Chapter 24
“Rise and shine!” Mom sings.
I squeeze my eyes tighter and tunnel into my duvet. I don’t want to be awake yet. It’s been a week since I was fired from Orbital, seven whole days of no longer being an up-and-coming talent but a failure packing up her barely lived-in apartment.
Mom whips the blankets off, leaving me blinking into the morning sun. “It’s your last day in Milton Keynes,” she announces, like I don’t already know. Our flight is scheduled for the afternoon, and I’m a swirl of emotions I haven’t quite worked through yet. “We should do a proper send-off.”
“A proper send-off?” I repeat dumbly.
“Gougou.” She sits on my bed, running a hand through my matted hair. “We’ve been racing for eleven years. I thought it’d be nice to do something fun to bid it farewell. That is, unless you’ve changed your mind.”
To her credit, Mom has held her tongue and hasn’t tried any full-on persuasion campaigns to convince me to stay, even though I can tell she’s dying to.
Still, she can’t help letting little hopeful tidbits slip out every now and then.
I would admire her tenacity—clinging onto hope down to my last eight hours in England—if it weren’t directed at me.
“I’m done,” I say quickly. Even if I could scrounge up sponsors—which, after all the unflattering coverage, would be a steep hill for even Mom to climb—I can’t bear to go back to Formula Regional in the US, tail tucked between my legs.
Everyone would have a field day, including vile mouth breathers like Timmy Harris, who I used to trounce.
I’d rather take my chances at a regular life and never have to look at a racetrack again.
“If you’re sure.” Mom sighs. “Let’s go put proper closure around England before you start a new chapter.”
“What does that even mean?” I ask, wary of where she’s going with this.
For sanity-preservation purposes, I’ve asked her not to bring up any future planning until our plane lands in Chicago.
I still caught her scrolling Stanford’s admissions website yesterday, though, right in the middle of my post-dinner rewatch of Purple Noon.
“I promise it’s better than lying in bed until the airport shuttle arrives.”
Mom’s idea for a grand emotional closure turns out to be a visit to Trustmore Karting Club, the amateur circuit outside Milton Keynes, where local kids race.
It isn’t like anything I used to go to—the sleek entrance hall looks closer to the OTC lobby than the ramshackle shed that functioned as the reception at Evanston Raceways, my childhood track.
No wonder racing in Europe is so much more competitive, if kids are starting here. I gawk at an exhibit celebrating Trustmore alums who’ve made it big. There’s the old karting helmet of an F1 driver, child gloves of an IndyCar driver, and a pair of junior boots that belonged to a MotoGP rider.
Beyond the initial display is a life-size cardboard cutout—of me. It’s from Orbital’s promo photo shoot at the beginning of the season. I stand in the cocky pose the photographer dictated: body to the side, arms crossed, head to the camera. A hopeful, toothy smile is plastered across my face.
That was taken two days after I landed in Milton Keynes. It hurts to see this sunny likeness of myself, before the reality of racing in Europe set in.
“Seriously?” I turn to Mom.
“I swear I had nothing to do with this. I just thought it’d be nice for you to have one last drive before we head home.”
Home. Ninety-nine percent of me can’t wait until our flight so I can hightail it to Chicago and never think about the UK and Europe or racing again. The remaining 1 percent dreads it.
I tiptoe toward the glass case behind my cutout, despite every instinct in my body telling me it’ll only make the pain worse.
Across the top, someone has hung a GIRLS RUN THE WORLD!
banner with glittery pink letters. Below is a meticulous timeline of my career, starting with a picture of me in Evanston, then various articles and photos from local newspapers and club announcements.
It culminates in pictures of me at Orbital, including a team shot of me, Cameron, and Pat posing together from the same promo photo shoot as the cutout.
It’s painful to see him, to see us. A sharp reminder that I’ve lost more than my F3 seat.
“Wow, this is great.” Mom whips out her phone to take a picture. At the look on my face, she shrugs and puts it back into her pocket.
“Justine?” A cheerful voice rings out over the entrance lobby, followed by the click-click of kitten heels on linoleum.
“Chloe?” I squint. Even though I met her through the guys and she clearly parties with the drivers and mechanics, I’m shocked to see her here, at an actual circuit.
“Thought that was you.” She smiles. She looks gorgeous as always, pale highlights shimmering in her wavy gold hair.
“What are you doing here?” I ask, ignoring the stabbing feeling in my chest. There’s a good chance she ends up with Cameron after all. He’ll probably be relieved to be with someone who will never pass him despite team orders or compete against him for an F2 seat.
“My little sister’s doing practice laps with her club. Come see!” She threads her arm through mine in a way that makes it clear she has no idea what disaster has befallen me since we last saw each other.
“I’ll meet you back here in an hour.” Mom gives me an encouraging nod.
I let Chloe guide me down the hall and through a pair of metal doors to a state-of-the-art indoor track. We lean against the waist-high railing, watching with the other parents and guardians.
Chloe had said the kids were running practice laps, but as far as I can tell, they’re driving as ferociously as they would in a real race.
In front of us, a driver in a black helmet tries to push another driver, with a green helmet, off the track.
Green Helmet fights back fiercely, taking advantage of the upcoming turn to squeeze out and escape.
Chloe cups her hands around her mouth. “Go, Maddie!”
“Your sister?”
She nods. “She gets bullied a lot. Boys taking turns shoving her off for fun, that sort of thing, you know?”
I grimace. Chloe might as well have been describing my childhood. I’m happy Maddie is giving it back as hard as she got.
When Chloe’s sister crosses the finish line first, I clap so loudly, my palms sting. Maddie gets out of her kart and sprints over. The sisters hug and jump up and down, unadulterated joy and pride shining on their faces.
“Did you see how I got Stuart?” Maddie squeals, taking her helmet off and revealing a splash of blond hair even paler than Chloe’s. She looks about nine, maybe ten years old.
“You were fire!” Chloe tells her. “Guess what! I’ve got a surprise for you…”
She turns her sister around to face me.
Maddie’s expression transforms from adrenalized triumph to sheer delight. Then she blushes bright red and ducks behind Chloe with a loud squeak.
“Oh, come on, now… Sorry,” Chloe says to me. “Maddie’s normally not this shy.”
Maddie is peeking around Chloe, chewing on the ends of her messy ponytail. Something about her big, nervous eyes disarms me.
I bend down so we’re eye level. “How long have you been karting, Maddie?”
She turns bright red again.
“Go on, tell her!” Chloe urges.
“Almost two years,” Maddie whispers.
“She was a top-ten finisher for the West England Karting Championship in her age group,” Chloe says.
“Wow, that’s awesome!” I hold my hand out for a high five.
Maddie slaps it with a loud smack. “I almost quit because the boys were so mean, but I stuck it out because… well, because I want to be you someday.”
“Me?” That Maddie—anyone, really—would ever want to be like me is something that’s never occurred to me.
“I told you, didn’t I? She’s bonkers about you,” Chloe says. “She spent hours putting together that entrance display.”
“Girls Run the World—that was you?”
Maddie nods proudly, shyness melting away. “Some people really like it.”
“She’s being modest.” Chloe tuts. “Why don’t you tell Justine about all the girls who signed up after seeing that display?”
“The age group below has five girls now.” Maddie beams. “Mum says I can host a watch party for everyone for your next race.”
Orbital hasn’t issued a formal press release yet about my departure, only a vague social media announcement that Georgios will be driving in my place at Zandvoort this weekend. Mom thinks they’re pacing out the messaging so it causes less of a kerfuffle.
The thought of Maddie having to cancel her party makes my heart break.
She continues, “I’m going to apply for Orbital’s Young Driver Program as soon as I’m old enough. Everyone says a girl can’t win in F1, but I think we can.”
“I think we can, too,” I say softly.
She beams, her face glowing.
There’s a tap on my shoulder. “ ’Scuse me.” A little boy stands next to me. I recognize the black helmet tucked under his arm. “Are you the girl driver for Orbital?”
“Yes,” I say automatically. I stand up to my full height and stare him down. “If you try to push anyone off the track like that again, you can kiss your chances of ever driving for Orbital goodbye.”
The boy turns the shade of Szechuan peppercorn. Next to me, Maddie can hardly hide her glee.
“All right, kids, fab session. Let’s have a photo, shall we?” the bored-looking track attendant calls.
Maddie and her bully line up with the others in front of a black-and-white-checkered backdrop.
The way the boys keep a perimeter around her does not escape me.
A strange sense of déjà vu descends as I watch Maddie force her way into the middle of the photo, pushing disgruntled peers aside with bravado.
I clench my fist. I’ve come so far since my own karting days.
I’m still a long way from F1, but I’m so much closer than I was.
Even if it’s a tilted playing field and my own team won’t ever truly back me, there’s a whole community out there who does—Maddie, Mom, Roz (once she forgives me), my anonymous online well-wishers—and for them, I can’t give up.
Not now. Not ever.
Maddie is not canceling her watch party.