Chinese Grand Prix #4
“Okay.” Julien nods, satisfied. “Okay, good. Good.”
“Why are you asking?”
“Um…” Is there a normal reason? “Uh…” Something that doesn’t sound like Julien himself is particularly interested in the Brazilian driver? “Well, you see…”
With every moment, Thomas’s eyes grow larger.
“Oh, Jesus fucking Christ, it’s like déjà vu.” Sam massages the bridge of his nose, like he’s fighting a migraine. “What does anyone even see in that asshole?”
Julien scoffs. “Maybe people like that he doesn’t crash into rookies.”
“It was a sprint, you’ll survive.”
“Sam has already apologized,” Thomas says matter-of-factly.
“To who?!” Julien sure as hell didn’t receive an apology. Did he talk to the car? The mechanics?!
“Sorry, kid.” Sam flashes his stupid plastic smile again. It’s just as fake as the rest of him. “Tell ya what—if you stay behind me, I won’t crash into you. Win-win!”
Unbelievable. That is a threat. Sam is threatening Julien’s life for a fucking race. Who’s the dangerous one now?!
Julien turns to his brother, shutting Sam out completely. “You willingly talk to this asshole? You defended him over me? This man?!”
“Yeah, you don’t gotta translate that one for me. I’m good.” Sam laughs, and Julien wants to toss him overboard.
When the truck finally stops, the drivers crowd around the exit. Sam ends up in front of Julien and his stupid little taunt replays in the Frenchman’s head.
If you stay behind me, I won’t—
Fuck that. Julien steps on the back of the Aussie’s heel until his foot pops out of his shoe. After a couple of hops, Sam fixes it, but Julien just steps on him again.
He’ll get his real revenge out on the track.
Davide had assured him that the clanging in the side of his car is completely normal, but Julien still can’t improve his position during the race. He crosses the line P6 an hour after he loses sight of the Australian driver ahead of him.
Eight points is fine—it’s a good haul for a midfield team—but Julien’s in a Ferraro.
If he’s going to prove anything to anyone, he needs to do better than sixth place.
“Japan is like Monaco—it’s practically won during Qualifying.” Rafael tousles Julien’s hair, fucking it up after the post-race meeting. “Run it a bunch of times on the sim—enough to drive it blind. It’s a fun one, at least, and Japan is beautiful.”
“Why are you acting like I won’t see you until then?” Julien laughs, but it sounds unsteady, even to his own ears. “You’re flying back to Italy with us, right?”
“Not this time. I’m pretty useless to the team during the break with—” Rafael nods down to his strapped arm. “But they love me in Japan, so I’m gonna spend a couple weeks over there.”
It makes sense to take one three-hour flight directly to Japan instead of two thirteen-hour flights into and out of Italy, but Julien is still a little disappointed that he won’t get to see him in that time.
“Look at how sad you are! C’mere.” Rafael hooks his free arm around Julien’s neck, and the younger driver squawks as he’s pulled in. “Man, you’re such a sap! Just admit it—you’re going to miss me.”
“Alright, alright, I’ll miss you.” Julien struggles to free himself, but Rafael leans all of his weight on him. “Jesus, you’re gonna break my collarbone too! Then Ferraro will be shit outta luck.”
Rafael laughs, but kisses the top of Julien’s head before letting go. “Make sure you do your homework before Japan, okay? I want to see you on the podium.”
The underlying statement—the looming promise for finishing in the top three—isn’t lost on Julien.
“I will.”
Without a race this week, most of Julien’s factory work is meetings. Strategy meetings, set-up meetings, marketing meetings.
At least when he was a normal reserve driver, he got to lock himself inside his dark room and race with the fancy simulator, but now Julien barely drives a couple of laps before he’s pulled into his next appointment.
By the time he drags his feet up the stairs of his shitty Italian apartment building, dodges his nosey flatmates, and shuts the feeble door, Julien is itching to race again.
Since it’s not a race weekend, his team doesn’t have a stream planned, but Julien hops on anyway and waits for the automatic notification to find someone to race with.
“Romeo!” Of course Mick doesn’t have anything better to do on a Friday night. “What happened to weekend work?”
“Finished early today.” Julien chooses Suzuka as Rafael’s advice echoes in his mind.
“Nooooo… Choose an interesting track—something with more overtakes.”
“I got here first, I get dibs.”
Kevin’s icon pops up as his camera switches on. “Didya forget there isn’t a race thi—oh! Hey, Romeo. Lemme guess—no work this weekend?”
He laughs, though Julien didn’t catch the joke.
“Lay off it, Kevin,” Mick says. “You’re just as bad as chat.”
“What’d I miss?” Julien scrolls through the logs, but there isn’t anything particularly funny. Most people are just excited about an unplanned stream.
“Only that you’re Julien Dubois.”
Kevin guffaws again as Julien’s stomach plummets.
How did they find out? What did he do wrong? “What? Me?”
“It’s just a stupid joke,” Mick explains. “Because of your new weekend job. You said you’d be gone through Imola, and Monaco is when Rafael is expected to return.”
“Don’t forget when Rafael was literally on his mic after Australia.”
“That was my cousin.” Julien said cousin the first time, right? “He was just fuckin’ around.”
“That’s the best Rafael impression I’ve ever heard.”
“You should drop a pic.”
“Don’t push him—I like the mystery.”
Julien doesn’t even know what to say. How much can he deny it without sounding too defensive? “You think I’d be racing with you losers if I was a Formation 1 driver?”
“Well, Julien’s not actually a Formation 1 driver, is he?”
Okay, ouch.
John’s picture appears, saving Julien from having to answer.
Maybe he should lean into it. They don’t seem to be accusing him of anything, just talkin’ shit like always.
What would he do if he wasn’t Julien Dubois?
Julien types his own name into image search and picks out the most flattering photo from the front page. Most of the pictures have either Thomas or Rafael in them, but with a bit of cropping, he makes something resembling a profile picture.
When it finally uploads, it’s a shock to see his real face on the stream. The professional photo is far better quality than the grainy video the other guys stream with, but, for the first time, Julien’s face is right there amongst his friends.
He hadn’t noticed how othered it felt to only have his shitty graphic as a placeholder. Now it’s actually him—it’s his face racing under the Romeo tag.
A rose by any other name, or whatever.
When the image refreshes for the others, they all cackle at once.
“Hey, don’t laugh at my face.” Julien can’t hide the smile in his voice. “My very real, actual face.” Okay, now he’s laughing too.
“Romeo Dubois!”
“The third Dubois brother.”
There’s already three, but Julien has no idea if that’s common knowledge or not. What should be common knowledge is— “It’s du-bwah, not du-boys.”
“I thought it was Du-bwah-wah-wah.”
“No, it’s Du-boi-yoi-yoing.”
“Du-Boise, Idaho.”
“All of you suck.”