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  He drove around to the back of the school into a staff lot that band members were allowed to use on weekends. It was outside the door closest to the music rooms. He spotted Mr. G’s Chevy Suburban, Todd’s Escalade, Jesse’s Jeep, a Toyota he didn’t recognize, and a delivery van from Del’s family’s restaurant. He didn’t see Nicole’s Honda. Either she wasn’t there or she had come with someone else. She could use a ride this morning, the way she’d been drinking last night. Jesse probably picked her up. Todd would be too weird. But I’m not sure of anything.

  He circled the lot, half hoping someone would come out and wave him in, or Nicole would drive in and he’d have no choice except to park. Half hoping. He wondered, If I never saw these people again, would I miss them? Nicole’s honk and the smart-ass talk about Mr. G and movies? Would I miss playing with them? Would I miss the trumpet? That feeling of safety in the music? Is it all the same choice?

  I don’t have to make that choice, remember? Keep your options open.

  He remembered Nicole in the parking lot asking him, “You going to be able to handle it all?”

  I still don’t know. But I want to try.

  He drove out of the lot and back onto the main road toward Goshen.

  Jimmie’s black Mustang was parked outside the race shop. Jackman’s Harley was nearby, along with Dad’s pickup, Uncle Kale’s Explorer, and Billy’s ancient Corvette. He wondered where Kris was. He wouldn’t mind talking to Jimmie, but not in a crowd. He remembered her saying, “I’m sure you’ll do the right thing.”

  I hope I figure out what the right thing is.

  He drove on aimlessly, almost reaching the foothills of the Buckline Mountains before he turned back. After a while he found himself circling Goshen Raceway. He passed the airport behind the parking lots. A small plane was taking off. Probably a student pilot, he thought. Dad had worked out a deal with a flying school. There had been big plans for the airport once, but they were based on Goshen Raceway becoming a stop in one of the NASCAR regional series. Another casualty of Dad’s accident. Monroe Speedway had gotten the races. But Goshen Raceway could make a comeback with the Hildebrand family. Grandpa had been talking about extending the runway for small jets. Once Hildebrand Racing was running two cars, three cars, at least one of them on a major NASCAR circuit, we’d need a jet runway for drivers who wanted to test at Goshen or maybe even race here if we made the track bigger.

  We?

  He circled the raceway on the access road that ran around it. He parked outside the chain link fence, on the little hill near the rear gate, his favorite spot. He remembered tearing around the little go-kart track that had been here, his first racing track, little more than a circular dirt path ringed with rubber tires. Racing was fun then.

  When had it started being fun again?

  That thought surprised him. It had become fun again.

  The answer didn’t surprise him.

  After Kris got hurt.

  He felt guilty, then remembered how Mom had gotten back to the piano after Dad’s accident. He wondered if she felt guilty about that. Someday he would find a way to talk to her about it. I can talk to Mom.

  He heard a truck motor growling and looked down at the track. A pickup filled with camera equipment was pulling out of the garage area toward the main entrance. He remembered that the assistant director was coming back today for shots of the show car circling the track. Distant shots, no close-ups, so a member of the crew would drive the car.

  A Family Brands number 12 Ford pulled out of the garage area and drove slowly around the track. He could tell from the sound of the engine that it was the show car. From the way the driver drove deep into the corner and let the car drift up the track on the straightaway, Kyle imagined him learning the track, finding the line, studying for a future race. One of the crew had driver dreams.

  Did he?

  The car passed the grandstand. He was surprised to see his name still up there. Did you think it was just for the commercial?

  A noise overhead drowned out the show car’s street engine. Kyle looked up to watch the student pilot circle the airport before coming down for a bumpy landing. By the time the plane was on the ground, the show car was gone and the sky and the track were silent.

  He was alone.

  Without thinking about it, he pulled his gig bag out of the trunk and took out the trumpet. He walked to the top of the hill where the go-kart track had been. He blew a few long notes before he found himself playing “Autumn Leaves.”

  He imagined Mom’s Oscar Peterson piano version spilling a waterfall of notes down the hill and through the chain link fence, rippling over the freshly painted grandstand seats and onto the black ribbon of track while his Dizzy Gillespie trumpet version found the line and held it, lap after lap, until the checkered flag came down.

  He closed his eyes, and the raceway and the bright spring afternoon disappeared. He was lost in the music.

  When he was exhausted, when his breath was gone and his lips throbbed, he stopped. He felt chilled.

  “That was beautiful.” Jimmie’s green eyes looked damp. The show car was parked behind her.

  “That was you on the track.” When she nodded, he said, “Gonna race?”

  “Thinking about it. You?”

  “Thinking about it.” He suddenly realized how that must sound to her. He had choices. She was the one with driver dreams.

  “That’s okay.” Had she read his mind again? She pointed at the trumpet dangling from his hand. “I had no idea how good you were. I thought you just—” She stopped.

  “What?”

  “I thought it was something you did because Kris didn’t.”

  “It started that way, I guess.”

  “And now they’re going to make you choose.” She came close enough to touch the trumpet, run a finger along the tube until it flared out into the bell. “I talked to your girlfriend yesterday. She really wants you to concentrate on music.”

  “Everybody’s got their own idea what I should do with my life.”

  “What are you going to do?”

  “I’m going to do it all.”

  Then they were kissing. He felt the heat rising through his body, chasing the chill, reviving him. She smelled of sweat and gas.

  She pushed him away. “Not here, not now.” She put her hand on his face. “A trumpet player can always get a girl,” she said, “but even a great driver needs a spotter.”

  THIRTY-NINE

  Sir Walter was waiting for him on the porch, sitting in a white wicker armchair. He was holding a picture of himself and Grandma Karen in Victory Lane after he won his first Cup race, forty years ago.

  “Miss her every day,” he said. “She was the one kept Hildebrand together after I was finished and your dad was hurt.”

  Here it comes, Kyle thought. Sir Walter is going to order me into the car the way Great-grandpa Fred ordered him in and he ordered Dad and Dad didn’t have to order Kris…. That sounded like the begats in the Bible.

  “Wanted to tell you, meant a lot what you did these past couple weeks. You were the one kept Hildebrand together. Gave us time to make the deal that’s gonna put us back in the show. I’m hoping you’ll stay with it, starting in Charlotte next week.”

  “What if I don’t want to drive?” It burst out and left a sour taste in his mouth.

  Sir Walter didn’t blink. “Don’t want you to act against your nature. Never work.”

  “Didn’t work with Uncle Ken.”

  Sir Walter blinked this time. “I made a mistake with Kenny. Drove him so hard, I drove him away. I think about that a lot. You look surprised.”

  He was. Hard to think of Sir Walter as a mirror driver. Keep your eyes on the road ahead. Sir Walter put the picture down on a table and pushed himself up out of the chair.

  “Might’ve made a mistake with your dad, I was so set on somebody following me. Kris was a natural. From day one you could see he was born to race. No fear. He could feel the air change around a car when someone
was coming up on him. All he wanted to do was get to the front and stay there.” Sir Walter put a hand on Kyle’s shoulder and steered him forward. “Let’s walk a lap. My legs stiffen up when I just stand.”

  Shoulders bumping gently, they began to circle the porch. Kyle could see his house tucked into the foot of Hildebrand Hill. Were Mom and Dad looking up at the porch, wondering what Sir Walter was saying to him? Or did they know?

  “When you drove off the track yesterday, when you didn’t let Kris get your goat, that was something. Your uncle Kale said to me, ‘You woulda done that, Daddy.’ You know he calls you the Baby Blue Shadow.”

  “Uncle Kale?” He didn’t believe it, then felt guilty. Sir Walter couldn’t be playing me, could he? Got more words out of him in the last few minutes than in my whole life. Maybe he thought I was never worth talking to before.

  “Always liked Blue Shadow better than Sir Walter, which sounds kind of nose in the air, but it’s what the fans like that counts.”

  He couldn’t get it out of his head. “Uncle Kale called me the Baby Blue Shadow?”

  “Never say it to your face, ’fraid it might swell your head.” Sir Walter chuckled. “That boy took the lawn mower motor apart when he was two. Couldn’t get it back together till he was three.” He laughed out loud, eyes shining. “They was some pair, Kale and Kenny. I thought they was headed right to the top. Maybe I could’ve got Kenny back, but I had a stiff neck those days. And I had Kerry, who was almost as good. I think Kerry might’ve won the cup that year he got hurt. Kale’s been looking for a racer ever since.”

  “Now he’s got Kris.” The Buckline Mountains heaved up and disappeared. Lake Goshen shimmered.

  “Looks that way, don’t it? Kris drives like Dale Sr., like Tony Stewart. Straight ahead, get out of my way. You drive like I did. Patient, think laps ahead, never wreck a man just to win.”

  Dale and Tony won a lot more races than you did, thought Kyle.

  “You don’t need to have the mean streak, the killer instinct, to be a winner,” said Sir Walter. “Of course it depends on what you call a winner.”

  They were back at the front door. He could see his house. Sir Walter stopped. One lap on the porch. What was he really saying to me? “Winner does his duty, treats people right, lives a life he’s proud of. Winner is tough. Your dad’s a winner. Very few drivers come back after getting hurt bad as your daddy did.”

  Cagey old fox setting me up, the Blue Shadow creeping up on me, then slinging past. He wants me to drive. For my dad. For the family. For the Brand.

  And I want to drive. But my way.

  “I’m not giving up music.”

  “Up to you. I won’t let Kale or anybody pressure you to stop.” Sir Walter squeezed Kyle’s shoulder. “You’re tough, boy. That’s good.”

  “I’d like to see Uncle Ken.”

  He couldn’t believe that Sir Walter’s eyes were watery. “So would I.”

  “Bet he’d come to watch his nephews race.”

  “You think so?”

  “If you invited him.”

  Sir Walter took out a handkerchief and blew his nose, an excuse to wipe his eyes. “Sounds like we got a deal, Kyle.”

  “Deal, Grandpa,” said Kyle, trying not to cry. He stuck out his hand to shake.

  Sir Walter hugged him. Kyle felt his pens digging through his shirt.

  After a while Sir Walter held him out at arm’s length. “Remember, Kyle, you got to establish your territory and hold it.”

  “I’ll remember, Grandpa,” he said.

  “And always have a spare Sharpie so no fan walks away disappointed because they didn’t get an autograph.”

  About the Author

  ROBERT LIPSYTE has been an award-winning sportswriter for The New York Times and was the Emmy-winning host of the public affairs show The Eleventh Hour. He is the author of a number of acclaimed novels, including THE CONTENDER, THE BRAVE, THE CHIEF, WARRIOR ANGEL, ONE FAT SUMMER, and RAIDER’S NIGHT. He is also the recipient of the Margaret A. Edwards Award honoring his lifetime contribution in writing for teens. Robert Lipsyte lives in New York. You can visit him online at www.robertlipsyte.com.

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  Also by ROBERT LIPSYTE

  THE CONTENDER

  THE BRAVE

  THE CHIEF

  WARRIOR ANGEL

  ONE FAT SUMMER

  RAIDERS NIGHT

  Credits

  Cover art © 2007 by Getty Images, Inc.

  Cover design by Ray Shappell

  Copyright

  YELLOW FLAG. Copyright © 2007 by Robert Lipsyte. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  EPub Edition © November 2009 ISBN: 978-0-06-199734-1

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

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