French Grand Prix #3
Julien sets a fork down and stands straighter with his hands on his hips. “How long have you known?”
Rafael avoids eye contact and continues folding the napkins. “Uh… since last season?”
“Last season?!”
“For the record, I didn’t think it was a ‘meet the family’ type of relationship. I thought they were just…” Rafael tapers off, but the end of it is loud and clear.
Fucking. Just fucking. Only intercourse, like that isn’t gross enough on its own.
Julien shudders and quickly doles out the rest of the utensils. It’s all in the wrong places, but as long as it’s nice for his parents, it’s fine. The rest of the table can eat with their hands for all he cares.
Thomas carries a bowl of green beans into the room and sets it in the middle of the table. “This is wrong.”
He fixes the silverware at the placement he’s leaning over, then at the next.
Julien watches him with crossed arms, smiling when Thomas gets to the head of the table and turns.
“Purposely setting the table wrong for our guests? That’s really fucking mature.”
“Your guest is Australian.” Julien scoffs. “I’m sure Sam doesn’t give one flying fuck where his fork is placed.”
The man in question leans over the table to drop off a dish of whipped potatoes. “As long as I can figure out which is mine, I reckon I’m good.”
“It is about respect,” Thomas calls after him as Sam retreats into the kitchen. “You are such a brat, Julien.”
Julien sticks out his tongue, and Thomas mirrors him.
Rafael exhales as he props up the last napkin. “Let’s just have a nice dinner, okay?”
“How does Formation 1 deal with both of you?” Matthieu asks as he carries the duck into the room. “You have only been here for twenty minutes and you are both children again.”
Thomas huffs. “Two more races and it will not be ‘both of us’ anymore.”
Julien won’t admit it, but the reminder stings.
“Too far, Thomas.” Matthieu adjusts the plates on the table until the collection looks magazine ready. He whips out a cloth and wipes excess liquid from around each of the dishes.
“C’est vrai.”
Julien doesn’t run away, but he dips into the kitchen to look for something else to do.
He knows he has a limited time in the Ferraro seat—that’s why he has to give it everything. To have that thrown in his face by someone who has the seat year-round is just another layer of salt to his already-bleeding wound.
“Julien, ca va?”
Julien hadn’t noticed his father at the refrigerator. “Papa! ?a va.”
They give la bise, and the older man still smells like cigarette smoke and whisky. The nostalgia of it is comforting.
“You brought a boy home?”
Julien peeks through the kitchen doorway and points to Rafael. “Mine is the one in maroon.”
Sam is just wearing a black henley and faded jeans. He probably didn’t even bring a gift.
It’s just like Thomas to set someone else up for failure.
“Good looking kid,” Papa decides. “You have never brought a boy home before.”
“You’ve met Hugo.” Though, technically, he never set foot in the house. “Besides, Rafael is just a friend.”
“Dressed up, nice wine, fancy napkin shapes…”
Julien flushes. “He is still just a friend.”
“Stop hiding in the kitchen,” Maman tuts. “It’s time for dinner.”
At a table with eight chairs, the only places left for Julien to sit are across from Thomas or next to him. If he’s across from Thomas, he’ll get to sit between Matthieu and Rafael, but he’ll have to stare at his stupid face the whole time.
Maybe Julien can just look away.
Papa takes his seat at the head, and Maman takes hers at the foot. Rafael and Sam have both chosen to sit towards Maman, which was a bold move. Wonder how that’ll pay off.
“Rafael was kind enough to bring us this beautiful wine.” Maman gestures to the opened bottle on the table. “Would anyone like a glass?”
Matthieu stands, gathering the bottle and reading the label. “Nice work.” He pours a glass for Papa, Maman, Rafael, and himself.
There’s only a splash left, but Maman still asks, “Surely you’d like a taste, Julien? Sam? Thomas?”
Julien doesn’t care about wine, he only picked out something expensive with the words Mattieu texted him. He knows better than to admit so out loud. “I drove us tonight.”
Sam doesn’t know better. “If you gotta couple’a ice cubes, I could be convinced.”
The entire Dubois family stares at him in horrified silence before Thomas stands. “I will get us some water with ice. Julien? Water?”
It’s rare to see Thomas embarrassed. Maybe this Sam phase is a good thing after all.
“Yeah, thanks.”
When he leaves, it’s quiet enough for the table to hear Thomas working in the kitchen. Matthieu pours the final splash into his own glass and sets the empty bottle back on the table.
Thomas returns with three cups and asks, “So, Matthieu, what is on the menu for tonight?”
Smooth.
Matthieu is a better brother than Julien is. He takes the hint and delves into far too much detail as he rattles on about every dish.
Julien would’ve microwaved a can of green beans instead of doing so much work, but to each their own. “Looks good, Mathé.” Quieter, he leans in and asks, “What should I avoid?”
He’ll take any advantage over Sam and Thomas he can get.
“The duck is full of protein, but remove the skin. Give it to Rafael—it’s the best part. Skip the potatoes and bread, eat the green beans and carrots. They’ve got tons of garlic and butter, so you’ll like them.”
“Tons of butter?”
“Enough to make you want to eat them.” Matthieu pulls the carrot-filled serving dish closer and piles some on Julien’s plate. “Just work the rest off. I’m sure Rafael would love to help.”
“Matthieu!”
“Anything you boys would like to share with the table?” Maman gives them a stern glare as she picks her slices of duck.
Julien takes the serving plate before Matthieu can spoon any carrots for himself and passes it to Rafael. “Matthieu is trying to make us fat before the race this weekend.”
The traitor snorts, but doesn’t disagree.
“How do you boys feel about this weekend? Who do you think will win?” Maman doesn’t know what can of worms she’s opening by asking. She thinks it’s polite dinner talk.
“The newspapers favor Thomas.” Papa should know better. “Then the German boy, then Sam.”
“Historically speaking, the track favors Julien.” Rafael passes the dish in his hands and picks up the potatoes. “Then Sam, then Thomas and Friedrich. My money’s on Julien.”
Matthieu may not follow the sport, but he sounds almost giddy when he says, “I would love to hear why.”
Thomas is less thrilled. “Yes, Rafael. Please explain why my home race favors Julien so much.”
“It’s my home race too.” Julien would also like to hear the reasoning, but Rafael is probably just pandering to his parents.
He looks up, his eyes wide as though he’s only just sensing the tension. “Because of how many times he’s won it? Karting, Formation 3, Formation 2… Wasn’t there an eRacing championship season that ended with this circuit?”
“How do you know that?!” Nobody knows about eurRace Med. Julien himself only found out about it the day before registration ended.
Rafael shrugs. “I’m sure it’s on your wiki page. I read it somewhere.”
“You read his wiki page?” Somehow, Thomas looks even more surprised than Julien feels. “And remembered it?”
Rafael ducks his head and scoops his potatoes a little too roughly. “I mean, I’ve been helping him this year. It’s good to know about racing history. Y’know, weaknesses and stuff.”
Matthieu leans forward, around Julien. “What are his weaknesses? What is Juju bad at?”
Julien elbows him. “Don’t ask that!”
“Not in front of his biggest competition.” Rafael nods to the other side of the table as Sam tears into his slices of duck—skin and all.
“We’ll all be there on Sunday,” Maman says. “We can cheer for all three of you.”
“Don’t cheer for Sam, he’s on the wrong team.” Julien knocks the flaky skin off his duck and sneaks it over to Rafael’s plate. Once it’s cleared, he forks a piece of meat.
“Which team are you subbing for, Juju?”
“I dunno, Mathé. What kind of food do you cook?” Even without watching the sport religiously, the team Julien races for is basic knowledge that any family member should know.
“Is there a French team?”
“Yeah, but they suck.”
Papa finally speaks up to say, “The French team hired American drivers.”
“Then why are they not the American team now?”
“Good question.”
Julien scoffs. “No, it’s not.”
“Both Americans left Andes last season,” Thomas explains. He daintily dabs at his mouth with a napkin, his duck skins pushed off to the side of his plate. “The team’s country is where their headquarters are. Ferraro is Italian.”
Matthieu looks to Julien when he asks, “Don’t you have an apartment in Italy?”
“You’re so close to getting it.”
“Why aren’t you both on the same team? Wouldn’t that make it easier for everyone?”
“We are on the same team,” Julien and Thomas say in unison. They look up, locking eyes, then back down to their food.
Rafael chimes in to add, “But not because it’s easier to remember.”
“Why, then?”
After a moment of hesitation, Julien shoves another bite of duck into his mouth and chews.
He earned his way onto the grid. He won Formation 2 and should’ve been the first-round draft pick of his season. He deserves a Form 1 seat just as much as any other driver, but his debut wouldn’t have been at Ferraro if Thomas hadn’t vouched for him.
Thomas stays uncharacteristically quiet. He probably thinks he’s being the bigger man by not saying anything, but his silence says everything. It’d be less arrogant if he just admitted it—if he bragged to everyone that he’s the only reason Julien gets to touch a race car anymore.
“These might be the best green beans I’ve ever had.” Sam spears another bean as the table quickly nods and vocalizes their agreement.
“Um, thank you.” Because Matthieu can’t ever take a compliment, he adds, “They’re very easy to do. I’d write up a recipe, but you don’t want to know how I made them.”