Page 67 of Furious

“So you all decided to sneak out and go find El’s sister in Richmond?” Dad asks. “On a stolen motorbike? In the middle of the night? Without telling anyone where you were going?”

I nod, staring at the ice cubes in my glass. It sounds ridiculous now that he says it. Like I should’ve known better. Of course I should have.

Dad blows out a breath. “Well. I have to admit, it’s probably what I would’ve done. And it’s most certainly what your mom would’ve done.”

That admission startles a laugh out of me. “Are you serious?”

“Do you really want to know where my nickname comes from?” He smiles at me, making his eyes crinkle at the edges.

“Absolutely not.”

Dad raises his glass at me. “Fair enough, but let’s just say that there were some outrageous years for both me and your mother. Especially when we first met. We were utterly wild for each other, and a little wild in general. There was no lakeside cliff we wouldn’t leap off, no street race we wouldn’t enter, no dare that went untaken.”

“Huh …” I say, swirling the liquid in my glass. This is a new side of my parents, though one that’s not totally unexpected.

“Your mom used to say you couldn’t know how to have absolute control on the track if you didn’t know how to let go sometimes.”

“That’s good advice … as always …”

Dad smiles again, softer this time. “She was full of good advice. Most of the time at least. Sometimes, like all of us, she was just full of shit, too.”

I laugh again, remembering how she would absolutely make up unbelievable answers to questions just for fun. I went to kindergarten thinking that Saturn was ringed by donuts and that there were aliens who stopped by the rings for snacks.

“She was amazing,” I say softly.

Dad clinks his glass against mine. “She was. And I miss her so much.” His voice is tender, full of tears waiting to fall.

“Me too. I miss her all the time. But I think when I’m driving, I feel closer to her, you know? Because racing wasn’t about danger to her. It was about joy and freedom and so much more.”

Dad exhales sharply and his tears fall. “You’re right of course.”

I put my glass on the table, pulling a ticket stub out of my pocket. “I went to the Richmond Raceway, too, while I was on this trip with El. She didn’t come. Just me. I was looking for her sister at the track—and I found her there—but that’s not really the point. When I was there, it was just like old times with you and Mom. There were the pits, the noises, the smells, the cars doing practice laps … and … it was sad, of course, but it was also kind of good, you know? Like by being in a place like the ones Mom loved, I was closer to her. I don’t know. Maybe that doesn’t make sense, but I felt her so strongly, just for a moment, when I was there… .”

Dad drains his glass. “That makes perfect sense, JoJo. And, since you took off, I’ve been thinking a lot about how much like your mother you are. Which, of course, terrifies me. But you were right to say DeeDee wouldn’t want me holding you back from your dreams. She would’ve loved for you to try for the F1 Academy.”

My heart picks up at this. Is Dad really saying what I think he’s saying?

“Do you want to know something really, really nerdy, Dad?”

He nods.

I pull the folded picture of Jamie Chadwick, the one I always carry with me, out of the pocket of my jean shorts. Opening it up, I put it on the table between us.

“Who’s that?” he asks, peering at the creased picture. It’s been folded and opened so many times, her face is barely discernible.

“Jamie Chadwick. First W Series winner. I’ve been carrying her picture around for years now, just as a reminder of what I want to do.”

Dad shakes his head. “Unbelievable.” He grabs his own wallet from the bowl in the middle of the table and opens it. He pulls a small folded picture from it and places it beside the picture of Jamie Chadwick. It’s a photocopy of an old black-and-white photo.

In the photo a white woman in a button-up shirt and white hat sits inside a car. She’s seriously side-eyeing the white guy outside her car window, who looks like he’s giving her advice. On the top of the car, over the curve of the window, is written “Sara Christian” in big letters.

“Who is she?” I ask, moving my gaze from the picture to Dad.

“Sara Christian, the first female NASCAR driver. Your mom was obsessed with her, from before she was younger than you. She told me about her on our first date … hang on, I have a picture here somewhere. Your mother insisted on putting it into the wedding album.”

Dad pauses, flipping open the photo album to a photo of him and Mom in front of her Hornet, which is parked outside a Burger King.

“You went to Burger King on your first date? Very classy, Dad.” Even as I say it, I remember El and I going to Shake Shack, and dipping fries into milkshakes and laughing and talking about anything and everything. An ache goes through me at the thought and I shove it away. El Blum and I are done. No more fries and shakes. No more kisses. No more races or road trips. Which is fine.