A week later, Saturday afternoon.

I’m at the Speedway, suited up and waiting for Tommy and my dad to finish messing around with my car.

My race car is a current model Camaro, painted in pink-and-yellow and lavishly splashed with decals depicting the Sinclair Auto Supply logo and those of a few other sponsors. Lavender flames streak down the sides and doors, enclosing the words “Wee Marie’, which are stenciled in black and white. My entry number, 02, is displayed in its orange and black decal, clashing biliously with the other colors.

I’m exhausted. It’s been another long week of frustrating, tedious auditing at work, stuck in the cubicle with Tommy.

We were both back at it today, too, working on our precious Saturday off.

What a nightmarish task. Our daily, enforced proximity doing this shitty job is making Tommy and I snappish and impatient with each other.

However, our ‘twin’ bond is still as strong, and once we realized the true situation, our wrath naturally turned on our older brothers.

Because last week, it dawned on Tommy and me that the elders in the family should’ve had this job done long before now. We figure they procrastinated on it because they didn’t want to do the work themselves, nor spend money on hiring an outside inventory service.

When Tommy and I went to them and complained, asking for help…they laughed!

Those buggers!

Callum, the oldest and biggest of all of our brothers and my dad’s second-in-command, snorted and waved us off when we tried to complain. “We all had to pay our dues. The first year I was here, we didn’t have a janitorial service. Dad made me do it…all of it, including cleaning the toilets. And you think you have a shitty job!” Then he’d snickered and walked away!

“Yeah,” Hamish added. “Then I had to do bathroom duty when I started. It sucks. That’s why they call it work, yanno.”

“They made me organize the wiring section at all three locations when I first started,” Gavin added, laughing. “So don’t look at me for sympathy.”

So, at least me and my twin have a common enemy now, and instead of fighting between ourselves, we switched to blowing off steam by bitching about our brothers and plotting our imaginary revenge.

They have us by the short and curlies…and, it is kind of funny.

I guess.

If I were in their position, I’d probably enjoy it, too.

But…right now…? I’m cranky and I don’t even feel like doing my practice laps.

Making matters worse, the announcement about the race went out last week and the response has been overwhelming.

The official race day is September sixteenth, the day before my twenty-second birthday.

Only six weeks away.

Now, here at the Speedway, the place is packed with people. A mixture of officials, drivers and team members, and a lot of looky-loos: racing fans and locals come to check out the newly renovated track and venue.

For a short promotional period, the racing association is allowing members of the public access to areas that are usually off-limits, including this vast building on the grounds, which houses the garage and storage bays available for rental to racers.

For today only, the crowds are milling around in here, too, where we’re trying to work and prepare for the race.

I’m keeping it under wraps as best I can, but I’m pretty much freaking out.

I was afraid this might happen, afraid that my nerves might get the better of me once the crowds started arriving…but it’s worse than I imagined.

Obviously I’ve been in crowded venues before. Concerts or events or gatherings or what-have-you, for one reason or another.

But before now, I was always just one person in the masses of people. I was never expected to perform, or…or… do anything in front of everyone.

Now there’s all this pressure to be the ‘face’ of Sinclair Auto Supply, to compete in this race and embody the image of this super-confident racing chick. Hah! What a joke.

For the hundredth time, I think to myself: I don’t know if I want to do this.

I don’t know if I can do this!

I mean, who the hell am I to think I can pull this off? What if I crash and burn–literally–in front of all these people?

Okay, well, probably won’t.

Probably.

Hugging my helmet to my body, I turn to look around, nervously checking out the crowd.

Wishing I could fast-forward through this part and be having dinner with Mark, as per our plans for later.

People mill around in clumps; talking, watching the crews work on cars, offering suggestions, laughing and joking.

Tinny music plays from the PA system, running calliope-like in the background. Every now and then a squawking announcement interrupts, putting my teeth on edge.

The crowd moves restlessly, an endless ebb and flow of humanity, creating a continual hum and commotion of noise, motion and activity.

The hubbub creates a sensation like buzzing in my skull. I shut my eyes and pinch the bridge of my nose.

Geez! I wish the racing committee hadn’t decided to let everyone and anyone in here, even just for a day.

But they’re thrilled with the response. This thing is going to be even bigger than originally anticipated.

Feeling nauseous, I swallow hard and shift my helmet to my other arm.

There are more racers to share the track with now, all being regulated by scheduling slots.

Last-minute, solo practice laps are a luxury of the past now.

Now, I’ll have to learn to function under the eyes of hundreds if not thousands of people.

A cold feeling rolls through me, washing into my stomach with the sour taste of acid.

I shiver and hug myself. I just wanna do my laps and get the hell out.

Is this what stage fright feels like? Jesus! Despite the cold feeling in my stomach, my palms are clammy and the back of my neck is sweating.

I have to stop thinking about it and get into my zone.

Walking away from the crowd into a more-or-less private corner, I stop, stand up straight, close my eyes and roll my shoulders.

It only helps a little.

I should be looking forward to this. I love to drive!

But instead, I’m feeling more pressured than ever.

“Marie! C’mon, girl, it’s time to go,” Dad calls. “I adjusted the fuel injection. Let’s see how she handles now.”

A wave of jitteriness overtakes me, making my head buzz and my body tremble.

What the hell…?

The crowd of men gathered around swivel their heads to gawk at me. I avoid their gaze and try to maintain my cool.

Sliding in behind the wheel makes me feel instantly better. Not one hundred percent, but better. Tommy slides into the stripped-down seat next to me to attach my harness while my dad helps me secure my head restraint.

Then we go through our radio test. The connection is static-y, as it sometimes is, but today it’s really bad. Bursts of white noise and loud squawks, trills and beeps sound randomly, making us all grit our teeth.

Unable to find a perfectly clear connection, we have to settle on one with minimal interference.

That done, I steer my car to the starting line, staring straight ahead, trying to ignore the crowd already filling out the seats in the stands as well.

I sit quietly and just breathe. A drop of sweat trickles down the side of my head, tickling all the way down. Digging my gloved fingers up underneath the helmet, I soothe the itch but manage to push the visor too far down over my face.

Once I get that adjusted, all is quiet and still. I give my dad the thumbs up and he drops the green flag.

In response, I tromp my foot on the throttle and lay rubber, jumping ahead when the tires grip the track surface, making the vehicle drift to the left.

Correcting for the drift, I let my reflexes take over and smooth out my thinking and worrying.

I forget my discomfort and let my skills take the lead, my hands and my feet making corrections in tandem with the road and each other.

By the third lap, I’m getting a feel for how the car handles now. She feels good, solid but light, her tires hugging close to the road.

My confidence starts sneaking back.

Not all the way back, but…some.

I take the first straightaway and then, inch into the turn….drift, straighten, accelerate. Then repeat: Turn…drift…accelerate…throttle off, throttle on, turn, drift…lap after lap, just like ballet.

Three laps later, I’m almost there, almost in my good place, focused on the road and the vehicle under my body.

Then the mistakes start happening. Touch the brake, drift…shit, shit…fish-tail, fish-tail…easy, easy…foot off throttle, lightly steer…whew!

Got her back…steady now. Steady.

Zone out, zone out zone out, c’mon…c’mon!

Then, two laps later, I oversteer and she slides sideways for a few feet. I get her back, biting my lip and sweating bullets.

Get it together Marie! Come on!

Finally, another two laps and I’m slipping into the Zone.

I let myself disappear––the me who thinks, and worries, and cares––I let that part of me dwindle away until I am nothing but a point of consciousness, a single, pure point of awareness in a car on a track, circling endlessly.

Bliss.

“I” don’t come back until ten laps later, when I’m done.

As soon as I pull off the track, all the noise, the stress and the sweaty discomfort, all the clatter of reality comes flooding right back.

I let out a little groan and steer the Wee Marie back into her bay. Tommy and Dad are both hurrying toward me.

Biting my lip, I taste a salty drop of sweat. Bleh! I just want to get out of here now.

When I pull my helmet off and run my hand through my hair, it comes away damp with sweat.

“What the fuck was that? Why they hell did you turn your radio off, Marie?” Tommy says, opening the door and taking my helmet out of my hands.

“Off? It’s not off…” I test the radio to find it dead. “Oh. Shit! I…I didn’t realize,” I say, my eyes flicking between the concerned faces of my dad and my twin.

Tommy pokes at my headset, and a frayed end of a wire falls out, hanging there limply.

I don’t know what to say.

Dad says, “I noticed you were pushing at your helmet at the starting line. You must’ve pulled it out. You need to watch that! Also, you made some dumb mistakes on the track, girl.”

“Yeah, what happened? And you can’t yank at your helmet like that! Dammit, Marie!” Tommy adds, sharply.

“It’s not my fault you did a crappy job wiring it” I mutter peevishly, climbing out of the car.

“Are you daft?” Dad barks, eyes spitting fire. “You need to pay better attention out there!”

“Hey, my head was itchy, okay? Look, it’s not my fault the damn wire is so flimsy! I should be able to move my helmet without worrying about pulling wires out of the headset!”

“And you should be able to ignore a little discomfort and concentrate,” Dad retorts, annoyed. He takes the helmet out of Tommy’s hands, examines the headset and then hands it back. “Thomas, see if you can’t secure that wire better, just in case Little Miss here needs to scratch again.”

“Ah, for Chrissakes! I’ll have to open the whole rig up, then,” Tommy says. “What a pain in the ass! Look at it! She yanked the wires right out of the casing.”

“So? Open it up then!” Dad says. “Or, just get a new one!”

“This was a new one,” Tommy mutters. “The last one we had. Pain in the ass,” he repeats. “I’ve gotta get going, I’ve got stuff to do tonight,” he says. “I’ll see you two later.”

“Fix the headset or order a new one before you forget,” Dad says. Tommy tips him a salute and walks away, quickly disappearing into the crowd.

“Maybe you should order a new driver, too,” I say grumpily, unzipping my suit and starting for the change room. I glance at my Dad, who just rolls his eyes, not taking the bait.

“New driver? Where do I apply?” The owner of the voice steps forward from the crowd.

It’s Mark.

* * *

“Mark! What are you doing here? I thought you were going to pick me up at home?”

“Hi, sweetie,” he replies. In two skips, my legs carry me to where he’s standing and I fling myself into his arms. “I came down to check out the new Speedway,” he says, his eyes taking in my sweat-dampened hair. “They’ve done a lot of work on it, haven’t they? Looks a lot different than the last time I was here.”

“Oh yes, they’ve been doing renovations on it since the Motorsport Association took it over. It’s almost done. Do you want a tour? Everything’s different! Bigger, better and more updated! You should see the concession area, and…”

“Ahem,” my father says, dryly, taking a step forward.

“Oh, um…have you met my father yet, Mark?” As if I don’t know he hasn’t.

“Not formally, no,” he says, turning to face my dad. “Mark Mollenkamp,” he extends a hand, his gaze direct and frank.

“Carson Sinclair,” my dad says loudly, grasping Mark’s hand and pumping it twice. But instead of letting go, he keeps hold of it and puts his other hand on Mark’s forearm. “Nice to meet you. I heard you entertained my daughter last week.”

Both men’s knuckles are showing white through their skin as they grip each other’s hands.

Oh, boy, I think wryly. Is this a handshake or a pissing contest?

“Yes, I took her to a friend’s place for some dune buggy racing. We had a nice time,” Mark says, staring straight into Dad’s eyes.

“So she was saying,” Dad agrees. “Interested in racing, are you?” He lets go of Mark’s hand finally.

“Sure,” Mark says. “Everyone’s talking about it since the ads started running. I wanted to check the place out ahead of the crowds, but I see now that I’m already late. Word travels fast.”

“Yep,” Dad says. “Say, would you like to see Marie’s car? The one we’ll be entering in the race?”

“Love to!” Mark says.

Crap. My mind makes a paranoid leap, thinking my dad might use this opportunity to interrogate Mark.

Quickly, I say, “Or, umm…hey, how about we do that tour instead? Haha! Yeah, we can look at the car any old time!” I grab Mark’s hand and pull it gently, trying to head my father off at the pass.

But Mark encloses my hand in his and then tucks it under his arm. “How about we do that next? I’d love to see your car, Marie.” And he turns to follow my dad, pulling me along with him.

Damn.

Time ticks by as the two men get into a deep discussion about all things mechanical. Nearly an hour passes, with me in a state of high alert, ready to cut my father off and drag Mark out of there if things get out of line.

I’m on pins and needles…at first. But miraculously, Dad seems to be on his best behavior.

Hmm. I wonder if Mom had a word with him?

Needless to say, Mark’s on his best behavior as well.

I watch, pacing restlessly, as the two confer under the hood. Their talk meanders from computational fluid dynamics to 650 horsepower to max torque to air extractor lift-reduction. From time to time they draw me into the discussion with questions about how I find the performance or handling or some such, but it becomes obvious that this is another kind of man-test or, maybe, some kind of man pow-wow… and they’re holding it strictly between themselves.

My father does kind-of interrogate Mark, but it’s not about me. At least, not directly. Rather, he questions Mark about his knowledge on cars, engines and his opinions about performance.

They finally wrap things up when some people stop by to chat with Dad. Turning to me, Mark says, “It’s getting late. C’mon, let’s go to Arnie’s and grab a bite.”

“I’d love to, but I’m sweaty. I’m not ready for our date! I need a quick shower and a change of clothes.”

“No problem. Do you have a ride? I could drop you off, and pick you up when you’re ready. Or, I could wait in the truck for you, if you like,” Mark offers.

“Aww! That’s sweet, but, no, you’re not waiting outside like a cab driver or something,” I say. “If you don’t mind driving me home, you can come in and wait inside, for heaven’s sakes.”

“Sure.”

We say our goodbyes to Dad. “Nice meeting you,” Dad says. “Maybe we’ll see you again.”

“You can count on that,” Mark replies.