Sunday morning.

It’s my first practice session on the roster with Marie.

I arrive at the track in plenty of time for my slot. The place is humming, but it’s a more subdued, organized buzz than the last time I was here. Today, it’s only drivers, crew or officials, no members of the public allowed.

I go straight to the rental bay where we’re keeping my car, giving a silent prayer of thanks for Mason, who’s paying for all of this. Not all the entrants have the luxury of an on-site garage bay.

Freddy’s already there, wearing his battered Yankees cap and grinning like a freckled, gap-toothed shark.

“Check it out, check it out,” he says in his staccato style. He stands back and waves his arms at my car like a merchandise model on a game show.

All the decals for the sponsors are now in place, colorful business logos applied to the vehicle’s roof, doors, front and rear hood. Various racing graphics are scattered around the body of the vehicle as well; stripes and flames and checkered flags among them. A round, hi-viz orange decal with the number 24 in black is prominently displayed for visibility. All of these appliqués are bright, eye-catching, and garish as hell, clashing horribly against the burgundy paint job on the Impala.

“If there’s an Ugliest Car prize, we’ll win it, for sure,” I laugh.

“Yeah. Ain’t nobody gonna miss this thing flying around the track,” he agrees. “C’mere,” he says, moving to the far side of the car. “Me and Mason threw this in as a surprise for you and Rob.”

The gas cap is decorated with an oval decal, carrying the words:

“Shit, man,” I mutter, rubbing my hand over my chin. Freddy and Mason both knew our dad, and although it’s not cool to show it, I’m touched by the gesture.

We stand in silence for a moment. “Thanks. Seriously, Frederick. Thanks, buddy. I appreciate that,” I say, when I trust myself to speak again. He claps me on the back in response.

“Did the rest of my gear show up yet?” I move away from the car and clear my throat.

“Damn right.” He opens a locker and shows me the bright, stretchy suit; the helmet, gloves and miscellaneous items…they’re all burgundy too, but in a burgundy that’s just a different enough shade from the car to clash with it.

“God, what a fugly color,” I note, shaking my head.

“What, this? I had a bedspread this color once,” Freddy says, his frizzy hair standing nearly straight out from under his cap. “I think it was in nineteen seventy-five.”

“Huh. That’s amazing, considering you were born in nineteen eighty-four.”

He snickers.

I take the suit off the hanger, pull it on over my clothes and zip it up. It fits pretty well.

For some reason, my name…“Mollenkamp”…. is emblazoned all the way down the side in huge white letters.

“Awesome,” I say. “They’ll be able to read this from space!”

Freddy snickers. “I thought you’d like that,” he says. “I wanted to make sure everyone knows who you are when they award you the winner’s purse.”

“Well, thanks for the vote of confidence.”

“Anytime.”

“Okay. We have a few minutes. I’m gonna hit the can, and then go see if Marie’s here yet and wish her luck.”

“No probs, brah,” Freddy replies.

* * *

I make my way down the concourse, passing a lot of the competitor’s cars around the venue and getting a glimpse of what I’m up against. All the entrants are Ford or Chevy, and they’re all looking a lot like my car: Like someone with really bad taste in color matching decorated ‘em all.

Sinclair’s bay is all the way on the other side of the venue from mine, so it takes a while. As I approach, I see Marie is there, already suited up, deep in conversation with her father, whose bald head and stance I recognize, even though his back is turned towards me. Standing with them is a tall, built, good-looking young dude. A brief, reflexive tinge of jealously sparks in my chest, but suddenly I see the family resemblance and realize it’s one of her brothers. As I get closer, I see he’s quite young, and I realize that this must be her twin Thomas, whom I’ve yet to meet in person. I know that he and Carson are her only race crew, so it’s a pretty safe deduction.

Walking up to the entryway, I stop at a respectful distance, waiting for them to finish their discussion and notice me. The young dude glances over at me, does a double take, then focuses his gaze back on his father rigidly.

Marie’s eyes slide towards me, freeze, then flick back to her father.

Marie and her probably-brother are staring at their father so intently, it dawns on me that they are afraid he is going to turn around and see me.

What the fuck? Marie mentioned things were rough at home.

Looks like things are still rocky in the family.

Carson, still speaking, walks over to the car, gesturing towards one of the front tires. Tommy goes with him, all-too obviously positioning himself between Carson’s line of sight and myself.

Marie looks over at me, makes big eyes and shakes her head, vigorously. She glances over at her father and then back at me, flicking her hand at me in a shoo-ing motion.

Go away, she mouths.

I lift my hands and shake my head.

Seriously?

Shoo, shoo, she flicks with her hands, shaking her head firmly again. She lifts her chin towards the concourse behind me, making a clear motion that I should leave.

Then she turns and joins her father and Thomas.

Uneasy, I step back and fade into the crowd.

* * *

Half an hour later, I’m at the starting line, waiting for the other entrants on today’s practice roster to pull up and take their spots. One by one, all the garishly decorated vehicles pull up.

Lastly, comes the pink and yellow number 02, Wee Marie.

Marie, her pretty face hidden behind the visor of her pink helmet, turns her head in my directions and shoots me a quick thumbs-up.

Glad to see it, I return it with both hands.

I glance over to the pit area. There’s Freddy, watching like a hawk, his iPhone out and ready to record.

A little ways away, there’s Marie’s brother and Carson. Their body language is telling. Tommy is standing well away from his father, legs planted, arms crossed, the line of his body indicating barely held-back annoyance.

Carson is pacing, his back ramrod straight, his movements telegraphing agitation.

The race flagman takes his place and holds up the green starting flag.

He drops the flag with a flourish, and off we go.

Once again, Marie and I quickly fall into a very close, nearly neck-and-neck rhythm, trading places, but neither one maintaining the lead. There’s something almost eerie in the smooth and natural flow we share.

Every position or slot that I want to move my car into, is mirrored by Marie, or vice-versa.

Moreover, during every lap, I find I can’t drop my guard for a second. In fact, in order to keep Marie from permanently taking the lead, it’s necessary to drive at my very best, my focus and concentration at the highest level I’ve ever had to pull out.

Marie and I, like all these other drivers, are amateurs, but as amateurs, we are so well-matched, it’s downright uncanny.

And by the fourth lap, the weirdest thing happens. Everyone…and everything…except my car and the Wee Marie disappears from my awareness.

Poof.

It’s as if the other drivers don’t even exist… as if only Marie and I are doing this high-speed dance, the two of us, flying around the track together, yet apart.

At the end of the practice session, I’m soaked with sweat.

From my position, it looks as if Marie and I hit the finish line at exactly the same time.

Pulling into the pit, I wait as Freddy runs over. He jumps into the car with me to ride back to the garage building. “Dude? You did it again! You and the Wee Marie are tied for first place.”

* * *

After the practice, I hear nothing from Marie.

Freddy and I run through safety practice, which of course seems to drag on forever.

As soon as I get out of my suit, I text her that I want to see her, find out what’s going on.

Half an hour goes by. No response.

Freddy and I finish up in the garage bay and he takes off.

With mounting concern, I text her again, saying I’m still at the track but leaving in fifteen minutes.

Still no response.

Mulling whether I should make my way back over to her car bay, I decide against it, not wanting to push it.

I tidy up to pass some time.

I try texting her one more time, simply saying I’m leaving and that I hope to hear from her soon.

No response.

Unable to imagine what’s going on, I drive myself home. A feeling of gloom settles over me, so different from the way I felt yesterday before Marie had to leave so abruptly.

Okay, so they’re having problems, but why would Marie and her brother warn me away from Carson like that? We got along great when we met in person.

When we talked on the phone last week, Marie said her father was stressed, paranoid. I don’t know what that means, and I don’t much care for the sound of it.

What could be up the old man’s ass?

What could have happened to turn him sour?

I think back to the customers I’ve seen this week. I did see some prospects that are currently taking their business to Sinclair’s. Did Carson feel like I stepped on his toes, maybe?

I don’t see how. None of the clients I spoke to have huge money and none of them seemed all that interested in switching. Most tell me to check back when I’m better equipped, which is fair enough.

The only exception is old man DeSouza. He’s interested, and questioned me a lot, but he sure as hell isn’t big money. An ancient, retired accountant who was once a close friend of my dad’s, he has exactly one classic car that I know of, a Citroen that needs more money in repairs than it’s worth. DeSouza was happy to see me like always, chatty, and as usual, I spent way more time hanging out with him, just shooting the shit, than talking about cars. I really enjoyed reminiscing about my dad with him, too.

Even if he heard about me seeing his clients, there’s no way Carson gives a shit about old Mr. DeSouza.

The only other thing that’s changed is my entry into the race. He can’t be pissed about that…can he?

I park behind my shop and let myself in. Climbing the stairs to my apartment, I debate texting Marie again. Or, calling her and leaving a message.

Or ten.

Instead, I make myself wait. What a weird situation this is! Do I even have the right to demand answers from her?

What should I do?

I shower and change, my mind flicking through possible scenarios until I’m exhausted with the effort to think.

Flopping on the couch with a soda and the remote, I come to a decision.

Okay, it’s not like we’re engaged or anything. But we are dating. That gives me the right to be concerned. Not to mention, the right to a return text at least.

Damn straight. I hate all this waiting around.

It could be that Marie is still busy at the track and hasn’t seen my messages. I’ll give her another hour or so to finish up whatever she’s doing and sort herself out.

After that, I’m texting her again. If she doesn’t answer me, I’m going to go look for her.

And if Carson doesn’t like it, he can damn well call the cops.