Chapter 6 #4
I decide to get out of here, before sniffles turn into ugly-crying. “The pollen here is wild,” I manage to choke out. “Sorry, I think I need to get some meds.”
Before Dietrich has a chance to answer, I grab my backpack and hightail it out of the canteen as fast as I can, my sandals slapping against the white stone floors the entire way.
Thankfully, the apartment is empty when I get home. The last thing I need is an inquisition from Mom about how my day went and the subsequent remonstration about how I could mess up so badly, followed by the strategizing on how I can fix it all.
Grateful for the momentary peace, I kick off my shoes at the door and head straight for the refrigerator.
Mom’s been on me to watch my diet since she ran into the team nutritionist, so there’s only sorbet in the freezer instead of my go-to Ben & Jerry’s, but desperate times call for eating your feelings, even if they’re cantaloupe instead of Chocolate Fudge Brownie.
I plop myself onto a stool facing the kitchen partition countertop and dig my spoon into the pint. Before I’m even a quarter of the way through, there’s a beep at the front door lock.
“I need this filed ASAP,” Mom’s saying as she enters, AirPods in her ears and a Waitrose bag in either hand. “I’ll follow up with you later next week, thanks.”
She places the groceries on the counter and starts unpacking. I can tell, by the ample leafy greens and chicken breast cutlets, that I’m in for another week of bland dinners.
“Sweets again?” Mom tuts.
“Can you not?”
“Remember, Spielberg is in three weeks.” She drops a bundle of carrots into the vegetable drawer. “How was the meeting? Did you get a sense for if Dietrich Lange’s people would be open to social media collaboration?”
Whereas just this morning Dietrich’s name brought a fluttery church-choir ahhh, now I would be very happy to never hear him mentioned again.
“Eh, it was okay,” I say through a mouthful of sorbet, doing my best to play it casual.
My acting skills must be lackluster, judging by the way Mom gasps and nearly drops a carton of eggs. “What happened?”
“I was a little late and he was kind of not nice about it.” I deliberately skip over the part about why. I’m not in the mood to hear a lecture about the importance of getting along with teammates, especially from someone whose biggest sporting achievement is passing the swim test in college.
Mom sighs. “What have I told you about always keeping your eye on the clock?”
I wince. “I already know I screwed up. Can you just let me be depressed?”
To my surprise, Mom puts down the pack of Yakult she was on her way to transferring to the refrigerator. She takes a step closer and pats me on the back. “If that’s what’s going to make you stop eating your weight in sugar.” She rubs at a spot on my cheek. “What is this? Is this grease?”
“They, uh, had breakfast sandwiches at media training.”
Luckily, Mom doesn’t call me out on my lie. (Frank is about as likely to serve cheese and bacon to young drivers as Mom is to buy me jumbo bags of potato chips.)
She gives my hand a squeeze. “I know relocating to England, getting used to all this, hasn’t been the easiest. But you can do this. I believe in you.”
I’m grateful Mom has decided to be supportive for once, but it doesn’t get rid of the kernel of doubt that’s been germinating since the ink dried on my contract last winter.
“What if no one else does?” I think of Dietrich’s cold, clipped words this afternoon and Cameron and Georgios’s ugly gossip at the kickoff party. “What if everyone in the paddock thinks I’m only here as minority eye candy?”
“Gougou,” Mom says, using her pet name for me. “It won’t matter what people think once the season gets started. Remember Pittsburgh?”
It was my first real away away race. The first time I traveled so far from home there wasn’t a Culver’s every mile.
It’d been hard for Mom to find sponsors to fund the trip, not helped by the fact they were all used to hearing from Dad, who’d just left.
But she persevered, and I wound up lapping everyone but the second-place finisher.
“We do our talking on the track,” I say, citing what Mom said when I suggested we call up sponsors who rejected us and shout, “IN YOUR FACE.” Over the years, it’s become our rallying cry. A familiar refrain I reach for anytime I get the urge to gloat. Or when I’m hurting.
“I’ve lost count of the number of skeptics you’ve shut down with every new category,” Mom says. Her sunny demeanor reminds me exactly where I learned the whole fake it till you make it thing from. “There’s no reason F3 shouldn’t go our way too.”
I chew my lip, thinking about what I saw Cameron and some of the others pull off during testing. The drivers here are a huge step up from the competition I’m used to. Not to mention it’s a whole new set of off-track politics that I’m still learning.
But Mom’s right, I’ve made it past every category so far. And I’ll never know unless I try.
The knot in my stomach loosens slightly. “I’ll show them on the track.”