Yellow Flag (9 page)

They watched the race on the big screen in Sir Walter's office, ten of them sprawled on the couches and chairs. Uncle Kale with his bad fat back was stretched out on the carpeted floor. Jackman was holding the DVD player's remote control. Sir Walter was at his desk, autographing eight-by-ten glossy hero cards of himself while he watched. When the tape got to the wreck, everybody perked up. It looked bad from up high. In the car he had seen mostly thick smoke. Then Jimmie's voice cut through the screaming metal. “Go to the wall.”

“What took you so long?” said Uncle Kale.

“Couldn't see,” said Jimmie.

“Your job.” The fat head rose a few inches off the carpet. “Here's where you blew a chance to get him
past the nine car. Pause it.”

The image stopped, flickered. Through the smoke Kyle could see number 12's nose inches from number 9. He didn't remember that.

“He's blocked,” said Jimmie.

“Look at the angle,” said Uncle Kale. “Kiss that rear fender, sucker's gone.”

Kyle looked around. Jimmie's face was flushed. Dad, Sir Walter, Billy, Jackman, nobody had anything to say. The post-race analysis was Uncle Kale's show.

“Trying to get through the wreck,” said Kyle, “not add to it.”

“You do what you need to do,” said Uncle Kale. “You don't have to react to every bump or block just because they want you to. Sometimes you just grip the wheel a little tighter and hold on. And sometimes you have to bump their tail to show them you're there. You got that, Jimmie?” When she nodded, he said, “Okay, hit play.”

Kyle tried to catch Jimmie's eye, smile at her, nod, but her head was down. Uncle Kale and Mr. G, he thought, two control freaks who always need to be right or at least to be standing on top of somebody.

But he was feeling pretty good. It was the first time he had ever watched a video of one of his own races with the entire Hildebrand Racing team. It was like playing a solo.

On-screen, Number 12 was driving slowly under a yellow caution flag. Kyle watched himself hold his line. He was driving steady.

“What you doing wrong here, Kylie?”

He shook his head. He had no idea.

“Why don't you tell him, Jimmie,” said Uncle Kale.

“If I knew, I would've told him then,” she said. Kyle thought she sounded annoyed. Not the type to take a beating, even from Uncle Kale.

“Anybody?” He hoisted himself to a sitting position and looked around. Even if he was such a genius, why did he have to be so nasty?

It came to Kyle. Or he figured it out. Or he remembered it from one of the thousand dinner table conversations. What else did they ever talk about? “I should've been going side to side, keep the tires warm.”

“Bingo,” said Uncle Kale. “So why didn't you do it?”

It didn't get much better after that, Kale picking on him and Jimmie. With two laps to go, Kyle just behind the purple Toyota, Slater on his right, Boyd coming up on his left, Uncle Kale said, “Here's the big rookie mistake. You let Slater sucker you in.”

Kyle remembered seeing the sudden opening between purple and green and driving into it, feeling triumphant as Slater faded back. He was almost door to door with the purple Toyota when Slater bumped him
on the left fender and spun him into the wall. Slater hadn't missed the perfect angle to kiss that rear fender. Sucker's gone. Me.

He remembered the sick feeling when the car stalled. The helplessness as everyone passed him, a few hitting him. Jimmie was screaming at him to go to neutral and turn left. The car sputtered, and Randall Bean tapped him hard enough to get him started again and over the line.

“Rookie luck,” said Uncle Kale. “Got a girl and an old man to save your sorry butt.”

Sir Walter lifted the stack of signed pictures and tapped them into an even pile. “We're gonna have to send you to charm school, Kale, before the Family Brands people get to hear you.”

“If we win,” said Uncle Kale, “Family Brands won't care if I talk like one of them comics on HBO.”

Everybody laughed at that, even Jimmie.

Uncle Kale clambered to his feet, groaning and punching his back. Lose a hundred pounds, thought Kyle, you won't hurt so much. Did he really say, “The kid was out there to win, and you can't teach that”?

“What time's school out, Kylie?”

“Five thirty.”

“So late?”

“Band practice.”

“Oh.” He dismissed that with a wave. “Need you at Goshen Raceway by three thirty tomorrow for some real practice.” Swaying from side to side, he lumbered out of the office and headed to the repair bays.

Dad wouldn't meet his eyes. Have to talk about this at dinner. No more deals?

Jimmie followed him out to the parking lot.

“Don't feel bad,” she said. “It's his way. You did good.”

I should be trying to make you feel better, he thought. “You did good.”

“We did good.” She stuck out her hand. It felt just as he'd imagined it, square and strong, but warm. “So what are you gonna do?”

“About what?” He was stalling.

“I'm sure you'll do the right thing,” she said, and headed back into the race shop.

He had a flashback of standing in the high-school parking lot with Nicole. You going to be able to handle it all?

Kyle could hear Mom and Dad arguing downstairs in the kitchen when he crossed the hall to Kris's room. Kris was poking at a racing video game, squinting at the screen like he was having trouble focusing. Without looking up, he said, “Uncle Kale beat up on you?”

“How'd you know?”

“Suck it up. He wouldn't bother if he didn't think…” His voice trailed off. Kyle couldn't tell if he had lost the thought or decided to flush it.

“How you feeling?”

“I'm going crazy.” His face was pale and puffy.

“Only been a week.”

“Nine friggin' days.”

“Takes time.”

“Doctors don't know squat, and you sure don't.” He turned back to his game and slumped in his chair.

“So how you know Jimmie?”

“Who?” On-screen, Kris was crashing.

“Jimmie. Red Hoyt's granddaughter. The redhead?”

“She showed up with Grandpa. She's yours. She goes with the car.” There was no energy in his voice.

Dad called them down.

They barely talked through dinner. The Speed Channel was on in the living room, just loud enough to hear familiar names and phrases. Richard Childress's Busch team was bringing up a young driver from the AutoZone West series. Tony Stewart and somebody else's crew chief almost had a fistfight in the garage area before a cup race. A girl was doing okay in the Craftsman Truck series. Usually Dad and Kris would have chewed over that information, but neither of them reacted tonight. Before dessert Kris got up without excusing himself and clomped upstairs with the slow, heavy step of an old man.

“Now what?” said Mom. She sounded very tired.

“Wait, watch. The MRI was good news.”

“What about another opinion?” asked Mom.

“So long as there's no bleeding in the brain, no evidence of damage…” Dad shrugged and turned to Kyle.
“Kale was a little rough on you.”

“His way,” said Kyle. He wanted to talk about it, but not in front of Mom.

“Only reason he beat up on you, he thinks you've got possibilities.”

“C'mon, Kerry, that's enough,” said Mom.

But Kyle wanted to hear more. He felt a flutter in his stomach. He tried to sound casual and sarcastic. “Possibilities for what?”

“He liked what he saw. You were steady, patient, alert. Brave.” Dad stopped when Mom jumped up, collected some plates with a clatter, and marched into the kitchen. “You remember he took it personal when you quit racing.”

“There was something else I wanted to do. It's my life.”

“He just saw wasted talent. He didn't see the school band as a reasonable alternative to racing. Now he's got a second chance with you.”

“In his dreams,” said Kyle. “I'm not Kris.” That just popped out. Part of him wanted to snatch the words back, part of him to let them lie there, examine them. What do I mean?

“Of course you're not Kris. You got your own style.”

“I'm just keeping his seat warm.”

“Remember that,” said Mom. She was carrying two open containers of ice cream. “This is temporary.”

“This is what Kyle wants to make of it,” said Dad.

She put the containers down with a thump. “I really hope you mean that.”

“No pressure, Lynda. I promised you.”

Uncle Kale thinks I've got possibilities, thought Kyle.

Why should I care what old fatback thinks?

 

After he finished in the bathroom, he checked on Kris. He was lying on top of the bedcovers holding the two Labs. He never did that. He was usually either wrestling with them or ignoring them.

There were messages from Nicole and Del and Mr. G. There was a message from Jackman. He had never gotten a message from Jackman before. He opened it first.

Hey, Kyle, That was some ballsy race. The crews behind you 110 percent.

The J Man.

It was just a little more pressure, he knew, to keep him in the car until Kris was ready. Maybe Uncle Kale put Jackman up to it. But it made him feel good.

Until it made him feel bad.

When classes are over tomorrow, do I go to quintet practice or race practice?

Suddenly he wanted to talk to Jimmie. Would he call her if he had her number? What would he say?
What's the right thing?

He wondered if he would have the dream tonight, running three wide with Dad and Kris.

Suck it up, Kyle—this is your deal.

Mr. G called him out of class, a first. Kyle felt nervous walking into the Music Department office, and he didn't feel better when Mr. G came around his desk with a big smile, his hand out. He imagined Mr. G's handshake damp and flabby, but he never found out. Mr. G made a fist and bumped Kyle's fist three times, knuckle to knuckle, and then top and bottom hammers. The rappers weren't even doing that on TV anymore.

Mr. G was wearing Converse sneakers, threadbare jeans, and a Dung Beetle T-shirt. Terminal hip. Grow up.

“Sit down, Kyle.” He motioned to one of the two wooden armchairs in front of his desk, the parents' chairs. Mr. G turned the other chair to face Kyle. When
they were both sitting, their knees almost touching, Mr. G leaned over to pluck a piece of paper from his desk. It was a printout of the e-mail Kyle had sent last night.

“You say here you're going to miss this week, at the least. You can't be sure when you'll be back. We're preparing for an audition in three weeks we can win only if we're together. What should we do?”

Kyle felt his throat closing up. “Maybe you should find another trumpet.”

“As good as you? With your promise? I don't think so.” He paused, his brown eyes blinking.

Kyle wondered if he was supposed to react to that. Just hold your line, see what kind of deal he's running.

“You know how passionate I am about arts education, especially in a climate where it's being cut all over the place. The quintet has been a special dream of mine, and when the Brooklyn Brass invited us to join them, I thought my dreams were finally coming true. I should have realized that it simply wasn't that important to everyone.”

“It's important to me.” He was immediately sorry he had reacted, but it was too late. He hoped it wouldn't turn out as badly as letting Slater sucker him into the hole.

“Really?” Mr. G drew the word out.

And sometimes you have to bump their tail to show
them you're there. “I know you wouldn't want me to let my family down.”

Mr. G's blinking slowed down. He felt that, thought Kyle. Don't get overconfident now. “I don't want to quit the quintet. I want to make this all work.”

“So do I,” said Mr. G. “Show me how we can do it without letting down Jesse and Todd and Del and Nicole. And the Brooklyn Brass. And the idea that arts are as important as sports.”

Suckered in again, he thought. He was in a spin, heading for the wall. Hang on. “I'll make as many practices as I can until my brother comes back.”

They sat still, staring at each other until Mr. G stood up, picked up his baton, and circled his desk, tapping books, his computer, CDs. “What does Kyle Hildebrand want, really want—where does he want to be in a year, five years?” He whirled and jabbed the baton at Kyle.

“I don't know.”

“That feels real.” Mr. G flipped the baton, caught it, spun it between his fingers. “But it doesn't answer our problem. Racing is going to take more and more of your time just when the quintet is going to require more and more of your time.”

He felt small, helpless. “I'll do the best I can.”

“I'm going to keep your seat…warm,” said Mr. G. “For a week, maybe two if I can. Then you'll have to
compete to get it back. Fair?”

Kyle nodded. He wanted to get out of the office.

Mr. G waved him out. “Drive safely.”

Out in the hall, he thought, It's Uncle Kale's possibilities against Mr. G's promise. There's a race. Me against me.

Goshen Raceway needed a paint job. For starters. The metal fences were sagging, and there were cracks in the dingy white concrete walls. The wooden grandstand was splintery, and the quarter-mile oval track was still littered with Saturday night's marbles, the little black balls of rubber left by sling cars driven by weekend wannabes who would never race anywhere else.

Looking down at the track from a hill behind the chain-link fence that circled the raceway, Kyle felt sad for its shabbiness. It had been years since the family had had serious money to pour into it. They needed to rent it out for concerts and demolition derbies and monster truck races just to pay the bills. He remem
bered when it was bright and shiny, the pride he'd felt standing up here after one of his quarter-midget races, seeing the arch of the front gate with its deep-blue sign, Home of the Hildebrands. Great-grandpa Fred had built the track, and Grandpa Walter had made it the biggest attraction in the county. Sections of the grandstand were named for Fred and Walter and Kerry and Kris. Once he had wanted people sitting under his name too. But that seemed like a long time ago, before Dad finally retired and Kris moved on to the bigger tracks in Monroe, Charlotte, and Richmond.

That was when the track started closing in on him, squeezing the air out of his chest. People started looking at him as the next Kris and treating him as if he had no more choices in his life but to follow his brother, following Dad and Sir Walter.

He wondered if that was what Uncle Ken had felt, no choices but to follow in Sir Walter's long blue shadow. Master Sergeant Kenton Hildebrand, the one who got away. Like to meet him again someday.

In the garage area below, a motor turned over. He spotted the Hildebrand hauler. Better get down there.

Dad, Uncle Kale, and Billy were working on number 12. They'd be taking the car out soon.

Dad spotted him. “New setup.”

“Get your suit on,” said Uncle Kale.

Billy gave him a smile and a wave. “Sorry I wimped on you Saturday.”

“He did just fine,” snapped Uncle Kale.

Kyle lifted his duffel bag out of the Camaro's trunk. He found a quiet corner and changed into his old fire suit. There were logos on it from Billy's brother's auto body shop, Aunt Susan's haircutter franchise, and Del's family's restaurant. The suit was snug across the chest, and the pants didn't cover his ankles. Been a while.

He was pulling on his shoes when his cell phone vibrated. “Where are you?” said Nicole.

“At the track. I worked out a deal with Mr. G.”

“He's got Justin in your chair.” She sounded pissed. “Was that part of the deal?”

“I didn't think right away.” Justin was a sophomore, an okay trumpet. “What did he say?”

“He said Justin was keeping your seat warm as long as you were keeping your brother's seat warm.”

Uncle Kale hollered, “Let's go, Kylie.”

“Got to go. Call you tonight.”

“What should we do?”

He was suddenly mad at her. Why is that my problem, too? “Perpetrate some sound.” He snapped the cell shut.

 

Number 12 was the only car testing. Kyle wondered if Dad had told them to keep the track clear.

The new springs and shock setup was stiffer, giving the car more forward bite off the turns. On the third lap he opened the throttle, and Uncle Kale's voice was in his head. “Okay, now let's learn how to turn left.”

He had to tighten his grip on the wheel. He thought of Justin sitting in his chair next to Nicole, warming up on “Pavane for a Dead Princess.” “What?”

“You're driving too deep into the turn. You're over-heating the brakes, I can smell them from the pit.”

“Float,” said Dad. “Try to float in, Kyle, and turn sooner.”

Float. That was what they never could get Kris to do. Kris didn't have to. He could drive his own way and win. What am I doing here?

On the next turn he eased off the gas and swung left earlier than he usually did, rotating off the wall. The car was bad fast.

“That's better,” said Dad. He sounded happy.

Nothing from Uncle Kale.

He floated in again on the next two turns before he heard Uncle Kale's grunt. “Okay. Eight more like that and you can come in.”