Page 29 of Furious

CHAPTER ELEVEN

JoJo

By the following Sunday, the day of the barbecue at Grandma Jolene’s, I’m a mess of emotions. First, there’s the family stuff. Normally, for a party like this, Mom and Dad would do all the cooking together, but since Mom is gone, Grandma Jolene has gotten everything catered from a famous place an hour outside Dell’s Hollow. Despite Dad’s commitment to not driving, he made an exception, since Grandma Jolene, too busy with party setup herself, tasked Dad and me with picking it up, which we couldn’t do on our bikes. Now we’re en route home again.

And then there’s El, whom I’ve not seen for a week, since she’s been busy with work and I’ve been busy fixing up Mom’s car. El reached out to Riley on Instagram, but we’ve not heard from him yet about a race time. I’ve been texting with her and thinking about her pretty much nonstop since we kissed in the car after the race at the motocross track. And kissed, and kissed …

It’s a lot to process while I’m wrapped in the honey-sweet, smoky smell of barbecue, riding along with Dad, who has been tunelessly humming Metallica for the last half hour. I keep checking my phone, hoping El will have sent me something today, but I’ve not heard from her since we texted goodbye last night, long after midnight. And I don’t want to text her again because I already sent a picture from the BBQ place. Yes, I’m excited to see her, but I’m not desperate. I’ve got some semblance of cool self-control left … or at least I’m trying.

As we near home, Dad finally stops humming and clears his throat in a time-for-a-Dad-talk-about-your-future kind of way. “So, JoJo …” he says tentatively. “It’s almost your senior year … what are your plans for this next year? And after?”

I inhale sharply, wrenched out of my cyclone of thoughts about El and our kisses and what it will be like to see her again tonight at the cookout and will it be weird and will she like my friends and will we kiss again and—

“JoJo,” Dad prods. “Not sure if you heard me, but I asked what your plans are for the future.”

“I heard you,” I mumble, trying to compose an answer that is more than just blurting out: “I plan on kissing El Blum again, if she’ll let me!”

In an effort to buy time, I pull down the passenger side mirror and fiddle with my nose piercing. “I mean, I guess my plans are to get through high school? Do senior year stuff?”

This would be the perfect moment to tell Dad about the F1 Academy, but I don’t say anything. Because what if he says no? Better to give myself more time to figure it out than to get rejected outright now.

Dad slows his already glacial pace to let a family of geese cross the country road. “Sure, of course, senior year stuff. But what about after that? Are you thinking college? You could go to one of the UNC schools … then you wouldn’t be too far from home.”

“Dell’s Hollow isn’t home.”

It’s an automatic response, but one that rings empty, even to my ears, after the last few weeks. Does Dell’s Hollow feel more like home? When did that happen?

The minute El Blum walked into your life, whispers a treacherous voice in my head. Or maybe not a treacherous voice, but a true one.

Dad doesn’t say anything, his eyes still on the road, but the muscle in his lower jaw twitches, like it does when he’s about to cry.

I put a hand on his arm. “I’ll keep UNC in mind,” I say softly, offering my words like an olive branch. “And I’ll let you know my plans as soon as I do. Promise.”

The F1 Academy form is still in my messenger bag, which sits at my feet. I’m not sure what I hope to accomplish by carrying the form around everywhere, but I’m hoping the answer will come to me. I got an email this morning from a racing coach in the circuit who’d seen my initial email interest form. The coach and her team had watched my old tapes and wanted to talk. But the same doubts plague me: What if I’m too rusty to race? What if I’ve lost all my skills, since I’ve not been on the track since Mom’s accident? What if I can’t drive anything other than karts at Putt by the Pond these days?

I push all those worries way down and let the scent of ribs and baked beans wash over me. The application isn’t due until August 1, meaning I still have weeks before I need to let the academy or any racing coaches know what I’m doing. Plenty of time to figure out my future and get my dad to literally sign off on it.

My best friend CJ, a short, curvy, blond seventeen-year-old, and their boyfriend James, a seventeen-year-old Black trans guy who CJ has been crushing on since we were all in ninth grade, are waiting at Grandma Jolene’s house when Dad and I get there. Grandma Jolene has put them both to work in the backyard setting up tables and chairs.

After I drop a tray of ribs on the kitchen table, I rush into CJ’s arms. They wrap me in a hug and, for the first time in months, I relax.

“I’m so glad to see you,” I whisper, channeling my inner YA heroine and letting out a breath I didn’t know I was holding.

CJ squeezes me tight. “I’m glad to see you, too. Now, where is she?”

“Where’s who?”

Of course I know CJ is talking about El, because we’ve been messaging about El and our dates and kisses and what does it all mean? this entire week.

CJ releases me and glances around the backyard like El might be lurking behind the shed. “Don’t pretend you don’t have a girlfriend.”

“She’s NOT my girlfriend.”

“Did you tell her that when you were smashing faces while playing Mario Kart the other day?” James says, a smile spread across his face.

“I hate you both,” I mutter.

CJ wraps an arm around James’s waist and snuggles against his side. “We love you, too,” CJ says, beaming. “And don’t worry, I promise we’ll be cool when El gets here. James spent at least half the drive from Charleston reminding me not to tell your new lady about that time you peed yourself during a race.”