Chapter 12 #2
I sneak a peek at Cameron. If he has any feelings about this development, he’s doing an excellent job hiding it. His expression is placid, deliberately uncurious.
I do my best to follow his lead; I don’t want to give Sasha the satisfaction of knowing how much he’s thrown me off.
“What’ve you got there, mate?” Sasha cocks his head at Cameron, then gets out of the cart to walk closer.
My heart drops from my stomach to my toes. Cameron attempts to hide my prep book, but Sasha’s too fast.
“SAT Premium. Kwong, are you studying?” He gives me an incredulous look, using the same tone I’d use to ask Mom if we’re really having bitter melon for dinner two nights in a row.
My face grows so warm it feels like a stylist is blasting a salon-grade hair dryer at me. Sasha’s quizzical stare twists into a delighted smirk. Behind him, Pat looks embarrassed for me, like he’s accidentally walked in on someone in the bathroom.
“I just, you know…” Come on, brain, think of something.
“Don’t worry your pretty little head.” Sasha gives a nasty laugh. “You can always drive for the W Series if F3 doesn’t work out—no, wait. They canceled it because there wasn’t enough talent.” He chuckles like he’s just told the world’s funniest joke.
“Mate.” Cameron shakes his head at Sasha, who shrugs in a what? way.
I narrow my eyes. W Series was an all-female racing category that ran parallel to F3.
It was supposed to encourage more women into motorsport and help provide a pipeline of talent for F2 and F1.
I watched the early races breathlessly, tracking all the drivers and hoping to follow in their footsteps.
The series was canceled after only a few years for many reasons—lack of audience, funding difficulties—but a dearth of talent was not one of them.
“That’s not funny,” I hiss.
“Let’s be truthful, we all know the W Series was a joke,” he says between laughs.
“Come off it, Devs.” Cameron unfolds his tall body and stands up. “You’ve said enough.”
“I’m watching out for a fellow driver.” Sasha snickers. “What will the F2 team principals say when they find out she’s studying for uni?”
My heart sinks. Because he’s right. If word gets out—which, knowing Sasha, it surely will—this will be a ding on my creds.
Not a big, ugly, automatic-red-flag kind of ding.
But in a sport where there’s only room for a handful of athletes, the smallest error can mean the difference between moving up or being dumped out cold.
“That it’s a normal, rational course of action to take.” Cameron pulls his tablet out of his backpack. “I’m studying too.”
Sasha stops cackling.
“I’ve got A-levels next month.” The edges of Cameron’s ears are pink again, but other than that, he’s so blasé he might as well be talking about the weather.
Sasha and Pat side-eye each other. I’m stunned, too.
Finally, Pat clears his throat. “That’s cool, man.”
“You’re leading the championship; I don’t see why you’re bothering,” Sasha says grumpily, but the tide of the conversation has turned.
“I hope you’re better at exams than you are at Call of Duty.” Pat gives Cameron’s shoulder an affectionate punch.
“If that’s a reference to Sunday, I’ll have you know I was also keeping an eye on the oven for my nan.” Cameron grins.
“Can we get to lunch already?” Sasha glances pointedly at his watch, a diamond-studded contraption that somehow looks cheap on him.
“You lads go ahead first. I’m gonna clean up with Kwong,” Cameron says.
Sasha gives him a seriously, mate? look.
Pat shrugs, reliably good-natured as always. “Sure, catch you later, man. See you around, Justine.”
The two of them shuffle off.
“I don’t get it,” Sasha says as they drive away. “She’s not that hot.”
And I thought I couldn’t despise him more. I resist the urge to sprint after them and give Sasha a resounding thwack with my SAT book.
I turn back to Cameron, whose face is now bright red. “Thanks for sticking up for me.”
“It’s my fault,” he says. “I told the boys to meet me, I didn’t think they’d get here so quickly. They’re normally late to everything.”
My stomach curls in dread. “Sasha’s totally going to blab it all over the paddock, isn’t he?”
Cameron works his jaw for a second, then shakes his head defiantly. “So what if he does? We’re not the first junior drivers to make backup plans. I wouldn’t stress about it.”
His words, so casually uttered, serve to remind me of the yawning chasm between us.
For Cameron, having others know he’s studying is a minor inconvenience.
No matter how much Pat and Sasha roll their eyes, he’s still part of their pack, and no one’s perception of him is going to be swayed if he takes an A-level or two.
My reputation, on the other hand, might as well have been built on a pile of sand.
And not the nice kind you get in Hawaii, either—more like the gross, silty stuff on the shore of Lake Michigan.
Any rumor about me has the potential to snowball, no matter how innocuous it starts out.
By the time whispers reach the team principals, taking the SATs will have turned into something far more ominous—Justine Kwong clearly lacks confidence.
Why should we back her for the F2 seat when she doesn’t back herself?
And that is something someone like Cameron, a card-carrying member of the old boys’ paddock club, can never understand.
“Hey. What’s wrong?” He’s taken a step closer, eyebrows knit together in concern.
Over my many years on the circuits, I already know it’s not worth the time or energy to explain something like this to someone who looks like him.
They never get it in the end, no matter how well-intentioned they are in the beginning.
“I’m a-okay!” I do my best to summon a peppy smile.
“Let’s pack it up and get going, shall we? ”
I move toward the FC-80 parts, but he grabs my wrist.
“First of all, I’ve never heard you use that phrase.” He tugs, turning me gently back toward him.
“You’ve only known me for three months,” I say, trying to ignore the way my skin is buzzing beneath his fingers.
“Second of all, you’ve got the talent of a homeless poker player.”
“Your idioms suck. This is like the second or third one you’ve completely made up.”
He clicks his tongue. “Don’t blame me for your astonishingly poor vocabulary.”
I’m about to tell him I’m testing above 700 on my SAT Reading and Writing, thank you very much, but it reminds me why I’m depressed in the first place. “I’m fine. Let’s just clean up and get out of here.”
“Something’s clearly bothering you.”
“I told you, I’m fine.” Irritation creeps into my voice. I wish he would let this go and let me sulk in peace.
“Come on.” He crosses his arms. “The whole reason we’re out here in this arse-end part of campus is because Frank got sick of us sniping at each other. We’re supposed to be bonding. You can tell me.”
“Do you really want to know?”
His face lights up with an earnest flush. “You can tell me. Real talk.”
“I don’t think you can handle my real talk.” I regret it the second the words are out of my mouth. How did I manage to turn something serious into sounding like flirting?
“Try me.” He winks. “You’d be surprised at what I can handle.”
It’s disturbing how much his cheesy wink unsettles me. I didn’t even know I liked winks; they’ve always felt so corny.
“Fine. I’m worried word about my studying is going to get to Frank, and it’s going to reflect poorly on me when he’s thinking about who to give the F2 seat to.” It occurs to me that telling him this is maybe not the best idea, given he’s the one Frank would be giving the seat to.
Cameron bursts out laughing. “That’s it? Your face looked like the world was ending.”
My stomach shrivels into nothing. He doesn’t get it at all. This is exactly why I didn’t want to go down this rabbit hole in the first place.
He’s still smiling like I said something funny. “I promise it’s not that big of a deal. If Frank knows about your SATs, he’s gonna know about my A-level, too—we’re even.”
“No, we’re not,” I say. “And we won’t ever be.”
“Hang on, I’m losing this thread. Are you mad at me?”
I look up. He seems a little exasperated, a lot confused. “I’m not.”
“Then why’re you looking at me like you want to throw that spanner in my face?” He gestures at my hand, which I belatedly realize is gripping the tool so tightly my knuckles are starting to pale.
I aim the wrench at the open toolbox fifteen feet away. It flies in with so much force, the cover slams shut upon impact. “Better?”
Cameron lets out a low whistle. “Okay, Miss Olympic Cricketer. Care to explain what’s going on in that head of yours?”
He’s staring expectantly. I get the feeling we’re going to be here all day until he drags the truth out of me.
I sigh. “Have you ever been called a ‘tick-the-box publicity exercise’?”
“Kwong.” He blanches, and I’m glad he knows what I’m referring to.
It’d be ten times worse if he couldn’t even remember the thing I’ve been torturing myself over.
“You can’t take that to heart. Georgios was just jealous you got assigned the best driver in F1 for mentor while the rest of us were stuck with a geriatric retiree.
We didn’t even know you could drive then. ”
I know he’s trying to make me feel better, but I can’t seem to shove the feelings genie back in its bottle. “What do you mean, you didn’t know I could drive?”
Cameron massages his forehead, and I’m suddenly reminded of Mom when she’s had a bad trading day in the stock market.
“Look, when they first announced your signing, there was an unbelievable amount of hype. Sponsors swarming Frank, Orbital corporate and FIA up his arse for you to succeed. Britt was jumping up and down shouting about all the campaigns she could run. It was hard not to be cynical, especially when my family and I were knocking up and down doors praying someone might have some budget left over for me.”
I swallow, my throat dry. It’s hard to argue I get more attention than the rest of the grid, but he clearly only sees the upside of being different.