it on tape, and we had to watch it and then redo parts of it. They might use it in the next commercial. They're gonna write some lines about how even in the best of families we try to be the best and to best each other.”

“Here at Family Brands”—she did a pretty good imitation of Sir Walter—“we try to kill each other.”

Kyle laughed. He felt close to her. He was glad she had seen it. “Kris got props for being aggressive and I got props for being cautious. Win-win.”

“At least it's over.”

“Really. Coulda been ugly.”

“No, I mean it's over for you. Kris is back and you're free.”

“Free?” He knew what she meant but he stalled.

“To play with the quintet. To do what you want.” She stared at him across the table. “That is what you want.”

“Yeah.” It didn't sound positive to him.

Her eyes narrowed. “You want to keep racing?”

He still felt close enough to take a chance. “I'm not sure.” But he wasn't sure if he wasn't sure. I'm a work in progress. He wasn't sure about anything, even if he really wanted to be here right now.

“You drove off the track.”

“Kris was out of control. We could have wrecked both cars. After everything everybody's been working for.”

“Sounds like you're back where we started.” She sounded sad, not angry. “I think you really want to race.”

“I said I'm not sure.” It sounded harsh when it came. She winced. Maybe I'm being too hard on Nicole. Maybe she thinks we'll never get together if I race.
Sounds like a soap opera. “Sorry. I guess I'm confused.”

She came around the table then and sat on his lap. They were kissing when he felt a buzzing at his groin. It was a moment before he realized it was his phone vibrating.

“Yeah?”

“Team meeting tomorrow morning at eleven, the shop.” It was Jimmie. Nicole slid off his lap and went back to her chair.

“What for?” said Kyle.

“Ask Sir Walter—he called it.”

He turned off the phone and put it on the table. “Team meeting tomorrow morning.”

She popped open another beer. “Mr. G called a rehearsal for tomorrow. At noon.”

“Sunday?”

“The audition is coming up in ten days.”

“You think we won't get it after being in a national commercial?”

“That sounds pretty arrogant.” She took a long pull on the can. “Even for a trumpet player.”

“What about for a race driver?” This time he was trying to be harsh. Some part of him wanted to be out of here.

“That's what you really want to be, isn't it?” Now she sounded harsh.

“At the track you seemed to get it. I thought you understood where I was at.”

“Maybe not. Where are you…at?” Now she was mimicking him.

“I just don't want anybody boxing me in, telling me what to do.”

“You just don't want to make a commitment.” She cracked open another can.

“Commitment, no, not if it means I can't keep my options open.”

“Keep my options open.” She was slurring words. “A girl with the crew and a girl with the band. Lucky boy's got a pit lizard and a horn ho.” Her face seemed to be disappearing into her curly black hair.

He tried to think of something to say, but in the silence she kicked back her chair. “I'm going up. You can come if you want.”

He waited until he heard her footsteps on the stairs before he left the house.