Chapter 3
Barcelona, Spain
Circuit de Barcelona-Catalunya
Lizzie looks even more beautiful in our team garage than she did on display. The Météo-France radar this morning reported clear, crisp skies with not a hint of wind—perfect track conditions.
My heart pounds.
This is it. My professional debut in Europe. What I dreamed about when I won my first karting competition at Evanston Raceways. What Mom and I used to fantasize about while road-tripping to races, spinning wilder and grander what if? scenarios with each cornfield we passed.
I’m alternately excited and terrified to climb into Lizzie’s cockpit.
A twinge of fear nibbles away inside me, the way it always does at the beginning of a new category, when you’re not quite sure where you stand among the field.
Cameron and Georgios’s words from the kickoff party echo ominously in my ears.
I push away the curls of self-doubt and focus on Lizzie. Envision the track we’re going to be running on. I have every curve, every corner—from the long opening straight to the relentless Turn 3—memorized after weeks of preparation.
“Easy, Kwong. I think you might be drooling.”
I don’t need to turn around. It’s only been seventy-two hours since we met, and sadly, I can already recognize Cameron’s annoying voice.
“You’re so funny.” I don’t bother taking my eyes off the yellow rising-sun Orbital logo against Lizzie’s navy paint.
“Lighten up. Just a little teammate banter before we kick off.”
I have no patience for his antics this morning. Not when my professional debut is minutes away. “Can you go ‘banter’ with Pat instead? You’re ruining my pre-driving vibes.”
“How ’bout you lot quit nattering about vibes and get on the track?” Frank, our team principal, has somehow snuck up on us despite being shaped like a high school football coach with the tread of an elephant. I blame Cameron.
“Of course. Absolutely, sir.” I flush.
“I told you before, no need for that ‘sir’ crap.”
“Yes, sir. I mean yes, Frank. It’s cool if I call you that, right? ’Cause—”
“Get in the car, Justine.” He lumbers back to his seat on the pit wall.
“Yes—” I choke back the sir before it comes out of my mouth. I can see Cameron smirking from the corner of my eye, so I slam my helmet on to avoid having to look at his shit-eating grin.
Here we go. I take a deep breath and turn back to Lizzie. Pulse flickering, I lower myself into her cockpit and slide into the black carbon fiber seat. It’s a perfect fit, designed just for me.
No, really. I had to sit in a butt mold for three hours so they could tailor-make it. Holding still for the length of a superhero movie kind of sucked, but it’ll be worth it when I win my first F3 race, lock in the championship, and prove that I belong.
I flip my visor down, my heart thumping.
The safety panel on Lizzie’s steering wheel lights up, and I tap her accelerator. She glides down the pit lane, past the garages of the other F3 teams, and toward the jagged peaks of Montserrat towering in the distance. Once we hit the racetrack proper, I drop the throttle.
Lizzie hurtles down the circuit at 80, 100, then 180 mph.
My heartbeat accelerates along, the familiar rush of joy and adrenaline sweeping over me.
No matter where I am—a state-of-the-art circuit with the Catalan mountain range as backdrop or a muddy Midwestern junior track that doubles as a cow pasture on weekdays—the first burst of speed never fails to thrill, to make me feel like I’m soaring.
Turn 1 comes at the end of the long opening pit straight.
I slam the brake down at the last possible millisecond.
Lizzie’s speed drops instantaneously and my torso strains against the six-point harness.
Three g-forces bear down on my body, the same amount an astronaut experiences during a rocket launch.
A deafening screech pierces the air behind me. In my mirror, Cameron is veering around the corner, a cloud of smoke issuing from his front right wheel as he locks his brakes from mistiming the turn.
I let out a gleeful cackle. He may have more experience racing open-wheel cars, but so far I’m looking better on-track.
We both decelerate to enter the upcoming chicane—back-to-back turns that form an S—and Cameron manages to slip past me before we’re out of the second turn.
Preseason testing is far from a real race, but after what I overheard at the opening party, I don’t want to give a single inch.
We come up on another turn, a wider curve that allows Lizzie to carry additional speed into the corner. Cameron is already braking, moving slightly wide and leaving a slim gap.
That’s my opportunity. It’s showy, and it makes the statement I’m looking for.
I keep my foot on the throttle until I push past the conservative braking line. Lizzie turns, smooth as a skate through freshly resurfaced ice. Except Cameron, having gone wide, is now turning in. At a rate far, far too fast.
I turn the wheel to adjust my racing line, but it’s too late.
There’s a sickening crunch as our cars collide, carbon fiber on carbon fiber.
I’m jolted to my right, then left, as Lizzie and I spin away, round and round like an out-of-control teacups ride.
We skid off the tarmac and come to a stop in the gravel lining the track, the smell of burnt rubber so thick in the air I almost gag.
Quickly, I scan for damage. My wrists can flex; my fingers can wiggle. My left clavicle is burning from the force of the harness strap and I can feel a bruise blooming on my thigh, but other than that, all facilities seem to be intact.
I look around for Cameron. His car is also stranded in the runoff area, sixty feet from Lizzie. He hops out of his cockpit, so clearly no harm done there either.
Thank god. I take a deep, shaky breath. The worst thing a driver can do is get themselves—or another driver—wheeled off on a stretcher.
My legs are rubbery as I push myself up and out, heart jackhammering against my rib cage.
Part of me wants to curl up next to Lizzie’s mangled front wing for a second—just until my fingers lose their tremors—but the track marshals sweeping toward me like a Navy SEALs rescue mission remind me I’m still being watched.
And judged.
My stomach plummets. This—crashing Lizzie in front of the entire paddock—is the exact opposite of the impression I needed to make today.
“Kwong!” Cameron’s stomping toward me, gravel crunching with each step. There’s no trace of a smirk, or anything remotely resembling a smile, on his face now. “What the hell? I had the inside line.”
I take another deep breath, forcing oxygen through my body to calm my rushing nerves. I don’t want to back down or show weakness, especially to Cameron Evans.
“You were wide, so I went for the gap,” I shout back, with more confidence than I feel.
“Two meters isn’t a gap.”
“Maybe to you it isn’t.”
“It shouldn’t be to you, either.” He comes to a stop inches in front of me, glowering down.
Frank gives a piercing whistle that cuts through the air, even from the other side of the circuit. “My office, now.”
I narrow my eyes at Cameron. He gives a disgusted shake of his head before turning and storming toward the exit. I follow him, no hurry to be first this time.