Chapter 6
The guys are clustered toward the front of the spacious multipurpose room when I arrive.
Like all things in the Orbital Technology Center, everything from the lectern to the chairs and table set out for our use is sterile white.
It makes me feel like I’m in an operating room.
That or some futuristic minimalist spaceship, which was the vibe they were going for when an architect dreamed up this place twenty years ago.
I avoid the empty seat by Cameron and drop down next to Georgios on the other side of the room. Georgios shifts his leather cross-body bag subtly away from my scuffed backpack. Note to self: Make sure to wipe the dried mud—remnants of a mother-daughter camping trip last summer—off the canvas later.
“Hey, guys,” I say.
I get a combination of disinterested nods and sup head tilts before everyone goes back to whatever conversations they were having, as if I didn’t exist. Georgios turns his back to chat with Caleb and Pat at the next table, leaving me feeling like it’s junior karts again and all the boys are making plans for a hangout I didn’t get invited to.
I take a deep breath to clear the thickness in my throat. It’s okay. I’m here to win. I’m only here to win.
“Good morning, all.” Britt Perkins shuffles into the room. Her normally sleek hair is matted and sticks up in five different directions. She looks more like me on an average day than her usual groomed self.
“Today we will go over a number of topics,” Britt croaks. There’s a nonzero chance she might pass out on the lectern.
Next to me, Georgios lets out a resigned sigh. I resist the urge to join him. It’s clearly going to be a long morning.
Britt reads off prepared note cards in her froggy voice.
We go through everything from “how to provide engaging interview responses” to “how to navigate sensitive questions.” Studying for the SATs would be more thrilling.
We’re two very long hours in when she turns to the final subject on the agenda: social media.
“Now, it is important to keep your online presence balanced…”
I tune this out, since I have zero control over my own socials anyway, and sneak a peek around.
Pat’s still staring at Britt, but in a blank, unseeing way that makes it look like he’s fallen asleep with his eyes open.
Grayson, Caleb, and Georgios are in various states of boredom, from nodding off with chin in hand to openly texting.
Cameron, however, sits with his back perfectly straight as he taps away on his tablet, avidly taking notes.
Of course he actually takes an interest in these obligatory training sessions; it fits the pattern of him being everything obnoxious.
Georgios nudges me, jolting me out of my thoughts. “She’s talking to you.”
I realize Britt’s staring expectantly, as is everyone else in the room.
“Uh, yes?” I sit up straighter and do my best to look like I haven’t been zoning out. Britt can make a driver’s life remarkably unpleasant—she once sent Caleb to a community service event at a landfill—so I definitely don’t want to get on her bad side.
“I was just commending you, Justine, on your Instagram,” she says. “If you haven’t seen her feed, gentlemen, I highly recommend it. The speed and consistency at which she posts is exemplary.”
The boys tap away at their devices, presumably all checking out my Instagram. Oh no.
The profile Mom runs focuses on Racing As A Girl, lifestyle, and fashion—all the things I don’t want highlighted. I’ve lost count of how many times my pleading for her to pivot has fallen on deaf ears. (“You’ve gotta lean into your differences!” she always spouts off in response. “Girlboss!”)
“Half of these are ‘outfit of the day’ posts.” Cameron furiously scrolls on his phone. “How’re we supposed to do that?”
“Now, it’s not the hashtag—”
“No one would like my posts if it was just me standing around in my clothes.” Grayson jerks his thumb at me. “Only birds can post like that.”
“Yeah,” Pat pipes up. “My clothes all look the same.”
“Gentlemen!” Britt titters. “As I was saying, it’s not the hashtag that’s been a winner for Justine; it’s her frequency and consistency.”
“Donboy19 says, ‘Love your shorts. Where did you get them?’ ” Grayson reads aloud. “MadisonXOXO says, ‘Nice stems!’ ”
I am highly, highly questioning Roz’s taste in men. What does she see in the guy, anyway? I mean, he has an eight-pack, but other than that, he’s as basic as hand soap.
“Can you come up with a strategy that works for us?” Cameron asks. “No one’s going to compliment my legs.”
Us—as in Not you, Justine. You don’t belong with us. My fingers clench, nails digging hard into my palm.
“I’ll like a post with your hairy legs.” Grayson snickers.
“Thanks, mate.” The guys fist-bump each other. Cameron leans over his table and smirks down the row at me. “Maybe my legs will get as many likes as yours.”
I want to fit in. I want to be one of them, someone who blends into the metaphorical crowd and is only judged by her skills on-track.
I know I should probably laugh off Cameron’s comment, play it cool and unbothered, but his cheeky half dimple, combined with the malicious twinkle in his eye, sets me off.
“Please. Like half your stories aren’t post-workout thirst traps.”
Someone lets out a low whistle.
“She’s not wrong, mate.” Pat elbows him, grinning.
Instead of squirming with embarrassment at being called out, the obnoxious smile on Cameron’s face grows wider. “You stalking my socials, Kwong?”
“Do I look like a D-list WAG wannabe? Because that’s all I see in your comments.”
“Some might argue that’s exactly what your feed looks like.” He reads from his phone. “ ‘Happy hump day, everyone! These sneakers are like walking on clouds—link in my bio.’ ”
The guys side-eye one another and snicker like it’s the funniest thing they’ve heard all day.
“Gentlemen.” Britt clears her throat, her eyes darting to the back of the room. “Let’s get back on topic, shall—”
“Thank you, Britt.” Frank’s voice echoes behind us. The room stills instantly. “Let’s finish it up. Seems like our young drivers are well versed in social media already. Justine, Cam—outside.”
A gloomy pit expanding in my stomach, I shuffle out with Cameron a few feet behind.
“Tell me,” Frank says, closing the door to the multipurpose room after us. “Is it too much to ask that a rote training session go undisturbed by your squabbling?”
I blurt out the first words that come to mind. “Cameron started it!”
“Oh, come on, now.” Cameron rolls his eyes and crosses his arms. “It was just some friendly teasing. I can’t help it if she’s uptight.”
I whirl around to face him. “I am not—”
“Clearly it is.” Frank sighs. “Right, come along, follow me. And not a single word out of either of you until we get to Lot 19.”
Lot 19? I’ve only ever been out as far as Lot 8, where they keep old equipment and spare parts they’re planning to donate to local clubs. I didn’t even know we had a Lot 19.
We make our way out of the OTC. Frank commandeers one of the gray-and-white golf carts used on campus to shuttle between buildings, leaving us to share the sole remaining cart at the docking station.
“Do you know what he has up his sleeve?” I whisper as we climb in. Frank’s already down the road and shouldn’t be able to hear me from this distance, but I don’t want to take any more chances.
“Something draconian, I bet,” Cameron mutters out of the side of his mouth. He scans his ID badge and starts the cart.
I blanch. “What do you mean? Like, are we talking forty-hours-of-simulators kind of draconian, or scrubbing-toilet-stalls kind of draconian?”
“Should’ve thought of that before you got your knickers all in a twist and got us in trouble.”
“Me? You’re the one who—”
“Shhh.” He bumps my knee with his. “Shut your gob before you make it worse.”
Frank turns and gives us an accusatory glare, but thankfully that’s all he does.
Lot 19 is so far away that it takes almost ten minutes of winding through barely trafficked roads, guided by increasingly minuscule signs. We finally arrive at what looks like a parking lot someone lost interest in paving halfway through.
“Right, here we are.” Frank climbs out of his cart.
He points at the northeasternmost corner, where a black shed as tall as Cameron sits.
It looks completely out of place, as if someone randomly backed up a delivery truck and dumped it there.
“That’s your project. I want it done by the Belgian Grand Prix. ”
My trepidation builds as we approach the shed. “What are we supposed to do, exactly?”
“Assemble the FC-80,” Frank grunts.
“FC-80?” Cameron wrinkles his nose.
“It’s how Burton named their cars,” I explain. “Before Judson, and then Orbital, took over the team.”
“That was rhetorical.” He rolls his eyes. “I know what FCs are. You’re not the only one who’s gone through the Orbital: A History exhibit.”
I’ve actually done far more than browse the exhibit showing off Orbital Racing’s history at the entrance of the OTC, but I don’t want to invite any judgy comments about how I don’t have a life outside racing. (Even if, okay, I don’t have a life outside racing.)
Frank pulls on the gray door of the shed. It sticks, squeaking open only after a second forceful tug.
My heart sinks.
Any hope this is going to be a quick and easy effort dies a swift death at the mountain of rusted metal parts that greets us. A vintage roll hoop that would never pass a modern safety inspection tips off the peak and clangs onto the ground, narrowly missing my toes.
“Damn,” Cameron says. “There’s enough to make five cars here.”
“Should be a toolbox in there somewhere,” Frank says breezily. “I’ll leave you to it.”
I swear he’s holding in a laugh as he walks back to his cart.
A fearful thought occurs to me. “Frank, is there a blueprint or anything we can use?”
“Nope,” he calls back cheerfully. “Lost ’em years ago.”
“Told you this was going to be draconian,” Cameron mutters.