Chapter 7
Ava
Top of the Podium magazine
By Damian Larson, columnist
BACK DOWN UNDER
It’s round three of the Formula 1 World Championship, and we’re off to Melbourne this week for the Australian Grand Prix.
Things are looking good for storied rivals Specter Energy and Mascort.
Both teams have come out strong off the line, with Axel Bergmüller and Zaid Yousef once again proving their champion status with one win apiece so far.
Fans and journalists alike – myself included – had doubts regarding the level of driving we could expect to see from Bergmüller and Yousef after their devasting crash in Singapore last season.
However, I can personally put my concerns to rest. It’s clear these two are driving on a level we’ve never seen before, with Yousef holding nothing back and Bergmüller doing his best to pull ahead.
If there was ever a season of F1 to watch from start to finish, this is it.
London
I’ve never been so tired in my life.
It’s not like I typically sleep well on red-eye flights from Dulles to Heathrow, but I don’t usually feel like death warmed over upon arrival.
And I certainly don’t fall asleep two minutes after finding a seat on the Piccadilly line, only to jolt awake as the train’s pulling into Knightsbridge because some tourist hit me with their backpack.
It’s pure luck I didn’t wake up in Cockfosters.
Even dragging my carry-on up to Dad’s flat is the chore of chores, and once I’m inside I slump against the door to catch my breath.
I should’ve insisted on spending Nowruz at home instead of coming back across the pond barely a month after being here the last time, but all of Dad’s family outside Iran are based in the UK and my maman bozorg would never forgive me if I didn’t attend the New Year celebrations.
Never mind that my dad won’t even be there for the party tomorrow since he’s already jetted off for the Australian Grand Prix.
I would have too if I still had my job with the team – or if he’d invited me to come.
‘You look like shit,’ a deep voice announces.
I look up to find Axel staring at me, hands on his hips and wearing the fuzzy race car socks that I bought my father for his birthday last year. Axel being here in the flat isn’t surprising, even if it’s crossing a thousand professional lines, but the fact that he’s here now is unexpected.
‘Shouldn’t you be on a plane to Australia?’ I ask.
‘We’re leaving soon. Omid wanted to make sure you got here first.’
I grunt in reply, but hopefully he can hear the gratitude in it.
Even if he doesn’t, he still grabs the handle of my bag and wheels it to one of the guest rooms down the hall.
I shuffle to the kitchen as he does, hauling myself onto a stool at the marble island and sitting motionless until the throbbing at the base of my skull eases.
My stomach churns like I have the onset of a hangover, but I haven’t had a sip of alcohol since the last time I was in London, so it can’t be that.
Axel strolls in and heads straight for the fridge to grab a bottle of water, cracking the lid before handing it to me. It’s a strangely considerate action, but thanking him will only earn me an eye roll since he loves to pretend he’s not a nice guy. I chug without saying a word.
I can’t deny that he’s made some terrible choices in the past, things he’s learned from after plenty of firm talkings-to and lectures as to why his actions were unacceptable.
It’s taken hard work to break him of the views his shitty father instilled in him, and even more work to build him back up.
He’s an acquired taste, that’s for damn sure, but he’s a good man underneath it all.
‘Tough break in Jeddah,’ I say after setting the bottle back down. ‘That pit stop was terrible. Glad you got fastest lap, though.’
Thanks to the extra point earned by setting the fastest lap time in the race, Axel is one point ahead of Zaid after two grands prix and one win apiece.
Other than last year, they’ve been trading the Drivers’ Championship back and forth, and the two titles Axel won were hard fought, coming down to narrow points margins.
I’ve seen before how a single point can change the tides of a championship.
He makes a sound of agreement and leans against the counter. ‘The Mascorts are quick this year. I knew Dev was going to be a menace, but Zaid’s driving like the cocky asshole he used to be. Man’s insane.’
I would choose less offensive language to describe Zaid’s actions on the track lately, but .
. . Axel’s not quite wrong about the way his closest rival has been driving.
Zaid’s been audacious and unrelenting, willing to take a penalty if it means he claims a corner or gains an advantage on another driver.
Even back when he was a cocky asshole, as Axel put it, he didn’t drive like this – like he’s only doing it for the thrill and nothing else.
Zaid’s always had a careful control to him, even in the moments when you’d think he’d let loose. But this? This is Zaid unleashed.
It’s been fascinating to witness, even through a screen, and I’ve liked watching it more than I care to admit.
I’ve liked watching him. I hoped our night together would rid me of my crush, but it seems to have done the opposite, because he’s been lingering on the edges of my thoughts more than usual.
Even now, just casually talking about him has my stomach doing little somersaults that I’m doing my best to ignore, especially in front of Axel.
‘I thought he’d be playing safer because of . . .’ Axel trails off before grumbling, ‘you know.’
I raise an eyebrow at his vague reference to the events of Singapore. ‘Did you forget you were in the same crash? It’s not like you’re playing it safe. You’ve practically been matching Zaid’s chaos.’
‘I only got burned,’ he reminds me, and I can’t help but glance at the scarred skin peeking out around the collar of his shirt and inching up his neck. ‘He broke both wrists. Big difference. And at his age?’ Axel scoffs. ‘I would have just retired.’
‘He’s not that old,’ I say, bristling on Zaid’s behalf. ‘He’s only thirty-nine.’
Axel smirks. ‘Oh, that’s right – you’re old too.’
‘Okay, in that case, I hope you finish outside the points this weekend, you dick.’
As he throws his head back and laughs, Dad walks into the kitchen and eyes the two of us like the suspicious parent of misbehaving toddlers.
‘Why are we laughing?’ Dad questions, his Tehrani accent faint but still prominent enough, even after decades of living in both the UK and the US.
His attention shifts my way when Axel points at me, some of his suspicion lightening, though it’s replaced by a cautiousness he always has around me.
We’ve had our issues throughout the years, and I know he carries a heavy load of guilt over how he responded to Mom’s death.
Considering it resulted in him essentially abandoning me at fourteen, it’s warranted.
Our relationship has a long way to go, and my unfortunate Zaid Yousef situation was a major setback.
I still don’t know if he believed me when I told him there was nothing going on between Zaid and me.
Whether he did or not, whatever trust we’d built was immediately destroyed when he asked me to leave my job. Nothing’s been the same since.
‘Khubi?’ he asks, staring at the bottle in my hands instead of directly at me.
‘Yeah, I’m fine,’ I answer in English, perpetually self-conscious about my Farsi after not having anyone to consistently speak it with for years. ‘Wish I could join you guys in Australia.’
A silly part of me waits for an invite or even a hint that he wants me back in the paddock. Even if it’s not for a job, it might be nice to return as a guest of Specter Energy for a few races.
Dad blows out a tired breath and pats his more-salt-than-pepper hair. ‘You don’t want to be on a plane with this one for the next twenty hours.’ He shoots a pointed look at the grinning man watching us.
I’m disappointed but I don’t push. His job is his primary focus – sole focus, really – so I can’t blame him for not reading between my lines. Besides, I don’t think my body could handle a flight that long, and he’s right that Axel would make it even more miserable.
‘Well, good luck this weekend.’ I dart my eyes to Axel. ‘I hope your teammate outqualifies you.’
I should tell him how much I enjoyed watching Zaid beat him in Jeddah – although Zaid didn’t look like he cared either way that he’d won – but I figure that’s going a little too far.
‘Please,’ Axel laughs. ‘As if Marchand even could.’
I roll my eyes and slide off my barstool. ‘I’m going to bed,’ I announce as my stomach tosses itself around. ‘I feel like I’m coming down with something. Text me when you land?’
The question is directed at either of them, but it’s only Axel who nods. Dad stares over my shoulder until I shift away and move toward the doorway of the kitchen.
‘Khodafez, azizam.’
I hesitate at the endearment tacked onto his goodbye. It’s been a long time since he called me that. Maybe it means he’s moving on from the mess I made. Maybe it means he misses me as much as I miss him.
But even if it does, I don’t turn around to find out.
——
The distinct beat of an Iranian pop song greets me when I step into Maman Bozorg’s house the next evening.
It’s followed by shouted salaams and enthusiastic cheek kisses from cousins with dyed-blonde hair and the best nose jobs that dollars, pounds, and rials can buy.
One cousin’s surgery is so recent that there’s still a bandage across her newly narrowed bridge.
I begged my mom for a nose job when I was twelve, so self-conscious that it was too big for my face, too wide, that the slight bump and the curved tip made me ugly.
I desperately wanted a cute upturned button nose like my white classmates had.
I just wanted to fit in instead of being bullied for how I looked.