Page 8 of Crash Course

The TV in the corner is on, the volume turned down to a low buzz, replaying footage from last weekend’s race at Monza in Italy. F1 recently came back from its summer break. There’s fallout from the previous race in Zandvoort, and Dekker is giving an interview, an ARI media person at his side.

“Your performance has fallen behind your teammate since the break,” the broadcaster notes. “Were there changes to the car that would account for this? Or is it simply an issue of your teammate having a better feel at this point in the season?”

Dekker’s usually lighthearted, but his lips thin. “No. I’m at least as fast, and I’ll prove it at the next race.”

Unease ripples through me at the interviewer’s implied dig and Dekker’s defensiveness, but I shake it off. There are always storylines coming out of the summer, and it’s usually just media trying to get attention.

I turn away from the TV and follow Bo outside to the railing that overlooks the on-site racetrack. Part of the industrial complex that makes up their Michigan headquarters, the ARI garage is close enough to Detroit to get shipments to and from the airport.

“How is the old man?” Bo asks, the end of his cigarette glowing in the dark.

“Getting pissy. I didn’t realize his knee replacement would leave him with such a sparkling personality.”

“Sounds about right.” He snorts. “Thought you were supposed to be back in college this fall? Some fancy engineering degree.”

I lean both arms on the railing. “I was. But he needed surgery and I couldn’t see him taking care of himself while he recovered.”

Bo takes a long drag. “He wouldn’t want you working here.”

“He wouldn’t want us to lose our house, either,” I counter. “One day, we’re going to open our own garage. It might not be as thrilling as working on race cars, but he’ll be able to take a holiday once in a while. And it’ll give him a retirement in another decade.”

“Your dad on board with this plan?”

Not entirely. “He said as long as I finished college first.”

Bo nods. “He’s lucky to have you.”

“I’m lucky to have him.”

He’s everything to me. What I know of my birth parents is limited to a few memories and an account of how they died. Even that’s patchy and my dad doesn’t like to talk about it.

A car wheels onto the track from a different part of the garage.

“What Keane’s been working on all week.” Bo nods to the car.

Sure enough, our supervisor steps out and confers with a driver before the car goes out on the track. Keane watches from farther down the railing as the car picks up speed. My heart accelerates with it.

It’s beautiful. A silver chassis, smooth fenders, sleek curves. It flies around the track.

I hear the tires light up the pavement, smell the rubber laid down on the road with each pass.

My fingers grip the railing. “Is that what I think it is?”

“Next year’s F1 model,” Bo confirms. “Association made some changes to regulations and everyone’s playing catch-up.”

The car sails past. “It looks fast.”

“Not fast enough.” Keane’s voice edges into my thoughts as he moves next to us. “New season starts in six months, and we need more speed if we’re going to compete with Ignite. They’ll be the team to beat.”

My knuckles are white on the railing beneath the bandages on my palms. “And if we can’t get more speed out of it?”

Keane clears his throat. “Corporate might start laying off mechanics.”

His words cut through my haze of awe.

Firing mechanics. Like my dad.

I’m feeling sick as the car rolls to a stop in front of the garage, its driver shifting out in a smooth, athletic motion.