Page 11 of The Fast Track

As if hearing my thoughts, Frank hollers, “Forgot to mention—no outside help! And no working on it separately!” With that, he pulls out of Lot 19, leaving us literally in the dust.

I groan, resisting the urge to bury my face in my hands. “Is this supposed to teach us the magic of working together and getting along?”

“Subtlety’s never been his thing.”

“Can we tell him we made up and are besties now and skip all the ‘wax on, wax off’?”

“Wax on?”

“You know, like Mr. Miyagi? FromThe Karate Kid?” I wave my arm in imitation of the “wax on” move. “The classic eighties movie? Or do you guys not have that over here?”

“We have Jackie Chan on this side of the pond, thank you very much. Though I doubt we’ll develop any beneficial muscular reflexes from putting a car together.”

Even his pop-culture takeaways are irritating and wrong. “I meant spiritually. And also, the remake is terrible. I was talking about the original.”

“Isn’t Will Smith a national treasure for Americans?”

“He’s not even in the movie!” I huff, and then I realize Cameron’s mouth is twitching at the corners. The asshole is clearly messing with me. “Forget it. Let’s just get started.”

I grab the first thing my hand touches. It looks like a part that might have once upon a time been a nose cone but now more closely resembles something you’d find in a recyclingcenter. “How about this? I’ll put together the wings, and you work on the chassis?”

“Shouldn’t we sort everything first?”

Cameron’s probably right, but that requires even more talking, which means there’s a nonzero chance I might wind up committing murder before the day is done. “I think this is better. We’ll save more time not arguing with each other.”

“As the lady wishes.” He rolls his eyes, then reaches into the pile.

As luck would have it, today is the one day—out of the entire drizzly English spring—that the sun comes out.

I would’ve loved for this to have happened on an afternoon where Roz and I are hitting up a café for acai smoothies or checking out the shops on High Street, but no. Today—when I’m actively engaging in forced manual labor outside—is the day the normally absent sun chooses to beat down like it’s August in Chicago.

I wipe a bead of sweat rivuleting its way from my hairline. The back of my wrist is so dewy with perspiration, I might as well be slathering more into my eyes. I glance over at Cameron. He’s laboring over his own growing pile of parts, which appears (annoyingly) larger than mine. How does he manage to look like he’s been playing a light game of pickleball—barely a sheen on his forehead—while I’m dripping like I’ve been locked in a sauna?

To add insult to injury, despite all the sweat and hours, the mountain of old car parts looks barely touched.

“All right, Kwong?” He catches me staring.

I flush and look away. I don’t even want to think about what his reaction would be if he knew I was comparing the superiority of his sweat glands to mine. He’s so vain, he’ll probably take it the wrong way and the next thing I know the whole paddock will be gossiping about how I’ve got a massive crush on him.

My phone buzzes with a Reminders notification:Meeting with Dietrich in 15 minutes.

Crap, crap, crap. Somehow I’ve completely lost track of time.

I leap to my feet. “I have to run.”

I throw my backpack over my shoulder and book it for the golf cart that brought us here. There’s no way I can be late to my first one-on-one with Dietrich. This is my chance to make a good impression, to put our awkward encounter at Season Opener drinks behind us.

“Wait up.” Cameron overtakes me with his long legs, beating me to the cart and sliding across the bench to the driver’s seat. “Frank said we’re not allowed to work on this thing solo, remember? And more importantly, how am I supposed to get out of here if you take the buggy?”

I jump into the passenger side and glance at my phone. Fourteen minutes, forty seconds now. “I don’t know, you could’ve walked or called Pat or something.”

“Aren’t you considerate?” Cameron scoffs.

He hits the ignition button, and we begin crawling down the path at a pace more appropriate for retirees rolling up to teetime than two wannabe F1 drivers. I swear he’s going slower just to annoy me.

“Can you hurry it up? I’m super late to a super-important meeting.”

“Kwong, this is a golf buggy. Maybe you should have kept your eye on the time if your meeting was so super important.”