Yellow Flag (3 page)

Gary and Ruff came out of the pits and worked their way back near the front. Kris had taken the lead. The race had settled into a battle for split seconds. The over-the-wall guys would be busting butts to get their cars in and out of the pit in less than fifteen seconds, and the crew chiefs would be plotting tactics for the final laps, especially when to try to move to the front.

Kyle could make out Dad hunched over his laptop and charts at a table overlooking the number 12 pit, could imagine him lost in his gas and tire calculations. A good or bad decision about when to fill up the tank or how many tires to change could make all the difference in a race this close.

Nobody was making any risky moves yet. Kyle
struggled to keep his mind from drifting from the race to the quintet, then let it split-screen. He could think about both.

He was sorry to be missing the master class; it could be awesome, a chance to watch serious musicians up close, to learn and be inspired. The Brooklyn Brass was one of the best ensembles in the country. Their two trumpets also played in symphony orchestras and did jazz gigs. He had their CDs. Getting some pointers from a group like that, he thought, could get us tighter, move us toward our own sound. Some group—we don't even have a name.

Mom is the only one in the family who understands what the quintet means, he thought. She was the only other musician in the family. But she almost always came down on the family side when there was a conflict. Like every other Hildebrand. I should talk. I'm here today, right?

The radio crackled. “Pit now, Kris.”

“I'm good,” said Kris. He didn't want to give up the lead.

“Not enough gas,” said Dad.

Kris slowed into the pit road as Gary and Ruff swept to the lead. Kyle turned back to number 12 just in time to see Kris's gasman drop his seventy-pound dump can. The rear tire handler tripped over it. It would have
been worse if he'd fallen down, but Jackman leaned over and caught him with one powerful hand. At least ten precious seconds were lost. Uncle Kale was cursing as Kris drove back onto the track.

Kris needed almost twenty laps to work his way back up to the front, ten miles that tested his patience, which Kyle thought was wearing thin. The Intruder was moving cars out of his way, one of them into the wall and out of the race. Kris knew how to make enemies.

With twenty laps to go, Kris got up to fourth place. He stayed there as the bright, hard sun of the afternoon began to weaken, changing the temperature of the track. Cars began to push toward the wall as the grip of the track tightened. Kyle could feel the suspense building in the crowd. When would Kris make his move?

He waited until there were only five laps to go.

The crowd was on its feet, yelling, as Kris tried to break the three-car jam in front of him. Gary, Ruff, and Elliott Slater were running side by side, but Slater in the green Ford was waggling his back end again. He didn't have full control of the car.

Kyle imagined himself in Kris's seat, the heat building up inside his fire suit, his arms aching from turning the wheel, his eyes burning from staring through the oil-spattered windshield, his head pounding from the
carbon monoxide buildup. He thought he could feel the thumping in Kris's chest as the lap counter on the scoreboard clicked down.

He thought, Do you want to be in that seat, li'l bro?

Just imagining, so I can help Kris.

Whatever you say.

Minutes to go before the finish line and three cars in front. Going to have to do something soon.

The radio crackled. “Talk to me, Kyle.”

“Green Ford's loose, he's gonna have to drop back.”

“Oh, yeah.” He could hear the anticipation in Kris's voice, and then, “There he goes,” as Slater slowed the green Ford to get it back under control.

The green Ford was running alongside Kris. There were only two cars in front of him now. Ruff shot ahead to take the lead.

Kris accelerated into Gary's rear end. It looked like Kris was sticking his nose up Gary, bumping him on the straightaway. But Gary kept up enough speed so Kris couldn't knock him out of the way. And there was no way Gary would let him pass, smoothly blocking as Kris edged left and then right. Gary's good, thought Kyle.

The radio crackled. “Wilco,” said Kris.

Kyle had forgotten.

The Hildebrand Sling.

“What?” That was Dad and Uncle Kale at the same time.

“Talk to me, Kyle,” shouted Kris.

“No,” said Kyle.

“What's up?” Dad must know, thought Kyle.

“Wilco,” snarled Kris.

He's going to do it with or without me, thought Kyle.

Kyle felt his mind slip into the zone, the toy cars slowing so he could reach down and touch them. Ruff's brick-red number 22 was in front, Gary's light-blue number 24 right behind him, and then Kris running alongside Slater's green Ford. Kris was on the inside, Slater on his right, on the outside near the wall.

“Clear low.” Kyle concentrated all his mental energy on number 12.

Kyle's arms tensed as if he were jacking the wheel on the Blue Shadow himself, swerving right in a feint that banged the green Ford up toward the wall and out of the action. Gary edged right to block Kris.

Kyle yelled, “Sling!”

Kyle's arms throbbed as he imagined Kris yanking the wheel left, a vicious twist that made the Blue Shadow's chassis shiver and shriek. The car swooped low, the left-side wheels almost touching the grass.

It was like threading a needle. Gary recovered and turned left, and Slater came roaring up alongside him.
There shouldn't have been enough room for Kris to pass, but somehow he slipped through, passing Gary, then passing Ruff.

Kris crossed the finish line first.

As the checkered flag came down, the green Ford caught up with number 12 and slammed into its rear. Son of a bitch. Slater didn't have to do that, thought Kyle. The race was over.

The crowd gasped as the Blue Shadow lurched forward, rose up on its rear wheels like a Jurassic Park monster with a shriek of wounded metal, then fell sideways. It rolled over on its roof, now a helpless blue turtle.

Kyle was frozen until Kris crawled out his window, stood up, and swaggered around his car, waving. The crowd went wild.

The girl with the red braid was even better-looking up close. She was about eighteen or nineteen. Her skin was milky white except for tan freckles splashed across the bridge of her nose and high on her cheeks. Round brown eyes, a wide friendly mouth with lots of big white teeth. Kris could pick 'em.

“You must be Kyle,” she said. “You look just like Kris except for the hair.”

That stopped him. She grabbed his arm as he was holding up his pass to the guard at the entrance to Victory Lane. He noticed that the pass around her neck wouldn't get her in.

“He should let his hair grow long like yours,” she said.

The guard checked Kyle's pass and waved them both through. Cool maneuver, he thought, impressed and annoyed at the same time. She used me to get to Kris. “Who are you?” It came out more harshly than he intended.

“Jimmie,” she said, and let go his arm to push her way into the crowd around the Blue Shadow, which had been turned back on its tires.

Kris was dancing on the dented roof of the car, spurting soda down on Jackman and the crew. The champagne would come later, Kyle thought. With Jimmie.

Kris spotted him and gave him the wink and the head jerk before he jumped down from the car. He seemed a little shaky when he landed, but Jackman steadied him. Jimmie gave Kris a hug. Dad and Uncle Kale were nearby, gassing with Sir Walter and some men in suits. Must be the Family Brands guys. The way everyone was grinning, thought Kyle, it must be a done deal.

Kris was talking into a mic, thanking everyone, while Jackman handed him different pit caps to clap on his head so pictures could be taken with each of the sponsors' logos. The old hat dance. Lots of little sponsors. That might be changing.

Kyle suddenly felt lonely. What's wrong with me? Kris won and I was part of it. Get with the team, man. But what does this have to do with me? It's not where I
want to be. He watched the crew, hopping up and down like kids, so happy to win, especially after they nearly blew it dropping the gas can.

“Kyle.” Kris was waving him over. “KYLE!”

Did enough for you today—I don't have to join the crowd kissing your ass. He turned away. Rather sit in my car in the traffic inching out of the speedway than stand around here like a fifth wheel.

A big hand dropped on his shoulder and spun him around. “Hey, Kyle, go get your props.” Jackman was grinning. “Man, you deserve it. Wilco. Wouldn't be here without you.”

“Later.” He tried to get away, but Jackman was too strong.

“Kris wants you.” He steered Kyle to the car.

Kris let go of the redhead and grabbed Kyle. He still had the mic. “And here's the man steered me across the line, my baby brother Kyle.”

The suits and Sir Walter started clapping, but they were quickly drowned out by Jackman and the crew stomping and yelling. Kris poured soda on Kyle's head.

It felt great. He couldn't keep himself from smiling. He didn't even mind when Jimmie hugged him. The photographers moved closer.

Sir Walter glided over and took the mic from Kris. His silvery hair was long and carefully combed, his blue
eyes twinkled. He looked like a movie actor playing an old-time race car driver. His deep, rumbly voice sounded like Johnny Cash over the public address system. “Watching my grandson win today was a bigger thrill than winning myself, maybe 'cause he's better'n I was his age.” He paused to shake his head and grin at fans yelling, “No way, Sir Walter,” from the grandstand. “Well, the folks at Family Brands must've thought so, too, 'cause they're gonna partner Hildebrand Racing. Next week number twelve will be wearing a new paint job and a new logo. So you show them our appreciation by buying up Jump and Yum Cakes and Fresh Beginnings cereal. Just tell 'em at the store that Sir Walter sent you.”

Sir Walter put on his modest face as the crowd shouted, “Keep your eyes on the road ahead.” The Family Branders were high-fiving one another. What a bunch of jerks, thought Kyle. Another reason to be glad I'm not on the inside of this deal.

A track official signaled to Kris. “Docs are waiting for you.” He'd need the usual medical exam after a crash.

“Right there.” Kris grabbed Kyle's head and pulled it to his mouth. “Gonna stay over. Need your car.”

“How'm I gonna get home?”

“Fly back with grandpa in the money boys' jet. They saved a seat for me.”

“Sure it's okay?”

“C'mon. For ten million bucks don't you think they want to keep their driver happy? Keys.”

Kyle dug out his car keys. Kris grabbed them and was gone. Kyle didn't have time to tell Kris about the Camaro's oil leak. Kris said something to Sir Walter, who nodded and said something to one of the men in suits, who came over and steered Kyle toward a golf cart that would take him to the Monroe Speedway airfield. Wheels up in twenty minutes, said the suit.

The airplane seat was so soft, Kyle would have fallen asleep if he'd been more relaxed around Sir Walter and the Family Brands guys. He'd never been totally comfortable with his grandfather, who always seemed to care as much about his fans as his family. He was always super friendly around fans, always willing to stop and chat, even sign autographs in the middle of dinner at a restaurant. Especially in the middle of dinner with his family, where he never had much to say.

Sir Walter didn't start talking with Kris and Kyle until they were old enough to talk racing. Sir Walter and Uncle Kale were the only adults in the family who thought the two little brothers racing around the enormous porch was funny. Of course, when the inevitable
end came, when Kyle went flying into the flowers, Sir Walter and Uncle Kale were never around to pick him up.

When Kris was sixteen, before his first big televised race, Sir Walter gave him two pieces of advice.

“You got to establish your territory and hold it,” he said, and then, “Always have a spare Sharpie so no fan walks away disappointed because they didn't get an autograph.”

Kris laughed when he told Kyle about the advice, which he thought was dumb. Kyle laughed because Kris laughed, but it didn't sound dumb to him. He had wondered when Sir Walter would tell it to him. It had never happened. It would never happen now, he thought. I'm a trumpet player, not a racer. Not even a trumpet player today.

A flight attendant took drink orders. Kyle looked around. There were about a dozen people on the plane, mostly older men in lounge chairs fiddling with their BlackBerrys. Sir Walter was sitting at a table in the rear, going over papers with two of the suits. Must be the contracts. Dad always said Sir Walter was as good with sponsors as he'd been behind the wheel.

“This is just the small jet, for short hops.” A bald, chubby suit was leaning toward him from the next chair. He extended a hand. “I'm Dave Winik, vice president of
communications for Family Brands.”

“I'm Kyle…”

“I know you, the super spotter.” Winik grinned. “So what's this sling thing I heard about?”

The flight attendant stepped between them. Winik was very fussy about his drink order, some kind of martini that sounded like pure gin. Wouldn't mind a beer myself, Kyle thought, but better not here.

“You want a drink?” Winik raised his eyebrows. “I won't tell anyone.”

Kyle decided to outcool him. “I'll have Jump.”

Winik made a face. “I only have it with rum, call it Rump.” Funny story to tell Nicole. Wonder what she's doing tonight after the concert. “You race too, right?”

“Used to.”

“What happened?” He pushed his face up close, looked serious, like a guidance counselor.

“Got into music.” It was enough for this guy.

“Oh, yeah? What do you play?” He had a notebook out.

“Trumpet.”

Winik wrote that down. “Your brother's the designated driver, huh?” He laughed at his little joke. He wrote that down too. Kyle wished the plane would land already. “All these Ks in the family—Kris, Kyle, Kale, Kerry, that's your dad, right?”

“That was my grandpa's idea. For Grandma Karen.”

“That's great stuff.” He chuckled and wrote it down.

“There was a Ken, too. Your dad's other brother?”

“He's in the army,” said Kyle. The one who got away, Mom called him. Winik didn't need to know that.

The flight attendant came back with their drinks. Winik tasted his martini and shrugged. Kyle took a gulp of the Jump because he was thirsty. Worst of the sports drinks.

The plane landed before either of them finished their drinks. Winik made a phone call. “Your limo's on the way. See you tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow?”

“We're doing a little event at the church. Get some footage for the marketing campaign.”

The limo was waiting at the foot of the stairway. Too bad he couldn't ask the driver to take him to the concert in Charlotte.

The limo was just for him and Sir Walter. He tried to remember when he'd last been alone with his grandfather. Maybe never. He worried about what they would talk about, then felt more put out than relieved when Sir Walter started talking with the driver. Another fan.

They were near Goshen when Sir Walter turned to him and said, “I heard it was you called for the sling.”

Not quite, he thought, but he didn't know how much
credit to take to keep Kris out of trouble. Hey, how can Kris get into trouble for the win that clinched the big deal? It turned out he didn't need to answer, because it wasn't really a question.

“Good call. Fred would of gotten a boot out of that, rest his soul. Y'know, it was your Great-grandpa Fred invented the sling right before Bristol one year, to beat Bobby Allison, and it worked perfect, like today. Beat King Richard, too, at Daytona. You gotta know when to call 'em, and you sure did. You feel good about that call, Kyle. We got a deal, and I think the family's back on track.”

Kyle felt breathless. He didn't want the ride to end. He wanted to say something, but his grandfather turned back into Sir Walter and leaned forward to pick up his conversation with the driver. They talked about old-time races until they arrived at Hildebrand Hill. Kyle was let out first, and Sir Walter gave him a little pat-on-the-shoulder good night.