Chapter 14
I float on fluffy pink cotton candy clouds the rest of the evening. Dietrich kissed me—it was only on the cheek, but a kiss is a kiss—and invited me to go to the gala with him! It’s like getting asked to prom by the quarterback, if prom had a hundred-thousand-dollar budget.
At lunch, I grab the Friday burger and fries and wait for Roz at our usual table.
It’s prime mealtime, so nearly every chair in the canteen is filled.
Cameron’s already sitting with Pat and Grayson, his tray stacked with carrots and hummus.
As if sensing me, he glances up and our eyes meet. He gives me a small smile, almost shy.
I suddenly wonder if he’s going to the gala with a date, too.
“Omigod!” Roz sits down opposite me. “You have to tell me everything.”
I’m grateful for the excuse to look away. “What do you want to know?” I texted Roz last night to let her know about Dietrich’s gala invitation, but it felt wrong to give her a blow-by-blow, massive infringement on Dietrich’s privacy and all.
“How’d you get him to ask you out?” Roz bounces up and down. “I can’t believe it!”
Her surprise would be insulting if it weren’t for the genuine enthusiasm shining in her eyes. “Thanks for the vote of confidence.”
“You know what I mean. The bloke’s got actresses and models sliding into his DMs every second of every hour. I thought it’d take a lot more to get his attention. You’ve clearly got something the others haven’t.”
A direct window into his dysfunctional family.
Not exactly the most romantic situation, but I guess I should take what I can get.
I look around to make sure there’s no one listening.
The F2 pit crew at the next table over are constructing a tower out of empty french fry containers, completely oblivious to our conversation.
“We talked about racing. And stuff.”
“Oh, come off it. You waltz off to a one-on-one race-review sesh and come out with a date to the gala? You’ve got to give me all the juicy details.”
Roz beams expectantly, but explaining what Dietrich and I talked about would require divulging that conversation in the OTC basement, and that feels too intimate to share. Even with Roz.
“Start from the very beginning. Like, what were you wearing?” She brushes her hair over her shoulder. I’m relieved to catch a glimpse of a distraction.
“Is that a hickey?”
“Keep your voice down!” She looks around us, then leans in. “All right, fine, Grayson and I’ve been talking. Tons. He took me out last night, like properly, at a restaurant with menus and stuff, not just me watching telly at his flat.”
“So are you guys gonna be a couple couple?”
Roz purses her lips. “I’m not sure. You’re not supposed to shit where you eat.”
“Isn’t it a bit late for that?” Grayson is literally sitting twenty feet away, going to town on a grilled chicken sandwich while Pat shows him something on a tablet.
“I’m fine shitting where I eat. It’s just… I don’t want people knowing I shit where I eat.”
“Then why’d we stalk Grayson to a pub with Cameron and half the paddock as witnesses?”
“ ’Cause it’s different when it’s just us, versus, you know, the actual adults and stuff.”
I nod in sympathy. At Orbital, we’re treated like employees and adults whether or not we’re legally of age, but there’s still a river of difference between us and the older, actual authoritative folks.
“Plus,” Roz says, dropping her voice to whisper level, “I want Frank to give me a spot in F2 next year. I’m pretty sure he thinks I’m just a nepo baby.”
“Most people don’t think that,” I say encouragingly, even if I know no matter how fast she installs a new front wing or how brilliant her race strategies are, there’s still someone out there who will roll their eyes at her.
“Hold on, my mum just sent me something.” Roz grabs her phone, her face blooming in excitement.
According to Roz, Mrs. Wilson is the only person in her family who supported her choice of career—supremely ironic, given who her uncle is—so they’re especially close.
Her mom is a lot less invasive than mine, though.
She mostly sticks to waving big Orbital signs in the grandstands.
“So Mum’s in Biarritz on a mini girls’ holiday, and one of the women is apparently married to the managing editor at Motor Sport and—” Roz gasps, staring wordlessly at her phone.
“What?” Motor Sport is the most prestigious, influential magazine for racing. Everyone from Otto Warner down to the interns reads new issues religiously. I want to know what’s got Roz gaping like she’s seen the second coming.
Before I can get up and read over her shoulder, a shadow falls over our table. “Hello, Justine, Rosalyn.”
Dietrich is standing over us. To my surprise, he pulls out the empty chair between us and sits down.
The OTC canteen functions like the cafeteria at my old high school, even though Orbital Racing is in fact a professional organization.
The popular kid equivalents—the F1 drivers, team principals, head strategists—rarely show up to the canteen, since they’re usually busy with interviews, fan meet and greets, and countless other Important People duties.
On the opposite end of the spectrum, I’m relegated to a seat near the condiments bar, about as low on the social ladder as you can get.
As it was at high school, the different cliques do not tend to mingle.
As such, all eyes are on us.
“Holy shit,” Roz mouths at me over Dietrich’s shoulder.
Cameron, Pat, and Grayson openly gawk, lunches frozen halfway to their mouths.
“What are you reading?” Dietrich asks, cutting into his salmon and couscous like he sits with us every day.
I force myself to answer the question instead of asking if Dietrich got lost on his way to the F1 table. “Roz was saying something about Motor Sport… Roz?”
“Er, right.” She gives a little cough to clear her throat. “So, they might want to do an article on us. Me and Justine.”
“Seriously?” My heart thumps.
“That’s interesting,” Dietrich says. “They rarely write about F3.”
“I know, right?” Roz’s eyes glimmer. “Mum’s friend reckons they could do an angle on the only female engineer-driver pairing in all of formula racing. ‘The Dynamic Duo,’ or something like that. They might even have Liam Granville do the interview!”
And just like that, my excitement dies.
I want to be in Motor Sport. I want to be interviewed by Liam Granville, the legendary journalist who’s documented all the modern greats. I want to be on the cover, holding a giant trophy on the top step of the podium.
But I don’t want to be featured just because I’m female. Because it’ll ease some editor’s conscience about years of only putting white male talent on the cover.
“Sounds like a lovely chance,” Dietrich says.
Roz beams. “They’re keen to do it in the next couple of months, cover one of our races—what d’you reckon, which one should we do?”
“I don’t know,” I say slowly. “I’d rather get their attention by actually winning instead of under some forced novelty theme.”
I feel, more than see, Dietrich raise his eyebrows.
“What are you on about? You’re top three in the championship right now,” Roz says.
“Yeah, but I’m still thirty-three points behind Sasha and fifty-two points behind Cameron.” The words rankle.
“Third out of thirty is nothing to sneeze at! Think of all the publicity, it’d be fab.” Roz is starting to sound dangerously like my mother.
“Rosalyn has a point,” Dietrich says. “Everyone in the paddock has seen you race now. Only someone not paying attention would think you’re only here as a novelty.”
My stomach somersaults. Add ‘knowing the exact right words to say’ to the list of his perfections.
“See?” Roz says triumphantly. “What d’you say?”
Still—as sweet as Dietrich’s compliment was, it doesn’t entirely melt away the cold reality.
I am doing well, far better than most people in the paddock expected.
But there’s no escaping that Motor Sport has never featured an F3 team as their cover story.
It’d be a giant flashing LED billboard to all the other drivers, yet again shouting about my differences.
“Please, please, please? My dad—” Roz breaks off with a quick glance at Dietrich. She doesn’t want to say it in front of him, but it would be the best kind of validation for her in front of her family.
I stare at my plate of half-eaten fries. “I have to think about it.”
Roz lets out a long, dejected sigh. “Fine. Will you let me know before too long, though?”
I nod like I might actually change my mind. And Roz smiles weakly like she might actually believe me.