Chapter 3
Everything started with a summons from the features editor at the Daily Pennsylvanian.
“Before you start complaining,” she said, “yes, it’s a profile. And no, you’re not getting out of it.”
She waited until she had my attention before sliding the folder across the desk.
“Jonathan Hirsch,” she said. “Wharton senior. Hobby is racing fast cars when he’s not the president of the Investment Club. He’s been quietly collecting trophies for the last two seasons.” She paused. “And yes, that Hirsch.”
She meant the Hirsch whose family name graced a modern steel and glass building on the Penn campus, as well as an endowment that brought Nobel prize winners to campus.
Jonathan Ari Hirsch was a senior in the Wharton School, double major in economics and international business, magna cum laude track.
His LinkedIn already read like a Fortune 500 executive’s resume and his photo showed someone who looked like what central casting would order for “privileged Ivy League heir.” Dark hair perfectly styled, strong jaw, expensive smile.
I was prepared to dislike him intensely. I trusted that instinct.
We met at 2 PM on a Thursday at the campus coffee shop on Walnut Street, the one with mismatched chairs and an espresso machine that sounded permanently offended.
I arrived early, spreading out my notebook and recorder at a small round table, trying to look professional despite my thrift-store blazer and the fact that I’d skipped lunch to afford a coffee I didn’t want.
Jonathan was exactly on time.
“Wally Pulaski?” he asked, pausing at the edge of the table.
“That’s me.”
He smiled and set his cup down carefully before sitting. No entourage. No air of being late for something more important.
“Jonathan Hirsch. Thanks for meeting me.”
The first surprise was that he’d ordered his own drink and paid for it himself. The second was that he’d chosen a place where students studied, argued, and spilled coffee. Where no one was impressed by anyone else.
I clicked on the recorder and launched into the basics. Racing schedule. Coursework. How he balanced time on the track with Wharton’s expectations. Jonathan answered without rushing, precise when he needed to be, thoughtful when the question deserved it.
For a brief moment, we bonded over our mutual love of cars. “My dad runs his own garage,” I said. “He works on a lot of cars for weekend racers. I grew up reading Apex Racing.”
“Me, too!” He smiled. “Whenever I visited my grandfather, he always had the new edition for me.” He sat back. “Most people think racing is about aggression,” he said. “It’s not. It’s about restraint. Knowing when not to push.”
That went straight into my notes. The interview ran long, which I took as a good sign. At times it felt less like an assignment and more like something unfolding between us. An exchange that kept my attention in a way I didn’t quite want to name yet.
When I turned off the recorder, I felt that familiar, satisfying click in my chest, the sense that I had what I needed.
“Let me know if you need clarification on anything,” Jonathan said, standing and slinging his jacket over one shoulder. “Or if you want to see my car sometime.”
“I might,” I said, already thinking about structure and where to spotlight his quotes. “Thanks for your time.”
“Thank you,” he replied. “You ask better questions than most people who write about me.”
That should have been a warning. I didn’t take it as one.
Once the piece ran, there was no professional reason to think about Jonathan Hirsch again. But for the next few days, I found myself scanning faces as I crossed campus, half expecting to see Jonathan and pick up the conversation where we’d left it.
Even so, I was surprised to see him at the Rainbow Alliance meeting that Sunday.
I didn’t go every month, and when I did I rarely stayed long enough to memorize who belonged to which circle. I was usually too busy with classwork, my part-time job at the campus bookstore, and my work on the DP.
But I’d promised my friend Maya I’d be there that Sunday.
She was presenting her research on queer representation in student government, and she’d been nervous about it all week.
I dragged myself to Houston Hall, slipping into the back of the meeting room just as people were settling into the circle of chairs.
And there, sitting three seats to my left, was Jonathan Hirsch.
He looked as surprised to see me as I was to see him. Our eyes met across the circle, and he gave me a small, uncertain smile. I managed a nod in return, my heart doing something complicated against my ribs.
After the meeting ended, people lingered, clustering in small groups. I was talking to Maya about her research when Jonathan appeared at my elbow.
“Could I buy you coffee?” he asked quietly. “To thank you for that excellent profile. I even sent it to my dad and he was impressed.”
Maya raised an eyebrow at me, clearly intrigued, but she was gracious enough to excuse herself. “Think about what I said about the spring activism conference,” she called over her shoulder.
“You don’t have to,” I said.
“I know,” Jonathan replied. “I’d like to. If you’re willing.”
I couldn’t tell whether he was thanking me, asking me out, or doing something more careful than either, and that uncertainty felt deliberate. “Sure,” I said.
I suggested the 24-hour diner on Walnut Street, where booths came with cracked vinyl seats and unlimited refills. The fluorescent lights were unflattering, the coffee was industrial-strength, and somehow it felt more real than any of the upscale places near campus.
“So,” he said, glancing around. “This feels comfortable.”
“High praise,” I said. “I bring all my dates to places with laminated menus.”
I heard the word dates as I said it and didn’t take it back.
“Good,” he said. “I hate places that try too hard.”
We ordered coffee and sat with it between us, steam rising in the narrow space like something that needed acknowledging.
“You know a lot about me,” he said. “And I know very little about you. What do you do when you’re not reporting for the DP?”
It was an ordinary question, but the way he asked it made it sound like he expected the answer to matter.
“I’m an English major, which means reading and writing. And I have a part-time job at the bookstore. At the DP I spend a lot of time arguing with editors. You?”
Jonathan laughed. “I argue with race officials,” he said. “Most of the time it doesn’t matter, but I try.”
“What do you race?” I asked. “Open wheel?” I pictured a car where the wheels sat outside the bodywork, all suspension and danger on display.
He paused. Just a fraction of a second.
“Yeah,” he said. “Formula Ford.”
“What engine?”
Now his eyebrows lifted. Not surprise, but interest.
“Kent. Crossflow.”
I nodded. “Reliable. Forgiving if you don’t push it too hard. Unforgiving if you do.”
He smiled then. “Most people don’t know that,” he said. “They just hear ‘race car’ and think noise.”
“I told you my dad builds roll cages at his garage,” I said. “Weekend racers. Civics, old BMWs. I grew up sweeping metal shavings off the floor.”
Jonathan leaned back slightly, studying me like I’d just spoken a language he hadn’t expected to hear.
The food arrived. We ate for a minute in companionable silence, the kind that doesn’t rush to fill itself.
“So,” I said finally. “Why Formula Ford?”
Jonathan wiped his mouth, considering.
“Because it doesn’t let you hide,” he said. “No power steering. No assists. If you mess up, it’s obvious. And if you get it right?” He smiled, sharp and private. “The car feels alive.”
I pictured him in the cockpit, hands steady, shoulders braced against the harness, his body tuned to motion and force. The image sent a quick, unwelcome heat through me.
I took a moment to let that heat pass. “And your family’s cool with that?” I asked.
“My father tolerates it,” Jonathan said. “My grandfather loved it. Said machines tell the truth if you listen.”
I nodded. “My dad says the same thing.”
Jonathan looked pleased at that.
“You should come sometime,” he said. “Watch. Or ride along if you want.”
“I’d want to see how you take your turns,” I said. “Most people brake too late after the crest.”
He laughed.
“Okay,” he said. “Now I’m definitely asking you to come.”
We paid and stepped back out into the cold night. The streetlights cast long shadows across the pavement. Jonathan didn’t rush ahead. Didn’t reach for me either.
“I like that you know things,” he said, as we started walking. “Real things.”
“I like that you do something dangerous on purpose,” I said.
He smiled at that, slow and deliberate.
“That’s not fear,” he said. “That’s trust. In yourself. In the machine.”
He stopped walking and turned to face me.
“And you?” he added. “You trust your instincts?”
“I trust evidence,” I said. “Instinct comes after.”
He stepped closer, close enough that I could feel the heat from him.
“Good,” he said. “I’m bad at pretending.”
So was I.
When he kissed me, it wasn’t tentative. It wasn’t rushed. It was precise, like he knew exactly where he wanted to go and wasn’t afraid to take the line.