Lucky Seven (8 page)

At school Monday, Chick Grover got the surprise of his life. He had told Butch his dad wasn’t able to give him any money to
purchase a slot car kit, and the word got around to Jack Harmon.

“I have a car you can buy for two-fifty,” offered Jack. “I’ve had it for a long time, but it’s a good one. It’s worth all
of that price.”

“I haven’t got two-fifty. I haven’t got a dime.”

“You can pay me when you get it,” said Jack.

Chick stared at him. “What kind of car is it?”

“A Ferrari. The paint’s chipped off some and she’s banged up a little, but that won’t stop her from running. It’s old, so
you have to be careful with it, that’s all.”

“I’ll take it,” said Chick, “when I get the money.”

Chick had a speed test in math and flunked it. Math bugged him. Mom and Dad used to help him with it, but neither one could
make heads or tails out of it now. Mr. Cullen, the math teacher, said it was easy as falling off a log and Chick would realize
that if he’d concentrate instead of spending most of his time drawing pictures of racing cars.

After school Chick asked the neighbors if he could cut their lawns, pick their weeds, carry out their garbage, anything. But
no one had a thing for him to do. Their husbands or sons did those jobs.

Dad was his only answer. That night Chick talked to him again. “Dad, I could buy a slot car for two-fifty. Jack Harmon will
sell it to me. I’ve looked all over for a job to raise the
money but I can’t find one. I’ll do anything you want me to, Dad, honest, if you’ll—”

“Well, well, well!” exclaimed Dad, and looked at his wife. “Mary, did you hear what I heard, or are my ears deceiving me?”

“They’re not deceiving you,” she said. “I heard every word.”

He turned back to Chick. “Okay, son. I’ll let you have two-fifty on condition you get down to brass tacks on your math and
bring home a better-looking report card. I know you can do better. You’re not a dumbbell. Especially in math. Who did you
say you’re buying the car from?”

“Jack Harmon.”

“Isn’t he the kid you’re always scrapping with?”

Chick shrugged. “Yes. But if I don’t buy the car from him I won’t have one. I—I guess you don’t really understand how much
I miss having one. Only a kid would understand that.”

His father took two one-dollar bills and a
fifty-cent piece out of his wallet, placed it in front of Chick, then took Chick’s hand.

“I was a young boy, too, son. I remember once I wanted something very bad. A bike. A two-wheeler. A crummy-looking two-wheeler
that needed a paint job, a new tire, and repair work on the chain. The kid was asking five dollars for it. I didn’t have that
kind of money. My father was dead. My mother was the only one working, trying to raise five kids. That was why I ... I—“ He
cleared his throat and looked away for a moment. “Anyway, I didn’t get the five dollars. I didn’t get the bike. I never had
a bike in my life, Chick.”

The next day Chick gave Jack Harmon the two-fifty for the old, beat-up Farrari, then asked Ken Jason again if he could race
on his track.

“Sure, you can, Chick.”

“Aren’t you going to ask your father?”

“I asked him the first time you asked me.” Ken laughed. “He said it was okay.”

“Oh.” Chick smiled. “Okay. I’ll come over.”

Butch Slade was there when Chick arrived at Ken’s after supper on Wednesday. The track was in the basement. It was the sharpest
home track Chick had ever seen. It was triple-laned and laid out on a four by eight-foot ply-board. There were two long straightaways,
overhead ramps, a sharp S-curve at one end and a U-curve at the other.

There were also trees, a grandstand and a pit stop where three ½4-inch scale model cars were being “handled” by track “mechanics.”
For a long time Chick just stood, thrilled by the sight that looked so real.
I’d give anything for a track like this,
he thought.
Anything.

But he knew he’d never have a track like this. Never. Not while he was still a kid.

“Go ahead,” said Ken. “Try out your new bomb.”

“New
bomb?” Chick laughed. “It’s older’n a monkey’s uncle.”

He placed the Ferrari on the track, picked up the controller, and Ken turned on the power. The controller was the kind you
pushed down with your thumb. The farther down you pushed it, the more power went to the motor, and faster went the car.

Chick thumbed the controller. The Ferrari jerked ahead, roared up the far left ramp and spun out on the sharp curve.

Butch put the flag back into the slot, straightened the car and Chick thumbed the controller again. The car crawled around
the S-curve and Chick full-throttled it down the opposite straightaway. Too late he realized the car was speeding too fast.
It left the track, spun over the white fence and crashed to the hard, cement floor.

“Track!” yelled Butch, laughing.

Chick stared at the Ferrari. It was a shambles. Its front axle, with wheels intact, had come off the frame and was rolling
toward the far wall. The flag was broken off.

But the worst sight of all was the motor. It
was hanging outside of the overturned car, its two wires, a green and a red, still clinging to the broken flag.

“That lousy Jack Harmon!” cried Chick, choking back tears. “He lied to me! He lied to me again!”

Chick Grover lit into Jack Harmon the following day in the corridor of the school.

“You sold me a lemon!” he shouted, his voice carrying through the full length of the corridor. “A lousy piece of junk!”

Jack stuck by his guns. “I told you that the car was old and you had to be careful with it.” he said. “It’s not my fault your
head’s as fat as a balloon.”

Chick’s ears turned as red as a stoplight. “You know what I’m going to do? I’m going to build a car and beat the pants off
you! I’m going to beat you so bad you’ll wish you took
up tiddlywinks, Mr. Jack Wise-Guy Harmon!”

“Well, well, well! What’s this all about?” a dry, husky voice broke in.

Mr. Webber, the principal, was coming up the hall, his heels clicking on the tiled floor. He was only four inches taller than
Chick, but he had the shoulders, chest and neck of the college football guard he had been once upon a time.

“What’s this about beating someone’s pants off?” he said, stepping between Chick and Jack and looking from one boy to the
other.

“Nothing,” said Chick, and started to walk away.

Mr. Webber grabbed his arm. “I’ve asked a question, Chick. What’s this about beating someone’s pants off?”

“I sold him a slot car and it got damaged when he raced it last night,” explained Jack. “He blames me for it.”

“Who wouldn’t?” snapped Chick. “It was a piece of junk.”

“You still didn’t answer my question,” snapped Mr. Webber.

“I told him I’m going to build a car and beat his pants off,” said Chick, noticing that a crowd had gathered around them.

“You could’ve made that suggestion somewhere else, not in this school hall,” replied the principal sharply. “Now go to your
classes and don’t ever use this corridor, or any place else in this school, for your silly arguments again.”

That evening, after Chick did his homework, he examined the damaged Ferrari. The best thing to do, he decided, was to buy
a new chassis kit and build the Ferrari from scratch. There was nothing wrong with the body. It only needed a paint job.

But where would he get the money to purchase a new kit? He wouldn’t dare ask Dad for another cent. Not after what had happened.
And a kit would cost from five dollars up. He might as well forget the whole thing.

He went and sat in the living room, his
legs sprawled out and his fingers interlaced across his chest. There wasn’t a thing he felt like doing. He didn’t feel like
reading. He didn’t feel like playing football. He almost wished that he had more homework to do, but that was going too far.

After a minute he realized that he didn’t feel like doing anything except model car racing.

Dad came in and lightly kicked one of his sprawled legs. “Hey, what’s with you? Your face is as long as these legs of yours.”

Chick shrugged.

“Is it a secret?” his father asked. He crossed the room and sat on the davenport.

“My car’s busted.”

“The one you’d just bought from Jack Harmon?”

Chick nodded.

“Can it be fixed?”

Chick shrugged.

“Well, can it or can’t it?”

Chick pulled himself up in the chair and
crossed his left leg over his right. “I suppose it can. But it’ll take an awful lot of work. Soldering and stuff.”

“Let’s see the car, Chick.”

“You mean what’s left of it,” said Chick gloomily. He got the car and held it out to his father. What was Dad thinking? That
he might put old Humpty Dumpty together again?

Dad placed the front axle on the brass strips where old marks showed it had once been soldered. “We can file this old solder
off and resolder the axle,” he suggested. “Know how the motor fits into the chassis?”

Chick fitted it in the center of the drop arm. “It goes there,” he said. “The metal clip holds it in place. Just have to mesh
the gears. But the guide’s shot, Dad. I’ve got to have a new one.”

“Does Mort Yates sell ‘em?”

“Yes.”

“Okay. A tiny piece like a guide can’t cost too much.” Dad took a coin out of his pocket. “Here. Go buy one and we’ll put
this baby together again.”

Chick’s eyes brightened like headlights. “You—you mean you’re going to help me, Dad?” he asked hopefully.

“Well, I’ll do what you can’t do yourself. Okay?”

“Why, sure!” Chick swung his arms around Dad’s neck, gave him a squeeze that half-choked him, then scrambled to the front
door.

“Meowrrrrr!” shrieked Whitey as Chick stepped on the tip of his long white tail.

“Out of my way, Whitey!” Chick shouted as he yanked the door open and flew across the porch and down the steps.

Dad’s going to help me!
he thought.
He can do the soldering, I’ll do the rest. And I’ll paint the body, put new decals on it, and put a driver inside and a dashboard
and I’ll enter it in a Concours d’Elégance!

He had plenty of paint and decals. And he had a model car driver that had been collecting dust in a drawer for months, just
waiting for an opportunity to climb into a cockpit and drive a car. Oh, man! It had turned out to be a pretty good day after
all!

“Mort—I mean, Mr. Yates—are you going to hold a Concours Saturday?”

Mort nodded. “Saturday afternoon. Then a few Crash-and Burn races. Why? Got a car you’d like to enter?”

Chick smiled and nodded. He still felt nervous talking with the man who only a few days ago had thrown him out of the place.
“Well, I’m fixing up a Ferrari. If I get it finished in time, I’d like to. That is, if ... if I could.”

Mort leaned on the counter, his face hardly six inches away from Chick’s. “Okay, Chick. You could. But no fights. Promise?”

Chick laughed. He took back every bad thing he had thought of Mort. “I promise,” he said.

“Okay. See you Saturday. Get here early enough to register.”

Chick paid for the nylon slot guide. He
started to leave when who should pop into the place but Jack Harmon.

“Well, look who’s here,” said Jack. “What’s up, Chick?”

Chick almost said “None of your business,” but caught himself. “I’m fixing up that Ferrari I bought from you,” he replied
quietly.

“Can I help you? I’d really like to. I mean it.”

Chick stared at him. He glanced at Mort, saw him smile. His stomach churned. The last guy in the world he’d want help from
was Jack Harmon. Man, what a spot to be in!

He thought about it a second longer, then said, “Okay. I’m going to work on it right now, though.” He hoped maybe that would
discourage Jack.

It didn’t. “Good!” Jack answered.

He looked again at Mort, and Mort winked. “Better help him good, Jack!” he called, as the boys went out the door. “Chick wants
to enter the Concours and the race Saturday!”

Jack looked at Chick in surprise. “You do?”

“Yep, I do,” answered Chick, and broke into a fast run. He left Jack behind for a couple of seconds before Jack caught up.

Dad and Mom seemed unable to believe their eyes at sight of Jack. He greeted them in that polite way of his, then followed
Chick and Mr. Grover downstairs to the basement.

Chick cleaned off the old solder from the metal frame and front axle with steel wool, then fitted the chassis and axle on
the chassis jig. Dad had bought the jig for him when he had made his first model car almost two years ago.

Dad plugged in the soldering iron to heat it. He unrolled about six inches of solder from a big roll and dipped the end of
it into a can of soldering flux. With a brush he dabbed the areas of the front axle and the curved-up end of the flat metal
frame, then held the iron, when it was hot, against the metal frame close to where the two pieces were to join together.

Suddenly the solder melted, flowing between the joints. Dad took the iron away and
the solder hardened to a smooth finish almost instantly.

“Gee, Dad! That doesn’t look so hard,” exclaimed Chick.

“It isn’t,” agreed Dad. “Just don’t put on too much flux, and make sure your iron’s good and hot. And keep your fingers away
from the hot tip!”

Chick laughed. “Makes sense!” he said.

“Want to solder the axle to the other side?” asked Dad.

“Sure!”

Chick dipped the end of the solder into the flux. Using the brush, he dabbed a little flux near the end of the metal frame
that curved up on the left side and on the front axle where the two pieces were to join. He took the soldering iron carefully
by its handle and held its tip against the curve of the flat metal strip. He felt jittery.

Suddenly the solder melted and flowed quickly between the joints.

“Okay,” said Dad. “Take the iron away.”

Chick did. The solder hardened to a neat, smooth finish. Almost as neat as Dad’s!

“Hey! Nice work, son,” said Dad. “You handle that iron pretty well.”