Yellow Flag (7 page)

He sensed the freeze right away as he walked into the big room off the official inspection garage for the drivers' meeting. He was surrounded by Dad, Uncle Kale, and Jackman, but they couldn't shut out the low grumbles and the hard stares. Nobody likes rookies—Kyle knew that. They are unpredictable, they make mistakes, they get in the way, they cause wrecks. The track tapes a yellow stripe across a rookie's back bumper as a warning. Stay away from this one; he doesn't know what he's doing.

Last year Kris had worn his yellow stripe like a screw-you bumper sticker, daring other drivers to mess with him. He won more races than anyone else that season, the first time a rookie ever did that. Do they want
to take it out on me? They should be glad it's me they have to race against instead of him, Kyle thought. Hey, that's not constructive thinking.

Jackman shouldered open a path toward the front of the garage. Drivers and crew chiefs muttered, but they got out of the way. Boyd Jurgensen, who was almost as big as Jackman, bumped shoulders and glared at Kyle. His uniform was as white as his car, still no big sponsor. Kyle wondered if he was angry that he hadn't gotten Kris's seat. Would they really have given it to him, or was that just a way of putting more pressure on me?

A few of the older drivers and crew chiefs gave Dad friendly nods.

“Luck, Kyle.” It was old Randall Bean, hand out. Gratefully, Kyle shook it.

“Maybe you two can draft up,” said Ruff, “and stay out of our way.”

Randall's fists came up, but a track official stepped in and said, “Any behavior, boys, and you'll be watching the race from your trailer.”

Ruff grinned and turned away. The track official pushed his way to a small clearing in the front of the room and climbed up on a metal folding chair. He had to shout to be heard over the jittery chatter.

“Got a visitor, men, from headquarters. Ben Dutton.”

That quieted them down. Dutton, tall and wide, didn't
need to stand on a chair. His voice boomed off the metal and stone walls.

“We don't like what we saw last week. That chicken-shit deal at the finish got no place in big-league racin'. Simple rules. You get beat fair, you take it like a man. Nobody wrecks out of spite. Anybody carries this into this week, I'm here to tell you there'll be penalties, now and up the road, not to mention we'll be up your tailpipe. Hard racin' but clean racin'. Any questions?”

“I got one.” It was Gary Nagle. “Been bad wrecks here, you never come down. This about Family Brands and the waiver for Baby Hildebrand?”

There was applause from the crowd and a few whistles.

Jackman and Uncle Kale exchanged glances. Dad put a hand on Kyle's shoulder. “It's about last week, Kyle, not about you.”

Dutton's big face got red and hard. “Glad you asked that question, clear the air. What's your name, son?”

There were a few laughs as Gary hesitated. He looked sorry he had opened his mouth. “Gary Nagle.”

“I know you, Gary, promising young driver, got the stones to speak your mind. Look forward to seeing you in the Cup series someday.” Dutton was smooth and tough. “Now I got a question for you, Gary. You want to grow this sport? You want more high-class sponsors to
come in, more big-league advertisers? What happened last week gave us the kind of black eye those knuckle-head ballplayers give their so-called sports.”

There were a few laughs at that. Kyle sensed the angry mood starting to lift. Without answering Gary's question directly, Dutton had taken control. Kyle was impressed. This was a taste of the big leagues.

“Let's see some racin' today,” said Dutton. “Bangin' and rubbin's part of the deal, but not spinnin' somebody into the wall 'cause you can. Good luck.”

The local track official climbed back up on the chair and reminded them that a race can't be won on the first lap and that anyone who came into the pit road at more than thirty-five miles an hour would be black-flagged to the end of the longest line.

The track chaplain offered a short prayer that no one would be hurt, and then they were back out into the overcast day, dicey racing weather. Never know when the sun might come out and change the conditions of the track.

“You see Slater?” said Dad.

“Hiding in the back,” said Uncle Kale. “Ain't heard the last of that dingleberry.”

“Remind Billy to keep an eye on him,” said Dad.

Jackman said, “Maybe I should just remind Slater that—”

“You got enough to do,” said Uncle Kale, “reminding your boys to hold on to their gas cans.”

They were almost at the hauler, already smelling Billy's barbecue, when a woman jumped out of the crowd, dodged around Jackman, and thrust her chest into Kyle's face. Puppy-size boobs bumped around inside a number 12 T-shirt. “Sign my shirt, Kris?”

While Kyle hesitated, unsure what to do, Uncle Kale snickered and said, “Sorry, lady, this here's Kyle.”

“That's okay,” she said, waving her Sharpie.

Kyle was wondering what Sir Walter would have done when Jackman pulled him away, leaving the woman behind.

“Lesson for you,” said Uncle Kale. “Drivers are interchangeable. Like a monkey in a rocket ship. It's the car, stupid.”

In the moment before the green flag dropped, he felt icy prickles cascade down his back and skitter out along his arms and legs. Like before a concert. Once he blew his first note, the prickles would melt and he'd be in the zone, that deep cave of calm. His mouth was dry. That didn't matter here. The white noise of the roaring crowd and the growling engines was shredded by radio static.

“Stay awake, Kylie,” said Uncle Kale.

“Up yours,” he said before he thought about it. But it didn't matter. He had forgotten to press the talk-back button on the wheel, so nobody heard him. Wonder what else I'm forgetting to do. Stay awake, Kylie.

“Nice and easy, Kyle,” said Dad. “Nobody wins in the first lap.”

Even with a rolling start, it took Kyle a lap to get to speed. There were twenty-nine cars ahead of him.

Nice and easy. Nobody wins a 150-mile race in the first lap. And I'm not here to win, not even to make the top ten, just here to keep Kris's seat warm, get some team points toward the championship by finishing all three hundred laps. The race was going to be on regional TV. ESPN might put some of it into a national feed. Family Brands would like that.

“Stay alert now, Kylie.”

The early laps were slow but steady. From the tachometer he figured he was doing about seventy-five miles per hour, stuck behind the Clot. That's what Uncle Kale called the strokers near the end of the field, blockages in the bloodstream of a race, losers in a bunch. There were really four races going on. Up front were the leaders, maybe half a dozen racers with a real chance to win; then the Pack, a dozen also-rans who might get up there; then the Clot; and finally the Stragglers in sick cars just trying to finish.

Kris would have dissolved the Clot by now, ripped right through them. Get stuck behind the Clot, Kris would say, you might as well hang your head out the window and work on your tan.

There were about a dozen in the Clot.

Kyle drove right into the middle of it.

“Easy, Kyle, you're three wide,” said Billy from the grandstand roof.

For a lap he was boxed in, never a good idea with these clowns. He kept looking for daylight, waiting for someone to blink. A black-and-yellow Chevy bobbled and moved up a lane, and he shot through the space. He picked off another one. Number 12 wanted to run. Horses under this hood. He passed a third car.

“Nice,” said Billy. “You got Casper the Ghost coming up on your right.” His voice sounded a little thick. Was it him or the radio?

Kyle mashed the gas and left Boyd's white car behind. Suddenly he was leading the Clot. Up ahead, the Pack loomed.

“Clear both sides,” said Billy.

Uncle Kale said, “Take your time.”

He took his time. He spent fifty laps between the Pack and the Clot, concentrating on establishing his territory and holding it, finding that comfortable groove on the surface of the track that suited his car. He was learning the track as he dove into the turns, braking to let the car rotate so he could drop down into the straightaways. Between the Pack and the Clot, with no one trying to pass, he could focus on driving. After a while the Pack began breaking into single file. Randall was falling back. He came alongside, smoking slightly.
As Kyle passed him, the old man gave a little wave. At least one friend out here.

He pressed the button. “Where am I?”

“Nineteen,” said Billy.

“That's good,” said Dad. “Stay there.”

“How's she feel?” said Uncle Kale.

“Twitchy.”

“Let's see what you got,” said Uncle Kale.

Kyle took a deep breath and eased up behind a purple Toyota with a yellow rookie stripe hanging at the bottom of the track. He didn't want Kyle to pass him. Feint left, feint right, but purple Toyota stayed with him, blocking the pass. That was Lloyd Rogers, a good open-wheel driver who had come over from Indy cars. He was a black guy whom ARL was showing off as part of its diversity program. Lloyd wasn't going to let another rookie get around him, even if he was driving number 12. Especially if he was driving number 12.

Out of my way, rookie, thought Kyle. You think I'm going to back off for you. Kyle swerved left and right, but purple Toyota stayed with him. He could drive.

“Easy, Kyle,” said Dad. “You're fine where you are.”

No, I'm not. He felt juiced and jittery, sweating under the fire suit but chilly, too. Felt good.

Kyle let purple Toyota settle back into his groove, then tapped the accelerator. He bumped purple Toyota
lightly, flush on the back bumper, not so much a hit as a hello. Then he dropped back.

“Kyle!” said Dad.

Purple Toyota held his line. Okay, you asked for it. This time, Kyle bumped him hard. Purple Toyota swerved toward the wall, and while he was getting his car back under control, Kyle whipped past on the inside. He felt a rush of pure pleasure.

“Twitchy all right,” said Uncle Kale. “Come on in now, tires and gas. Speed limit's thirty-five, don't blow it.”

He was feeling too good to let Uncle Kale bother him.

He downshifted to second gear and braked hard into the pit road, cars streaming in behind him. As he slid into the pit stall, Jackman leaped over the wall, the crew charging after him like Super Troopers, yelling at each other and grinning. Kyle knew the feeling. They felt like they were in the race. He pulled on the mesh screen to let the water pole in and grabbed the cup. Some of the water made it into his mouth, some onto his chest. He saw a flash of red hair on the other side of the water pole. What was she doing here?

He felt the car jerk and drop as the tires were changed, heard the thud of the gas can flung back over the wall. The crew were yelling instructions at each other. They were hitting their marks perfectly today. He
thought about the quintet playing tight.

“Kyle?” It was Dad. “How you feel?”

“She wants to run.”

“How
you
feel?”

“I'm fine.”

“You're doing good,” said Dad. “Don't push it.”

“You think she can pick off a few more,” said Uncle Kale, “go for it. Okay, thirty-five hundred until you're out.”

Ruff pulled in front of him on the pit road and flipped a finger. Kyle slowed to avoid bumping him, and the green Ford, Slater, came right up behind him, almost touching. For a moment he was trapped between them. It was a message. Watch yourself, Baby Hildebrand. Then Ruff accelerated onto the track and Kyle followed him.

It took him a while to work his way back up to nineteen, but this time the Pack was running three wide again and it was harder to advance. He wondered why Billy wasn't talking. Could use some spotting about now.

“Where's Gary and Ruff?”

“Don't worry about them,” said Dad.

“They been trading the lead,” said Uncle Kale. “Slater's up there too.”

Don't even think about. You're in nineteenth place.
With a little patience and luck you might even get a shot at the top fifteen. That would be great.

Be something to make top ten. Maybe even…

You're just here to keep Kris's seat warm, then get your seat back in the quintet. Right?

For the next few laps he concentrated on finding his line and holding it. He kept alert for a chance to move up. He passed a car with an overheated engine. He blocked Boyd coming up behind him in the white car.

He sensed something wrong up ahead. The Pack felt loose and wobbly. Wish Billy would give a shout. He thought he saw a thin plume of smoke. Maybe it was just dark dust kicked up by wind. Cars weren't holding their lines. Too much bobbing and weaving. He gripped the wheel hard, ready to twist it.

He began to imagine the wreck.

In his mind the wreck was unfolding at the top of the Pack, a car pushed too hard was about to spin or bobble, and the cars behind checked up. The Big One. Everybody behind would get a piece, no one would escape, the only question was how bad. Where's Billy? I need those eyes on the roof.

“Go to the wall,” said a voice he didn't recognize.

“What?”

“Billy had to leave.” He recognized the voice even before she said, “It's Jimmie. Go high—there's room.”

He could trust her or not. No time for debate. He turned right, taking the car right up to the wall before he swerved along it, scraping the wall, watching sparks splash off his door and fly past his window. He had just enough room between the wall and a black Dodge to slip through.

Now the wreck he had imagined was unfolding right in front of him. Cars were spinning off to the grass, climbing over each other, metal screaming as it tore. Better slow down before I plow right into the middle of it.

Her voice was very calm. “Mash it, Kyle. Boyd's on your back and you got a hole.”

He stamped on the accelerator and drove into a pea-soup fog, billowing white smoke that rose and fell like a flapping curtain. He saw flashes of paint, red, yellow, blue, never a whole car. He braced himself for a crash.

“Go low, hard, now.”

He wrenched the wheel left. A yellow wall loomed up, filled his windshield, dropped away, clipping his right front fender just enough to spin him right.

“Right, right, stay with it.”

He wrenched the wheel right and floated through the path cleared by the yellow car.

“Clear low off the wall.”

He twisted left, giving himself up to the voice in his
ears, letting it push him like a needle through cloth, letting it play him like an instrument, trusting his life to it. Smoke and fumes filled his nose and mouth. His head pounded.

“Straighten out along the grass.”

And then they were through the wreck, the leaders up ahead, half a dozen cars untouched by the wreck. There was a smoking junkyard in his rearview mirror. Rescue crews rushed out onto the track.

The field froze in place as the red flag dropped.

“Man, you drove the hell out of it,” said Jimmie.

He wished he could see her face. Maybe even touch it. He wanted to tell her she had been in the car with him. Four hands on the wheel. The best he could do was “Great spotting.” It sounded weak.

“Thanks,” she said. She sounded grateful.