9

“Is it always so loud?” April shouted, not certain Mark could hear her over the roar of engine noise from cars warming up around the speedway track. Nighttime blanketed the sky, and artificial lights obscured the stars.

“It’s beautiful music,” Mark shouted back with a grin. “Come on.” He led her around the exterior of the half-mile track and inside the inner field where cars were parked, surrounded by men in jeans and overalls, most smudged with grease and oil. “The crews are car fanatics,” he said. “Each pit has a few people who help out. Drivers are usually the cars’ owners. No one gets paid.”

“You do this for free?”

“For bragging rights and some prize money. We’re pretty small-time, just a group of local car lovers. Of course, the really big races are driven by professionals on two- or three-mile tracks. I’ll take you to one sometime.”

April smiled. Mark seemed so excited by the whole business. His brown eyes fairly danced and he looked animated and energized. “How long do you race? Is it year-round?”

“Our season is from May until the snow flies. Tonight’s for running cars in my car’s class. Other nights, other kinds of cars run: dragsters, which are supermodified cars—the ‘funny’ ones, are over there on the straight track and the late-model stocks here on the oval. This is my first race this year, but I’ve got a good car and I expect to kick some butt tonight.”

April met several of Mark’s racing friends. She could barely hear their names above the din of the motors. Mark’s car was a Chevelle, unpainted except for a coat of rust-colored primer. The hood was up and she saw a massive engine laced with wires and hoses. The smell of gasoline and exhaust made her eyes water and she wondered how Mark was able to breathe when even she was having trouble. “How do you manage not to go deaf?” she shouted.

“These will help.” He handed her a set of ear protectors that looked like the kind airplane mechanics wore. Putting them on muffled the noise considerably.

His father materialized from the side of the field. “You can sit with me,” he yelled.

“I need a token,” Mark told her as she started off with his dad.

“A token?”

“Something of yours to bring me luck.”

“Gee, I don’t know what I’ve got.” She fumbled for some item and settled on the scarf she was wearing. It was an expensive one, given to her by her parents. “Is this okay?”

He grinned and wrapped it around his upper arm into a band, letting the tails flutter. He took her by the shoulders and planted a kiss on her mouth, shouting, “For better luck! See you in the winner’s circle.”

The noise wasn’t as loud in the grandstands, which were already crowded with onlookers. “I didn’t think so many people were into racing,” she told Mark’s father.

“It’s a whole subculture. A lot of people love hot rods.”

“Your wife didn’t come?”

“Rosa’s still mad because he’s racing. It takes her half a season to get over it. Once she does, she comes. I like to come because it’s good to see Mark doing something he loves and doing it well.”

“Does he win a lot?”

“He’s got bookcases full of trophies at his place. Didn’t he show them to you?”

“Not yet.”

“Well, he was never one to brag. And once a race is over, he forgets about it. He’s looking ahead to the next one.”

She could tell that Mark’s father was proud of him but at the same time worried about him. “His mom’s right, isn’t she? Racing is hard on his CF.”

“It isn’t good for it. One whole season he wore a special mask around the track. But Rosa doesn’t understand that the kid’s got to have something to call his own. That his whole life can’t revolve around CF—even though it does.”

“I’m happy you support him,” April said. “I know it means a lot to him.”

He shrugged. “He’s my son. I love him.”

The racing began, and Mark’s father explained that it was done in heats—the top finishers from each heat became the competitors in the final race of the night. The winner of the final heat would take home the prize money and trophy. Mark would race in the third of seven heats, and if he won that, he’d run in the last. The cars were beginning to accelerate around the track in anticipation of the green go-ahead flag dropping and starting their heat. April realized she was growing used to the roar, so she slipped the hearing protectors partway off.

“This is it,” she shouted when the cars rolled out for the start of Mark’s race. Mark’s primer-coated Chevelle looked intimidating on the asphalt oval. She dug her nails into her palms when the starter flag dropped and the cars shot out of their slots, jockeying for position. It didn’t take Mark long to push his car to the front of the pack. April let out a whoop when he crossed under the checkered flag in first place. “He made that look easy!” she exclaimed.

His father grinned proudly. “He usually does.”

For the rest of the evening, she fidgeted in her seat, watching with keen interest the winners of the following heats. By the final race she was squirming. “This is it,” she declared as the winners of all the heats took to the track.

“Guess you’re becoming a racing fan,” Mark’s father said with a wink.

“It’s loud and smelly, but it’s fun.”

“True,” he said. “And Mark loves it.”

April held her breath as the green flag dropped and the cars roared forward. This time, Mark maneuvered quickly behind the lead car, hugging its back bumper. “What’s he doing? Why doesn’t he go around him?” she yelled.

“He’s drafting,” Mark’s father explained above the whine of the engines. “He’s letting the other car slice through the air to pull him along. It cuts down on his car’s wind drag. Then, if it’s timed just right and he can maneuver past him, the other driver can’t do anything but eat his exhaust.”

She watched, wide-eyed, as the cars rounded the final turn and roared down the stretch. At seemingly the last moment before the checkered flag dropped, Mark gunned his accelerator and flung his car around his opponent, crossing the finish line just a bumper ahead. The fans went wild. “He won!” April screamed, jumping up and down.

“Let’s get to the winner’s circle.” Mark’s father took her arm and pulled her down the steps and through an infield gate, where he showed his badge once more. In the winner’s area, Mark’s car stopped rolling. He switched off the motor and climbed out. Everyone applauded and she heard shouts of “Good driving!” and “Way to go!”

Mark tugged off his helmet, his smile brighter than the artificial lights over the field, and waved. But his gaze found April in the crowd instantly. She threw herself into his arms and kissed him wildly. “You were wonderful! I’m totally impressed.”

He handed her the trophy. “This one’s yours.”

“I can’t keep your trophy!”

“Sure you can.” He unwrapped her scarf from his arm, looped it around the back of her neck, and pulled her against him. “You brought me luck.”

“You didn’t need me or my token tonight,” she insisted.

He looked into her eyes, and for a moment the noise of the crowd faded. “You’re wrong, April,” he said. Her heart hammered crazily. “I need you more than you’ll ever know.”