Chapter 10 #2
He does the single-eyebrow raise again.
I roll my eyes. “Okay, fine. Maybe I am, a little.”
He breaks out in such a triumphant smile, I long to take my words back immediately. “So.” He holds out a packet of milk chocolate Digestives. “Can we try it my way?”
It’s hard not to drool a little bit, both at the savory goodies and Cameron’s dimple.
“Fine.” I grab the cookies from his hand. Our fingers touch for a lingering second.
“Knew you would come around,” he says softly.
I’m suddenly warm and nervous. I tuck the snacks in my tote bag and pretend to rummage around until his eyes are no longer on me.
“Can we keep things organized, at least?” I clear my throat. I take out my box of gym chalk and draw three large circles on the cracking asphalt. “Here, this will keep the piles from bleeding into each other.”
He gives me a look. “You carry chalk around with you?”
“The one in the gym is nasty.” I’m all about trying to fit in with the guys, but I draw the line at using the communal chalk bowl. One time, I saw Grayson scratch his crotch and immediately dip his hand in there.
Cameron chuckles but doesn’t make any unnecessary comments for once.
We sort through our own respective piles, then move into the shed.
It’s just big enough for both of us to squeeze inside.
For a while, we work side by side, grabbing items from the top of the pyramid and tossing them in turn to their designated circles.
The progress is still slow, but at least we’re starting to put a dent in the stack.
I’m about to chuck a part into the wheel pile when Cameron holds out his arm. “Wait, I think that might be half a wishbone.”
I squint at what I thought was a pushrod. The jagged, eroded ends could be anything—a snapped-off half wishbone or a socket that plugs into a gearbox.
“Yeah, see? The edges are too uneven. The other half’s got to be in here somewhere.” His cheeks pink with excitement.
“I never realized you knew so much about this stuff,” I say.
It’s ironic, because everyone outside the racing world assumes drivers know a lot about cars, but the reality is once you become remotely competitive, you hire a mechanic to help your kart run faster.
The really rich kids come with full-time racing crews and never have to bother touching so much as a wheel nut if they don’t want to.
“I learned from my granddad. We used to tinker all the time in his garage.”
Given how pristinely Cameron dresses, I always assumed he’s one of those drivers who wouldn’t know how to change a tire if it flew off the car and smacked him in the face.
The idea of him tinkering away in a giant garage full of vintage Aston Martins with an elderly grandfather—in my mind Cameron wears an apron to keep his clothes clean and his grandfather has distinguished snowy hair—is surprising.
“What? Why are you looking at me like that?”
“I just didn’t take you for the handy type, I guess.”
“Yeah, well, I am.” He turns back to rifling through the pile. After a moment, he looks over. “I didn’t take you for the handy type either.”
“Why? Because I’m a girl?” I bristle.
“Keep your hair on.” Cameron rolls his eyes. “Not everything’s about your gender.”
I feel myself deflating. How did I even get here? Where Cameron Evans, of all people, is telling me to be less concerned about my gender when I’ve spent my entire racing career trying to minimize it and fit in?
He shrugs. “It just doesn’t go with the whole vibe you’ve got with your socials.”
That stupid Instagram again. As soon as I don’t need sponsors anymore—when I’ve got my signature inscribed on the gold-plated F1 Drivers’ Championship trophy—I’m going to wrangle the password from Mom and delete the entire thing.
I pick up a jagged piece from the pile and turn it over in my hand.
“I don’t control my Instagram. My mom does the posts to make sure I can have enough followers for sponsors. ”
“That’s not you writing those cringe what’s-it-purse posts?”
I gesture at my beat-up Trader Joe’s tote bag. “I’m flattered you think I know enough to post about purses.”
“Good point. If you ran your own accounts, it’d just be pictures of Cheetos.”
“That doesn’t sound half bad. Cheetos in front of different circuits? I’d follow that.”
“You would.” He groans, but I can tell he kind of likes the idea. “Is that how you got into racing? Someone bribed you with crisps?”
“Where do you come up with this stuff?” I burst out laughing. “No. My… parents got me into it.” Even after all this time, it’s hard to talk about Dad. “Instead of Saturday-morning cartoons, I got to watch F1 Qualifying.”
“Impressive. Most Americans have only cottoned on the last couple of years, haven’t they?”
Here we go. I do my best to ignore the lump that’s materialized in my throat. “My father studied abroad in London during college and his roommates got him into it. He always used to say if he’d known about Formula 1 early enough, he would’ve become a driver instead of a surgeon.”
Cameron chuckles. “So he got his daughter into it instead?”
“My mother was thrilled.”
“Really? She seems so enthusiastic. I always see her hovering around the OTC lobby.”
“If she could get a building pass, you’d see her twenty-four seven.”
“Is your dad going to come to any races this season?” Cameron asks the question so easily, so casually, that even if I hadn’t already seen his grandparents, parents, and uncles and aunts cheering him on at Spielberg, I would know he has an intact family unit.
“Um.” I look down at the partial wishbone that’s still in my hand. “Probably not.”
I feel his gaze on my face. “Not even Texas?”
I take a breath. The longer I try to hold it in, the worse it’ll be when I finally let it out. “He’s not around anymore.”
“Oh shit, I’m sorry.”
I can tell by the way Cameron’s face falls what he’s thinking, what most people think when they first hear about Dad’s absence. “It’s okay. He’s not dead. He just… left.”
Which is a thousand times worse. A parent you can never talk to because of forces out of your control is one thing. A parent you can never talk to because he prefers it that way—because you were too much and not enough all at once—is a stake to the heart.
“I never knew,” Cameron says. “I just assumed he was too busy jetting around to come to Spielberg.” This is not an inaccurate guess. Most drivers have at least one parent who has too many board meetings to regularly make it to races.
“He is busy,” I say, “with his new family.”
A few years ago, I let curiosity get the best of me and went searching for Dad on social media.
He was insultingly easy to track down. His Facebook had tech-illiterate levels of privacy and I saw it all.
Him, looking exactly the same except with bits of gray at his temples, standing next to a smiling blond woman and three beautiful kids somewhere between the ages of baby and elementary school.
I faked the flu and stayed in bed the rest of the day. I never mentioned it to Mom.
“Well,” Cameron says, “whoever they are, they can’t be as cool as you.”
I stare at him in astonishment.
He fidgets with the rear-wing flap in his hand. “I’m pretty sure odds are, whoever those kids are, they’re not going to be a future F1 driver.”
“You think I’m going to make it?” I breathe.
“You’re not bad. I mean, you’re not as good as me, but you can definitely drive.”
“Thanks, Cameron.” I fight the urge to throw my arms around him. I know I’m only getting a pity compliment, but this is the first time someone other than Mom, or a peppy marketing person, or a podcaster who’s obligated to be nice to guests, has told me they think I’m capable of making it.
He smiles. “I bet you’ll be on the F1 podium someday—probably eating crisps during your interview—and you won’t even remember it was your father who got you into racing to begin with.”
I pause. This is startlingly close to my own secret daydreams. I’m either obviously transparent or Cameron sees me better than I realize. Maybe both.
“I hope so too,” I finally say.
Cameron hums under his breath during our drive back to the OTC. I don’t mind because I’m in a good mood, too. We managed to get through almost all of the parts sorting today. With any luck, it’ll only take a couple more sessions to piece the entire car together.
I look over. “What song is that?”
“Backstreet Boys.”
“Is that supposed to be ‘I Want It That Way’?”
He nods, still humming away. If I listen very carefully and ignore a couple of off-key jumps, I can just pick out the iconic chorus.
“Can I be honest? I thought that was Billie Eilish.”
“You calling me out for poor singing?”
“No.” I manage to keep a straight face. “But it’s a good thing you’re a driver and not trying out for a boy band.” Although with his looks, I could easily see his photo pinned up in someone’s room.
“If you’re such a musician, why don’t you take it away?” I see him grinning out of the corner of my eye.
“Not here.”
“C’mon, what are you scared of? Unless you think I’m a better singer and I’ll judge you, which I will.”
I roll my eyes, smiling in spite of myself. “With your ear? You wouldn’t be able to tell Y2K pop from yodeling.”
“Definitely scared.”
For whatever reason, I seem to have a pathological inability to back down where he’s concerned. I clear my throat and launch into the opening lines. “You are my fire.”
“The one desire,” Cameron joins in. He’s loud, enthusiastic, and completely flat.
“You are so off-key.”
He doesn’t say anything, just grins shamelessly. My heart rate doubles at the sight of those dimples. We belt out the rest of the song, with him shouting the “Tell me why” and me doing the backup parts for the chorus.
“ ’Cause I want it that way!” we yell while pulling into the docking station at the OTC.
“You ought to come out for the next karaoke night.” Cameron smiles, making something somewhere in my stomach fizz.
My lips curve up to match his. “Is there a prize for the best singer?”
“Easy there.” He reaches over and musses the top of my hair. “Not everything’s a competition.”