Blind Spot (7 page)

AT FIRST, TIM THOUGHT
the bowling alley was closed because it looked dark inside. There were cars in the parking lot, so he went inside and saw glowing pins and flashing laser lights. The music was loud but not loud enough to drown out the sound of falling pins. He loved that sound.

He couldn’t believe he was actually going to a church function. That it was held here made it a little easier to stomach, but the whole thing made him uncomfortable. He wasn’t very good around girls—especially the pretty ones—and he stood for a long time and looked at the lanes to see if he could find Kimberly. The guy behind the counter stared at him, probably wondering if he was going to rent shoes or not. Tim decided to leave.

“Hey, you did come!” Kimberly said
behind him. She had an order of nachos that looked like it would feed an army. She offered him some, and though he was starving, he shook his head. That was something else he couldn’t do in front of pretty girls: eat.

“We’re over on the first six lanes. Grab some shoes and meet us.”

Tim walked to the counter and told the man his size.

“I’ve got a pair of 9s and a pair of 10s, but no 9½s,” the man said.

“Give me the 10s.” He fished in his pocket. “Can you break a hundred?”

The man pointed to the sign above his head. No bills larger than $20
.
“But if you’re with that group, the church pays for the whole thing. Never seen you in here before.”

“My first time.”

He handed Tim the shoes. “They call them the Holy Rollers. Get it?”

Tim smiled. “Yeah, that’s a good one.”

The kids didn’t look like what Tim expected. He thought they’d be wearing ties and suits and have halos. Instead, they wore jeans and looked normal.
Probably just to throw me off
, he thought.

Kimberly introduced him to the youth leader,
and Tim shook the man’s hand. He looked normal too.

Tim didn’t bowl well because he’d done it only a few times. When he did keep the ball out of the gutter, he knocked down just a couple of pins. After a game, he sat out and watched.

“This is Jeff,” Kimberly said about an hour after Tim arrived. “He’s a huge NASCAR fan.”

Jeff wore a NASCAR hat and jacket and shook Tim’s hand firmly. People at churches sure seemed to shake hands a lot. Jeff suggested they go to the restaurant to talk. It was a lot quieter.

“Never seen you in school,” Tim said.

“That’s because I don’t go to your school.” He told Tim where he went. “What do you think of the group?”

“It’s all right, I guess,” Tim said.

“Yeah, it’s kind of lame when the guy talks, but there’re a lot of girls. Gotta go where the action is, you know?”

“Yeah.”

“So, Kimberly said you have some tickets?”

“I’ve got three pit and garage passes if you’re interested.”

“Interested? You bet. How’d you get them?”

“I know some people.”

“Wow, pits and garage. How much you want for them?”

“I’d give them to you if I could get a ride down there. I don’t have any way to the race.”

“Free tickets just for a ride?” Jeff laughed and slapped Tim on the shoulder. “That’s awesome. What day?”

“Sunday. The cup race.”

“Awesome,” Jeff said, smiling. “You’re as good as there, my man.” He shook Tim’s hand again.

Simple as that. Give away some tickets and everything would work out. Tim was on his way to Daytona.

THE CALL WAS FROM
a kid who asked a few questions, then hung up.
Probably has no cash,
Jamie thought
.

She and her dad continued talking, and the discussion became more and more heated.

With tears in her eyes, Jamie said, “You know I’ve dreamed of this since I was little. Why are you doing this to me?”

“I don’t expect you to understand,” her dad said, his own eyes misting. “But you’ve gotta believe me when I say that I want you to succeed even more than you do. That’s why I think it’s best to wait.”

“You can’t stop me from selling Maxie,” she sobbed.

“No, and I won’t. You want to sell it, go ahead.”

“And my car.”

“If you want to raise the money early, I’m okay with that. But you won’t have anything to drive.”

Jamie smacked the wall. “I wish I was Grandpa’s girl and not yours!” She knew it wasn’t fair. She knew it wasn’t true. But she said it anyway because she knew it would hurt him. Sometimes, when she hurt the most, it was the only thing she could think to do. But it never helped. It always felt like those big sandwiches she saw wrapped up in the cooler at Wal-Mart. They
looked
really good, but when she ate them, she got a weird feeling in her stomach. What looked good didn’t really satisfy.

She spent that night writing up the best ad she could come up with for Maxie.

Fully restored 1965 Mustang 2+2 Fastback. It has a 289 2V and C4 transmission with less than 100K miles on it. What a beauty. The engine is the original, rebuilt by owner.

When she finished, she stuck the ad in the top drawer of her desk and went to sleep. She dreamed of making the last turn at Daytona, fending off Chad, and taking the checkered flag.

/////

The Maxwells had a family tradition Jamie loved, though she would never tell them or show them that. She and Kellen would take a few days off from school, and they’d all drive to Daytona, pulling the camper the family had bought after her dad placed 15th at Darlington. Jamie had heard about the early days of NASCAR when families would go to church in the morning and to the racetrack in the afternoon. The mom would spread out a picnic lunch while the kids played on the infield, and then they’d eat fried chicken or hot dogs during the race. When it was over they’d head home (assuming the dad hadn’t crashed the car). The sport was purer back when her dad was a kid, but the drivers were poorer.

Jamie and Kellen leveled the camper using bricks while their mom went to the drivers’ meeting to find their dad. A section of the infield held the drivers’ massive RVs that dwarfed the Maxwell setup. Jamie felt puny next to them and more than a little jealous. If her dad could actually win a couple of races, maybe they could afford to at least
rent
something like that. Many families actually lived on the road from February through November, but Jamie’s parents had decided to give their kids as normal a family life as they could. That meant Dad was gone a lot, and they had to watch his races on TV most weekends, except during the summer.

Jamie zigzagged through the RVs, walking toward the track as the February Florida sun beat down. She liked living in a place with four seasons, but she could see herself living somewhere like this—or maybe California—one day.

Jamie knew that most people would never get to experience the excitement of race preparations like those in the garage and pits. Stacks of Goodyear tires were lined up from the midpoint of the backstretch all the way to the first turn, and teams scrambled to find their lot, using dollies to bring them back to the garage. Each team had a small space for their car inside and outside the garage, a long building with separate bays in the middle of the track. Semi trucks parked side by side and unloaded cars before the race. If someone failed to qualify for the race, they’d have to pack their stuff and move out. It was kind of like not being chosen for a game of pickup basketball, only with a lot of money on the line.

Jamie had seen families leave in tears. In fact, she had experienced it herself, but fortunately her dad had never failed to qualify at Daytona. This was one of his favorite tracks.

The smells of charcoal and sizzling burgers and bratwurst made her mouth water. Some drivers (and teams) were successful enough to hire their own chefs. Others had a motor coach driver serve as cook.

She leaned against the white wall. In a couple of days this site would be filled with crews in fire suits ready to help their driver win. She closed her eyes as a driver went into a practice run, imagining herself inside the cockpit.
Someday, if I can ever convince Dad, that’s going to be me,
she thought.
Someday I’m going to take the checkered flag here. Someday those stands will be filled with people with my number on their hats. And Daytona will be only the beginning. When I pull into Homestead, I’ll have the cup sewn up.

There was an eerie feeling to the empty stands. Thousands of seats would be filled with cheering fans soon. But her thoughts roamed to the ghosts of Daytona—racers who had made this track their playground and were now gone. Each new generation of racers made their sacrifices worth it. As her dad liked to say, “We race on the backs of the giants.”

“Jamie,” someone said behind her.

She turned and caught her breath. “Chad.”

“I saw you guys pull in from up there.” He pointed behind him to a black bus that looked as big as a mountain. It was parked about a football field away, on the other side of the infield, and seemed to hover over all the other RVs. Above the coach were several antennas and a platform. From the infield, most families could see only a portion of the track, so they
watched it on television and kept their doors open to hear the sounds of the crowd and the cars.

“We just fired up the grill,” Chad said. “You should join us for lunch.”

“I’m watching my little brother right now.”

Chad looked around. “I don’t see anybody.”

“He’s back at the camper.”

“Well, bring him along.”

“Holy Taj Mahal,” Kellen muttered when he and Jamie walked toward the coach.

“Just act normal,” Jamie said.

“How can I act normal when the TV in there looks five times as big as the one we have at home? Why are we going, anyway? You hate Chad.”

“Let’s see how the other half lives,” Jamie said. “It’s how I’m going to live one day.”

“Really? You going to win the lottery?”

“Funny,” Jamie said.

The motor coach smelled newer than a car showroom. It had carpet so deep it felt like she was wading through it. Captain’s chairs lined a wall on the other side of the TV. The latest navigation and video—which looked like something NASA had developed—were available to the driver. The kitchen had dark, granitelike counters that were as shiny as mirrors. Same for the stainless steel appliances. Along the left side of
the front room was a table spread with a fine white tablecloth. Finger sandwiches were placed carefully on silver platters, along with shrimp, stuffed mushrooms, vegetables and dip, and other stuff Jamie had never seen before, let alone tasted.

“Only thing this RV needs is a moat outside,” Kellen whispered. “Get a load of those skewers with chicken and beef. And are those oysters? It’s like eating at a king’s castle without having to worry about wearing a suit of armor.”

“Hello there, Jamie,” a deep voice said. Butch Devalon walked through a curtain from the back hallway. Jamie could only imagine what the bedrooms were like. And the bathroom. Butch Devalon wore his fire suit, dark sunglasses, cowboy boots, and a black hat. He looked like a gunslinger in one of those old Westerns, except he didn’t have a gun. “Chad told me you were coming. Burgers are cooking in the back. Welcome to our home away from home.”

“Sure is a nice place,” Jamie said.

Kellen picked up a shrimp as big as his hand. “Nice doesn’t even begin to describe it.”

The man chuckled and sat on a couch that creaked as he took off his boots and laced up his racing shoes. “Bet you’re glad you won’t be going up against Chad anymore.”

“Oh, she’s—”

Jamie cut her brother off. “I enjoy competition a lot, Mr. Devalon. Your son always . . . pushed me to do my best.”

“Did he now? That’s putting a positive spin on it. You looked a little ticked at the last race.”

“I was upset at first, but that’s racing.” If she’d heard that line once on SPEED TV, she’d heard it a thousand times.

Mr. Devalon shook his head. “You’re just like your old man.”

“Nothing wrong with that,” Kellen said.

Mr. Devalon smiled. “’Course not. If you want to stay in the back of the pack.”

Jamie’s blood pressure began to rise. Most drivers couldn’t say enough good things about her dad. He knew when to be aggressive, but he was fair. In fact, he had one of the best reputations of anyone in NASCAR. You never had to guess about Dale Maxwell’s character or where he’d stand on an issue. And you never had to wonder if he was going to do something dirty to you.

But Butch Devalon was another matter. Always locked in controversy. Arguing with other drivers. Even his own teammates didn’t like dealing with him. He’d alienated just about every driver at one point or another.

“No, I think your dad’s more concerned about being nice than he is about winning,” Mr. Devalon
continued. “The whole God thing doesn’t mix with racing. It takes away all your competitive juices.”

Jamie wanted out of the motor coach. She couldn’t stand the sound of the man’s grating, gravelly voice.

“I wonder if that’s genetic,” he said.

“What do you mean?” Jamie said.

“If the way a man drives is passed down to the next generation.” He took a handful of macadamia nuts from a bowl on the table.

Jamie turned to the front door. She could say her stomach hurt or she wasn’t really hungry. Kellen would probably protest and say he was starving.

But what Mr. Devalon said next snapped her to attention. “Some guys on my team have been talking about you.”

Jamie squinted. “Me? Why’ve they been talking about me?”

“Probably heard how bad you did on your last math test.” Kellen laughed.

Jamie flicked his ear but kept her gaze fixed on Mr. Devalon.

“One of the Devalon owners was at the track that night in Alabama. He’s got a good nose for new drivers, and he said he thought you might have what it takes.”

Jamie’s eyes grew wide. She didn’t know what to say.

Mr. Devalon went on. “Now I won’t blow smoke
at you. I don’t think females can go very far in this sport. Don’t think they have what it takes physically
or
mentally. But he seems to think it’s good for attendance to get ’em suited up. Makes the female fans happy, you know. Diversity and all that. I can pretty much guarantee you a woman’ll never make it to the top 10, let alone win a cup. But then, there’re a lot of people who’ll never do that. Like your dad.”

Jamie tried to ignore the digs against her father, but they kept coming.

Before she could say anything, Kellen said, “Why do you hate our dad so much? Are you jealous?”

Mr. Devalon pushed his hat up and spread both arms like a hawk on the back of the leather couch. “What’s there to be jealous about? You guys have a ride like this? Has your dad won a race in the last two years? Or has it been three?”

“No, but life’s more than the stuff you buy or always coming out on top,” Kellen said.

“So, you’re the philosopher in the family. That’s good.” He crossed his legs. “No, I don’t hate your dad. I just don’t think he belongs on the track. He’s a goody-goody. The Lord this and the Lord that. Seems to me he shouldn’t blame the Lord for his poor performances—he should blame himself. And he ought to turn his little girl loose, who’s probably a better driver than he’ll ever be.”

Jamie stepped forward, ignoring what he’d said about all women and her dad. “What does your owner think I should do?”

He raised his eyebrows. “Shane told me he’s thinking about signing you up. He’d probably throw a little money at you, move you into a car. This is off the record, of course. No promises. He’s the kind of guy who can change his mind in about three seconds. And there’s another potential opportunity—”

“What about Chad?” Jamie interrupted. “If this guy is so all-fired ready to sign people up, why wouldn’t he sign your son?”

“Chad’s in a different situation. We don’t have as much financial pressure as you and your family. I’ll help him along, and he can move up through the ranks. But someone like you . . . well, you need the extra help. And with the push to bring in minorities and women, you might just make it.”

Jamie knew exactly what he meant. She’d heard about it before. A team signed an up-and-coming driver for a little money, gave him (or her) enough to keep him happy and racing for the team, and in a few years, if the new driver moved successfully through the competition, he could move up. It was a one-in-a-thousand chance the owner was taking, but if the man found a great driver, it would be well worth spending the cash.

Chad walked in from the back just as Jamie’s cell phone rang. “We’re pulling some burgers off the grill. You’re staying, right?”