Yellow Flag Page 8

  He tried to restart the car. It sputtered and died.

  He could see the finish line up ahead. Ruff, then Gary crossed under a checkered flag. Boyd and Slater were past him. What was left of the Pack and the Clot were coming up. He would be even worse than last, he would never finish, just sit here a few yards from the end of the line.

  Cars filled his rearview mirror, streamed around him, then filled his windshield.

  He got hit. Bounced forward. Hit again.

  “Go neutral,” said Jimmie. “Turn the wheel left.”

  Numbly he followed her orders, shifting to neutral and twisting the wheel.

  The third hit straightened him out. Yellow filled his rearview.

  “Start it.”

  He flipped the toggle switch just as the yellow car hit him for the fourth time. The engine turned over, caught, he was moving. Old Randall Bean waved as the two of them crossed the finish line together under the checkered flag.

  TWENTY

  Billy was collapsed in one of the two reclining chairs in the back of the Family Brands jet, his thick arms hanging limply off the sides, his number 12 cap covering his face. The cap inflated and collapsed with his heavy breathing.

  Kris was in the other chair, pale and quiet, staring at a DVD of the race on a TV screen.

  They looked like they were in the wreck, thought Kyle. He was sitting in the main cabin with Dad, who was talking to Mom on the phone. Besides the pilots, there were just the four of them and the flight attendant on the plane. Sir Walter and the suits had stayed in Monroe for a meeting. The plane would go back for them later. Jackman would drive the hauler home.

  Dad put the phone down. He sighed and rolled his eyes. Must have gotten an earful. Mom could let things go for a while, especially where the Hildebrand family was involved, but once she put her foot down, she could be as tough as any of them. Without her, he never would have been able to quit racing.

  She had known what “bring your shoes and helmet” meant and let it go because Dad promised it was a special situation. A one-time deal. Well, now the one-time was over. No more deals.

  Kyle imagined her end of the phone conversation. No more racing for Kyle. Get another driver if Kris isn’t ready. Get Boyd.

  Back to the quintet, thought Kyle. Focus on the trumpet. And Nicole.

  He was free. He wondered why he didn’t feel lighter.

  Dad picked up the phone again. He was calling Billy’s wife to tell her what time they’d be home. A doctor at the track had given Billy intravenous fluids and a sedative. He had pushed himself too far too fast. He’d be fine, just needed some rest.

  Kyle had seen Jimmie only for an instant after the race, back in the garage area. She was helping the crew roll the car back into the hauler. The best he could do was raise his fist and mouth, “Thanks.”

  She smiled back, and the way that seemed to light up her face, even light up her red hair, made Kyle’s stomach turn over. Then she was gone, and Dad was pulling him into the van.

  He wanted to hear her voice.

  When the flight attendant came by with a loaded tray, Kyle picked out a sandwich and asked for a beer, trying to sound casual, not even choosing a brand. Would she ask his age? She was right back with three different brands and a big smile. “Watching you come through that wreck, I tell you my heart was in my mouth.”

  “You saw it?”

  “We were in the Family Brands suite.” She was pretty, not that much older than Kyle. He had the feeling that if he asked her what she was doing tonight, she might say she was free. She doesn’t think she’s talking to a high-school boy, he thought, she’s talking to a driver. “Were you scared?”

  “Too busy then,” he said. “Afterward scared spitless.”

  She laughed, as if it were the smartest thing she had ever heard, and touched his arm. Dad was off the phone. When he saw Kyle sucking on a beer, he said, “I’ll have one too.”

  Dad took a pull on his beer, then opened his laptop.

  Kyle wanted to talk to Dad about the race. There hadn’t been time afterward. They’d been too busy getting Billy and Kris into the van and then onto the plane. Dad wanted to get them back home as quickly as possible. And now he was deep into the figures on his screen. Kyle tried to think of something to say. He wanted to talk about the final laps. What could he have done differently?

  Dad looked up. “Forget about it.”

  How can he read my mind? “What?”

  “Keep your eyes on the road ahead.”

  “Sir Walter doesn’t say that anymore.”

  “Still beats mirror driving, always looking at what’s behind you in the rearview mirror, where you came from instead of where you’re going.” He closed the laptop. “Stop kicking yourself. Nothing else you could do.”

  “Shouldn’t’ve tried to pass Slater.”

  “Maybe shouldn’t’ve tried to pass him the way you did. That’s experience. I think you did good.”

  “You do?” That surprised him.

  “Everybody does. Your grandpa liked the way you were picking off cars, one by one, Blue Shadow style. You know what your uncle Kale said? ‘The kid was out there to win, and you can’t teach that.’”

  “Uncle Kale said that?”

  Dad nodded. Kyle wanted to keep talking. Before Dad could open the laptop, Kyle said, “Kris be able to race?”

  “Sure hope so. Got some more tests.”

  “What if he can’t?”

  Dad sighed. Kyle could tell he didn’t want to talk about that. His fingers began tugging on the laptop lid. “Like Great-grandpa Fred used to say, we’ll cross that bridge when we get over it.”

  “How come Jimmie took over?” He liked saying her name out loud.

  “When Billy got quiet, we sent her up to see what was going on. She got the VIP guard to bring Billy back down, and she stayed to spot. Girl has a mind of her own.” He grinned. “Like her grandpa.”

  “Who was that?”

  “Red Hoyt.” Dad’s eyes widened. “You didn’t know that?”

  “So it wasn’t Kris got her in.”

  “You kidding? Red was your grandpa’s best friend. He called Jimmie his godgrandchild. She’s got oil in her veins.” He chuckled. “Some of Red’s attitude, too, I hear.”

  “So she just showed up one day?”

  “Sir Walter must’ve heard somewhere she dropped out of school and was working on cars, so he asked me to call her. Figured we’d be expanding the operation. You got a problem?”

  “No, she got me through the wreck.”

  “Great job. And the way you responded, Kyle, that’s something else you can’t teach.” He opened the laptop and peered at the screen. “I could’ve figured the gas smarter. Still wondering if we needed four tires on that last pit stop.”

  “Mirror driving?”

  Dad nodded sheepishly. “It’s hard not to second-guess yourself. I mean, it’s not all bad, so long as you don’t get stuck in the past.”

  “I should’ve settled for sixth instead of tied for last.”

  “Kale will probably tell you that, but it’s perfect twenty-twenty hindsight.” Dad was looking at him. “But when it’s your hands on the wheel and you making the split-second decision, it’s a gut call.” His voice was unusually intense. “I would’ve made the same call back in the day. I think you can drive, Kyle. If you want to.” Then he sighed again and turned back to the screen.

  Kyle waited a few beats, but he couldn’t come up with the words to keep the conversation going. He was a little breathless.

  TWENTY-ONE

  “Thought you bought it,” Todd said at lunch Monday. Kyle couldn’t tell if Todd was glad or sorry to see him in one piece.

  “I figured you’d find a way,” said Del.

  “Were you scared?” asked Nicole.

  “Too busy.” He remembered what he had said to the flight attendant Saturday night. “Afterward scared spitless.”

  Nicole honked, and Jesse clapped both fat hands. Even Todd grinned. A c
ouple of the drama kids had wandered over to the band table, and even one of the football players, who said, “Dude, that was running for daylight.” He had seen highlights of the race on ESPN.

  “I had a great spotter.” When he noticed the blank look on Nicole’s face, he said, “Spotter’s up on the grandstand roof, sees everything. Tells you on the radio who’s coming up on you, what’s ahead, when you’re clear. She talked me through the wreck.”

  “She?” said Nicole.

  “Red Hoyt’s granddaughter,” said Kyle, nodding at Del, the only one who would know or care. “It was amazing.” He couldn’t stop himself. “We were dialed in. Her voice to my hands on the wheel.”

  “Saw that film,” said Jesse. “Holly Hunter and William Hurt in Broadcast News. She fed him information while he was on air. He said it was just like sex.”

  Jesse clapped for himself, but Nicole didn’t honk. She doesn’t like that, Kyle thought. I do.

  Mr. G was energized, waving a sheet of paper overhead like a banner. “I’ve got mine—do you have yours?”

  Kyle looked at Del, who whispered, “Names for the quintet.”

  This isn’t going to work out, thought Kyle. I totally forgot. Didn’t think about it at all.

  Naturally Mr. G called on him first. “You must have had time to think up names while you were driving around in circles.”

  Nicole said, “We did it together.” She held a sheet of paper out to Kyle. “You want to read them?”

  “No, you go ahead.”

  Jesse clapped his thumb and forefinger. Todd glared.

  “Couple of obvious ones,” said Nicole. Her hair was pulled back, making her little round face seem bigger. “The Goshen Brass, the Class Brass, Horn Dogs—”

  “Hold it.” Mr. G rapped his baton on a music stand. “Kyle wasn’t involved, was he?” When she looked down, he said, “We have a problem here, people, and we need to address it.”

  “And mail it,” said Jesse.

  “Maybe you’re the one with the problem,” said Nicole.

  “Oh?” Mr. G arched an eyebrow. “A little brass warfare?”

  “You just want control,” she said. Her dark eyes looked fierce to Kyle. She was fighting for him. He felt thrilled and a little scared. For her.

  “So it’s brass therapy,” said Mr. G. His smile was fake.

  “Kyle is here,” she said. “He comes to practice. He missed one weekend event and one practice because his family needed him. What’s the big deal?”

  The smile was gone. “Anyone else?”

  Kyle checked them out from a corner of one eye. Del was chewing on his lip, not good for a trombone player, and Jesse was jiggling his tuba between big thighs. Todd was tilted back in his chair, smirking at the window. Nicole was staring back at Mr. G.

  “Maybe I’m not finished yet,” she said.

  “Is Kyle finished? That’s the question. Is he part of the quintet or not?” Mr. G looked at Kyle. “We need to know if we can depend on you. Can we?”

  He felt close to telling Mr. G to sit on his baton, then standing up and walking out. It’s what Kris would do. It’s what Kris did in the ninth grade when the baseball coach wanted him to choose between being a starting pitcher and racing. He’d already quit football. Why am I comparing myself to Kris?

  Besides, Nicole had fought too hard to let her down like that. “I’ll do the best I can.”

  “What does that mean?” said Mr. G.

  Good question, thought Kyle. I wish I knew. “Kris should be back in the car next week. I’ll be back in my chair.”

  “I heard should be, not will be,” said Mr. G. “What if he isn’t?”

  “Is this Law and Order: Band Room?” said Jesse. When nobody laughed, he pointed a finger at his temple and shot himself. Nobody laughed at that either.

  Kyle thought, I don’t know. He said, “Hire another driver.”

  “Why not you?” said Mr. G.

  Kyle felt as if the thumbscrew on his music stand were tightening around his head. “I had a one-race waiver for age. I don’t know if they would give me another one.”

  “What if they do?”

  He felt anger bubble up. “Then I’ll keep Kris’s seat warm as long as it takes, and I’ll miss Friday rehearsals so I can make the practices and qualifying before the races.”

  “Why can’t we rehearse around that?” said Del. “A couple of weeks of extra practices during the week, maybe Sunday night, too.”

  “Works for me,” said Jesse.

  Nicole glared at Todd until he said, “Sure, count me in.”

  Mr. G was expressionless. After a while he nodded and said, “Okay. Kyle? Can we count you in?” When Kyle nodded, he said, “We’ll do the names next time. Let’s perpetrate some sound.”

  Mr. G looked relieved. Maybe he just needed to show who was in charge, thought Kyle.

  He waited until they were out of the building. “Thanks.”

  “Breaking in a new trumpet player is like training a puppy,” she said. “Too much trouble.”

  “Whatever.” But he touched her arm. “No kidding. Thanks.” He thought, I’ve thanked more girls the past couple of days than in my whole life.

  He thought the fierce little eyes softened. Hard to read her. “You going to be able to handle it all?”

  That got to him. She understood what he was going through, or at least she was trying to. He wished it were night and she were inviting him back to her house. The words “I don’t know” were forming in his head, but before he could decide whether or not to say them, Todd swaggered up. “Am I interrupting something?”

  “Yep,” she said. Todd shrugged and swaggered off, but the moment was gone. “You busy now?”

  “Got to go over the race shop,” said Kyle. “Look at the replay, see what happened.”

  TWENTY-TWO

  They watched the race on the big screen in Sir Walter’s office, ten of them sprawled on the couches and chairs. Uncle Kale with his bad fat back was stretched out on the carpeted floor. Jackman was holding the DVD player’s remote control. Sir Walter was at his desk, autographing eight-by-ten glossy hero cards of himself while he watched. When the tape got to the wreck, everybody perked up. It looked bad from up high. In the car he had seen mostly thick smoke. Then Jimmie’s voice cut through the screaming metal. “Go to the wall.”

  “What took you so long?” said Uncle Kale.

  “Couldn’t see,” said Jimmie.

  “Your job.” The fat head rose a few inches off the carpet. “Here’s where you blew a chance to get him past the nine car. Pause it.”

  The image stopped, flickered. Through the smoke Kyle could see number 12’s nose inches from number 9. He didn’t remember that.

  “He’s blocked,” said Jimmie.

  “Look at the angle,” said Uncle Kale. “Kiss that rear fender, sucker’s gone.”

  Kyle looked around. Jimmie’s face was flushed. Dad, Sir Walter, Billy, Jackman, nobody had anything to say. The post-race analysis was Uncle Kale’s show.

  “Trying to get through the wreck,” said Kyle, “not add to it.”

  “You do what you need to do,” said Uncle Kale. “You don’t have to react to every bump or block just because they want you to. Sometimes you just grip the wheel a little tighter and hold on. And sometimes you have to bump their tail to show them you’re there. You got that, Jimmie?” When she nodded, he said, “Okay, hit play.”

  Kyle tried to catch Jimmie’s eye, smile at her, nod, but her head was down. Uncle Kale and Mr. G, he thought, two control freaks who always need to be right or at least to be standing on top of somebody.

  But he was feeling pretty good. It was the first time he had ever watched a video of one of his own races with the entire Hildebrand Racing team. It was like playing a solo.

  On-screen, Number 12 was driving slowly under a yellow caution flag. Kyle watched himself hold his line. He was driving steady.

  “What you doing wrong here, Kylie?”

  He shook his head.
He had no idea.

  “Why don’t you tell him, Jimmie,” said Uncle Kale.

  “If I knew, I would’ve told him then,” she said. Kyle thought she sounded annoyed. Not the type to take a beating, even from Uncle Kale.

  “Anybody?” He hoisted himself to a sitting position and looked around. Even if he was such a genius, why did he have to be so nasty?

  It came to Kyle. Or he figured it out. Or he remembered it from one of the thousand dinner table conversations. What else did they ever talk about? “I should’ve been going side to side, keep the tires warm.”

  “Bingo,” said Uncle Kale. “So why didn’t you do it?”

  It didn’t get much better after that, Kale picking on him and Jimmie. With two laps to go, Kyle just behind the purple Toyota, Slater on his right, Boyd coming up on his left, Uncle Kale said, “Here’s the big rookie mistake. You let Slater sucker you in.”

  Kyle remembered seeing the sudden opening between purple and green and driving into it, feeling triumphant as Slater faded back. He was almost door to door with the purple Toyota when Slater bumped him on the left fender and spun him into the wall. Slater hadn’t missed the perfect angle to kiss that rear fender. Sucker’s gone. Me.

  He remembered the sick feeling when the car stalled. The helplessness as everyone passed him, a few hitting him. Jimmie was screaming at him to go to neutral and turn left. The car sputtered, and Randall Bean tapped him hard enough to get him started again and over the line.

  “Rookie luck,” said Uncle Kale. “Got a girl and an old man to save your sorry butt.”

  Sir Walter lifted the stack of signed pictures and tapped them into an even pile. “We’re gonna have to send you to charm school, Kale, before the Family Brands people get to hear you.”

  “If we win,” said Uncle Kale, “Family Brands won’t care if I talk like one of them comics on HBO.”

  Everybody laughed at that, even Jimmie.

  Uncle Kale clambered to his feet, groaning and punching his back. Lose a hundred pounds, thought Kyle, you won’t hurt so much. Did he really say, “The kid was out there to win, and you can’t teach that”?