Chapter 6 #2
I turn back to the mountain in front of me.
My brain runs the calculus—no instructions, enough parts to open our own scrapyard.
No wonder Frank set a deadline way out in August. Just sorting through all the pieces is going to take hours, never mind that between Cameron and me, neither of us has ever constructed a Formula 1 car… though plenty of people around us have.
As if hearing my thoughts, Frank hollers, “Forgot to mention—no outside help! And no working on it separately!” With that, he pulls out of Lot 19, leaving us literally in the dust.
I groan, resisting the urge to bury my face in my hands. “Is this supposed to teach us the magic of working together and getting along?”
“Subtlety’s never been his thing.”
“Can we tell him we made up and are besties now and skip all the ‘wax on, wax off’?”
“Wax on?”
“You know, like Mr. Miyagi? From The Karate Kid?” I wave my arm in imitation of the “wax on” move. “The classic eighties movie? Or do you guys not have that over here?”
“We have Jackie Chan on this side of the pond, thank you very much. Though I doubt we’ll develop any beneficial muscular reflexes from putting a car together.”
Even his pop-culture takeaways are irritating and wrong. “I meant spiritually. And also, the remake is terrible. I was talking about the original.”
“Isn’t Will Smith a national treasure for Americans?”
“He’s not even in the movie!” I huff, and then I realize Cameron’s mouth is twitching at the corners. The asshole is clearly messing with me. “Forget it. Let’s just get started.”
I grab the first thing my hand touches. It looks like a part that might have once upon a time been a nose cone but now more closely resembles something you’d find in a recycling center. “How about this? I’ll put together the wings, and you work on the chassis?”
“Shouldn’t we sort everything first?”
Cameron’s probably right, but that requires even more talking, which means there’s a nonzero chance I might wind up committing murder before the day is done. “I think this is better. We’ll save more time not arguing with each other.”
“As the lady wishes.” He rolls his eyes, then reaches into the pile.
As luck would have it, today is the one day—out of the entire drizzly English spring—that the sun comes out.
I would’ve loved for this to have happened on an afternoon where Roz and I are hitting up a café for acai smoothies or checking out the shops on High Street, but no.
Today—when I’m actively engaging in forced manual labor outside—is the day the normally absent sun chooses to beat down like it’s August in Chicago.
I wipe a bead of sweat rivuleting its way from my hairline.
The back of my wrist is so dewy with perspiration, I might as well be slathering more into my eyes.
I glance over at Cameron. He’s laboring over his own growing pile of parts, which appears (annoyingly) larger than mine.
How does he manage to look like he’s been playing a light game of pickleball—barely a sheen on his forehead—while I’m dripping like I’ve been locked in a sauna?
To add insult to injury, despite all the sweat and hours, the mountain of old car parts looks barely touched.
“All right, Kwong?” He catches me staring.
I flush and look away. I don’t even want to think about what his reaction would be if he knew I was comparing the superiority of his sweat glands to mine.
He’s so vain, he’ll probably take it the wrong way and the next thing I know the whole paddock will be gossiping about how I’ve got a massive crush on him.
My phone buzzes with a Reminders notification: Meeting with Dietrich in 15 minutes.
Crap, crap, crap. Somehow I’ve completely lost track of time.
I leap to my feet. “I have to run.”
I throw my backpack over my shoulder and book it for the golf cart that brought us here. There’s no way I can be late to my first one-on-one with Dietrich. This is my chance to make a good impression, to put our awkward encounter at Season Opener drinks behind us.
“Wait up.” Cameron overtakes me with his long legs, beating me to the cart and sliding across the bench to the driver’s seat. “Frank said we’re not allowed to work on this thing solo, remember? And more importantly, how am I supposed to get out of here if you take the buggy?”
I jump into the passenger side and glance at my phone. Fourteen minutes, forty seconds now. “I don’t know, you could’ve walked or called Pat or something.”
“Aren’t you considerate?” Cameron scoffs.
He hits the ignition button, and we begin crawling down the path at a pace more appropriate for retirees rolling up to tee time than two wannabe F1 drivers. I swear he’s going slower just to annoy me.
“Can you hurry it up? I’m super late to a super-important meeting.”
“Kwong, this is a golf buggy. Maybe you should have kept your eye on the time if your meeting was so super important.”
Thirteen minutes now and the OTC—where I’m supposed to be meeting Dietrich—is still barely visible through the grove of manicured trees.
“I’d be less late if you weren’t driving like a grandma.”
“My nan’s got stopped for speeding twice this year already, thank you very much.” He glances over with a large shit-eating grin. “Anyone ever tell you your lips get all twisty when you’re riled up?”
I quickly straighten out the corner of my mouth, which, without my realizing, had indeed twisted itself up.
Mom always says I’ll give myself premature wrinkles if I don’t watch out, but I’m not about to share with Cameron what he has in common with the most overbearing person in my life.
“If you’re not going to pick up the pace, can you at least let me drive? ”
He chuckles, and a jet of irritation spurts through me.
He’s enjoying this. Not only is he actively preventing me from getting to my meeting on time, but he is reveling in my distress, bwhahaha-ing away like a cartoon villain while my opportunity to impress Dietrich slips away with every passing second.
I know we’re rivals—teammates naturally are—but the derision he’s exhibited goes beyond the usual competitive spirit.
“What is your problem with me?” The words burst out of me in a frustrated huff.
“What are you banging on about now?”
“Don’t give me that look. You’ve been rude and snippy since Opener drinks.”
“Maybe I’m just an introverted curmudgeon. Have you thought of that?”
This is so far from the truth, I can’t believe he even tried.
“Are you kidding me? You’re a dipshit to me, but you’re the nicest person ever to everyone else on the team.
Frank’s admin says you remind her of her nephew, you’re on a first-name basis with the graveyard crew, all the PR girls are in love with you and so are the receptionists—” Cameron’s face is in the early innings of an arrogant smirk, so I stop myself there.
“The point is, you’re friendly and charming to everyone. Except me.”
“Firstly, I can’t help it if girls like me.” He’s beaming so widely, I’m tempted to reach over and smack the cockiness off his face. “Secondly, don’t act like you haven’t been trying to one-up me.”
“Me?”
“Bragging about how you went through the entire operating manual for the car, or actually doing the mad new routine recommended by the trainer so he’ll report good things to Frank. Or,” he adds, “getting extra with your racing lines and blowing up testing weekend for other people—namely me.”
I narrow my eyes. He’s right. I am extra.
I am always trying to look good to everyone in the paddock.
But he doesn’t understand not putting in maximum effort 150 percent of the time is his privilege and his only.
He can have a bad day every now and then and people won’t automatically think he’s only in F3 as a publicity stunt.
But I have to claw and fight and prove myself at every turn, because every little mistake I make, everything I do that’s a nanometer less than flawless, gives an opening for those quietly muttering “I told you so” to say it out loud.
“You’re hardly innocent.”
For a second, I debate laying it out for him, but then we’d be here for another hour, and besides, in my experience, guys who look like him will do everything in their power to not see what’s in front of them.
“Whatever. Just let me drive.” I jab my foot over to his side of the cart, kicking his leg aside and flooring the flimsy pedal of the cart.
We lurch forward, at least double the pace we were going before. “I knew you weren’t going full speed.”
“I was only teasing; I’ll take care of it.” He knocks his leg into mine, trying to muscle me away. “Give me the pedal back.”
For some reason, it feels critically important not to give in right now, like this is some kind of metaphor for the rest of the season. If I cave and let Cameron have the wheel, he’s going to think he can keep walking over me whenever he wants.
And I’m not going to let him do that. Not today, not any day.
I grab the steering wheel with my right hand and brace with my leg. “Let. Me. Drive.”
“Let go. I’ve got this.” He elbows my side.
I use my free hand to push against the metal bar on the side of the cart, giving me more leverage. “Not unless—”
We’re suddenly airborne, sailing over a speed bump some genius decided to place around a blind turn. The cart lands on the ground with a loud crack and tips over, spilling Cameron and me out on the passenger side in a tangle of legs and arms.
I find myself nose-to-nose with him, my boobs crushed against his chest, which, while I knew theoretically would be hard because of all the conditioning Frank forces down our throats, I’m still not prepared for how it feels to be pressed against it.
Up close, I can count every freckle sprinkled across his aquiline nose.
My phone dings again, reminding me of the mess I’m going to be in if I don’t get back to the OTC on time.