Overdrive (5 page)

TIM WATCHED THE CLEANUP
of the Devalon car and shook his head. “Live by the bump draft—die by the bump draft,” he muttered.

The door swung open and Kellen ran into the room, full of vinegar (as Tim’s dad used to say), which meant he had enough energy for about 50 grown-ups. He was carrying something under his arm and watching the coverage on the screen. “Can you believe Devalon bit it?” he said.

“Bunch of the leaders are gone,” Tim said. “If your dad can stay away from the wrecks, he’ll move up this week. Whatcha got there?”

“Oh, this was leaning at the front of the building.”

Tim took the package, which looked like a shoe box wrapped in brown paper.
Tim Carheart
was written in Magic Marker on the front.

“Who’s it from?” Kellen said.

“Nobody who knows how to spell my name.” He set the package down on a shelf.

“Aren’t you gonna open it?”

“Later,” Tim said. “Look, they’re coming in to the pits.”

“Dad’s staying out,” Kellen said. “He’s gonna take the lead.”

“How many points will he get if he wins this?” Tim said.

Kellen told him.

“Do you think he has a shot at the Chase?” Tim said.

“He doesn’t talk about it, but I can tell he wants it bad. What with all the trouble his primary sponsor’s given him.”

“I haven’t heard,” Tim said. “At least, not the particulars.”

Kellen scooted onto a workbench and put his back against the wall. “I don’t know everything, but the main sponsor talked about changing the hood to a beer company and dad just about busted a major artery.”

“He doesn’t like beer?”

“No, he thinks it causes a lot of problems. Doesn’t want any little kids seeing him driving around with it on his car and have them think he’s okay with it.”

“But everybody else does.”

Kellen shrugged. “My dad doesn’t care what everybody else does.”

Tim thought back to his days with Tyson in Florida and wondered what he’d say about Dale. Tyson drank beer like most people drank water. “Maybe all that sponsor trouble will go away if he wins.”

The race started again, and it was good to see the #14 car in first place.

“And here’s a sight we haven’t seen in quite a while,” the announcer said. “Dale Maxwell leading a race going into the late stages.”

“Dale told me he had a good car out here and he really likes the extra grooves this track has developed over the past few years,” a former driver said. “I like his chances a lot because once he gets into clean air, he knows what to do.”

The final laps were so thrilling that Tim couldn’t concentrate on his work. He moved closer to the screen and couldn’t help urging Dale on.

Kellen yelled whenever a challenger came from the back, but every time, Dale held him off with a burst of speed. When the caution came out with 20 laps left, Dale got two right-side tires and a splash of fuel and beat the rest of the field to the line. At the restart, after a furious challenge by Butch Devalon’s teammate, Dale surged ahead.

When Dale took the checkered flag, Kellen was jumping up and down and Tim was right next to him, giving him high fives and shouting. Tim couldn’t remember being this happy after any race in his life.

“Only thing that would make this better is being there,” Tim said.

“Maybe he’ll let us go with him to Brickyard,” Kellen said.

“That’d be cool.”

Dale’s exit from his car was understated, unlike a lot of the drivers. Some of them climbed a fence or did a backflip or some other crazy thing that made the news. Dale had told Tim that once you made it to the winner’s circle you should act like you’ve been there before, so he just climbed out, waved at the fans, and smiled.

“It’s been a long time since you’ve been here,” the trackside reporter said. “What would you like to say?”

“First, I thank God for giving me the opportunity to be in this sport,” Dale said, catching his breath. “I also need to thank my family for their support. My wife and kids and Tim, you guys are my inspiration.”

Tim couldn’t help getting choked up when he heard his name, but he was really affected when Dale thanked the pit crew for their hard work and attributed the win to them. Then he thanked his
sponsors—which was what most drivers usually did first.

“What did you think of that charge at the end to catch you?” the reporter said.

“I knew we had a good car and if I stayed in the groove and didn’t let them get too close and get me loose, we were going to win. It’s too bad we have next week off. I’d drive this car to Brickyard right now if I could.”

Tim laughed and picked up the rest of the tools scattered around the garage. Kellen offered to help him, but Tim said he’d do it himself.

“Okay, see you back at the house,” Kellen said.

Tim turned off the TV and arranged the tools the way he’d been told. He couldn’t wait until Dale, the crew chief, and the others saw what he’d done. Finally, he picked up the box and unwrapped it. It was a shoe box for an expensive brand of driving shoes. He opened it, expecting to see a pair in there, but he just found some newspaper wrapped around a DVD case. On the front of the DVD were two words written in permanent marker:
October, Talladega
.

A CHILL WENT THROUGH TIM.
His father had died at that Talladega race. He tossed the box in the big Dumpster at the back of the building and stuck the DVD in his pocket. He could have watched it right here, but he didn’t want to take the chance of somebody walking in on him.

He cleaned up, locked the door, then searched the gravel parking lot for clues about who had left the package. How did they know he was at the garage? Or that he even worked here? Was it some racing fan or a member of another team? a friend of his dad’s? a friend of Dale’s? Before he jumped to conclusions, he decided to watch the DVD.

One of the mysteries surrounding his father’s death was what actually happened. There had been a momentary power glitch at the track as Dale
Maxwell’s car had approached the pits. Maxwell himself had talked to officials and the media, saying he lost control as he came into the area, but there was confusion as to why. Was the entrance slick? Had a tire blown? (Both back tires were flat, but there was no evidence they’d blown.) The official investigation had determined the cause to be a combination of driver error and “track debris,” though Tim didn’t see it that way. He thought Maxwell was going too fast when he entered pit road, but an official showed him under the limit. There had been talk of discipline of Maxwell, but his reputation as a clean driver and the fact that he had been obeying the speed limit saved him. It was just a freak accident.

NASCAR had done everything they could to make the pit area safer, but the mix of people focused on a task and machines sometimes out of control made it dangerous. All the regulations and precautions in the world couldn’t change that.

Tim had drawn up an equation in math class that said:

SPEED + HUMANS

———————————   =   TROUBLE

MONEY

Tim had seen people take risks and pay the price. He’d also seen people pour their whole lives into winning and become bitter when it didn’t happen. The
saddest were those who rose to the very top, then realized it was empty up there. He couldn’t imagine having all that money and not being happy, but he’d seen it happen.

Tim made his way back to the house just as Mrs. Maxwell was coming outside with her purse over her shoulder. “We’re headed to the airport to pick up Dale,” she said. “Want to come along?”

“Think I’ll stick around here if it’s all right with you,” Tim said.

“You sure?” Mrs. Maxwell looked at him askance, as if she couldn’t believe he didn’t want to go or thought maybe he was coming down with a cold.

“Yeah, I want to watch some of the extended coverage,” Tim said, flipping on the TV in the front room.

“Okay, we’ll have a late dinner when we get back,” she said. “Or maybe Dale will want to stop for something at the Pit Stop.”

“Sounds good,” Tim said. “I’ll just grab a sandwich from the fridge.”

He sat on the couch while Kellen pulled a cardboard sign down the stairs and taped it to the door. It said Dale Maxwell #1.

Tim caught a couple more interviews of Dale while Mrs. Maxwell and Kellen pulled out of the driveway. When he was sure they were gone, he slipped the
DVD into the player. There was no menu, just one clip that said
3:14
.

Tim took a breath and stood, making sure there was no one outside or that the Maxwells weren’t suddenly back, Kellen racing in to retrieve his favorite hat. Then he sat and punched the Play button on the remote.

The camera angle was weird, unlike any on a televised race. It seemed to be from the middle of the infield. Cars screamed around the track, and he lost sight of them in the sea of RVs and TV trucks.

“This is it,” Tim whispered.

The camera shook as whoever held it panned left. Cars came into the clear, and just before they reached the exit for the pits, the camera zoomed in on the #14 car slowing and pulling down to the apron.

“No, no, I can’t watch this,” Tim said, hitting the Pause button. He stood and walked into the kitchen, both hands behind his head, rubbing quickly. It was like watching the grainy video of some presidential assassination or a plane flying into a building. These were the last moments of his father’s life. How could he watch that?

How can I
not
watch?

The fear of watching gave way to a desire for answers. Would the footage show the truth? And why would someone send this DVD? His mind flashed to
Jeff from Florida—a guy who had cheated him out of tickets to Daytona. Could this be his handiwork?

Tim went back to the living room and knelt before the TV. He took a deep breath and hit Play.

The camera quickly pulled back a bit from the #14 car to show the rest of the field. Suddenly, a blur passed and the back of the #14 car lost control. Instead of following it to the pits, the camera showed the blur.

Someone cursed softly, and the camera focused on the pits, where smoke came from Dale Maxwell’s car. People scrambled like bees around a hive, and Tim saw his dad’s arm sprawled on the race car in front of him, trapped. Two men came to help him, and Dale crawled out of his car, tearing off his helmet, then leaning down to Tim’s father. The ambulance and the EMTs came soon after. Tim finally remembered to breathe.

The screen went black, and then another clip started. It showed the Maxwell car in slow motion, but the footage had somehow been enhanced. Frame by frame the blur cleared. Tim leaned closer and squinted until the image stopped.

The car behind Dale Maxwell had clipped him. The frame stopped on the blur until the number came into focus. It was the #13 car.

“Devalon,” Tim whispered. “It was you.”

JAMIE SAT IN FRONT
of a camera in her fire suit, her hair tied in a ponytail, more nervous here than on the track before a big race. The number of students had been cut, and the fine-tuning had begun for the big event—the final race to determine the top tier of racers. One of the things the school promised to address was media skills, and that’s where Jamie sat.

The instructor, Charlyn Jacobs, was a petite woman with striking blonde hair, long fingernails, bright red lipstick, and four-inch heels that clacked on the tile floor. All the guys talked about her and made remarks about her makeup and how old she might be (Jamie guessed she was at least 30) and why she didn’t wear a wedding ring but had plenty of other jewelry. She had a pretty smile and perfect teeth, but Jamie got the feeling
she’d been asked to lead the seminar because behind that pretty facade was a fierce interviewer.

“The job of the media is to get a sound bite from you they can use,” Charlyn had said. “I should know. I’ve covered sports for the past eight years and have been everywhere from the putting greens at Augusta to the Dodgers clubhouse in Los Angeles.”

Some guy behind Jamie had snickered and made a smart remark under his breath that got several laughing.

Charlyn stepped forward and put her hands on her hips. “If you want to be the next one to leave the group, keep talking.”

The room got quiet.

“This isn’t your playtime at kindergarten. This is serious business and will determine how far you can go every bit as much as what happens on the track. So if I were you, I wouldn’t honk off a person who has the power to kick your tail out of here and back to some dirt track where you’ll be racing the rest of your pathetic life winning $50 or a prize turkey. I can make your life miserable when I get on the other side of the camera. Remember that.”

Charlyn didn’t have another problem with smart talk. The room had gotten quiet enough to hear mice trimming their nails.

Part of Jamie was scared of her and intimidated.
The other part was happy. Some women in the racing world were treated as trophies. Just pretty things at a driver’s side to make him look better. But Charlyn wasn’t having any of that. She had a mind of her own and a determination Jamie wanted.

“People judge you by the words you use,” Charlyn continued. “And there’s a reason that more and more drivers are getting a college education.”

She hooked her thumbs in imaginary belt loops, turned a heel to the side, and did her best country-boy pose. “You want to talk like a good ole boy and eat taters and spit off your back porch, go right ahead.” She leveled her gaze at them. “That might have worked a few years ago but not anymore. This sport is reaching all over the country to people east, west, and north, not just the South. So clean up your twang. Let everybody—not just your family—understand what you’re saying.”

Chad raised a hand, and Charlyn nodded to him. “I agree we ought to cut out the
ain’t
s and all that, but I’ve always heard we have to be ourselves. I don’t want a college degree. I just want to win.”

Charlyn walked past him like she was on the prowl. “Good point. And I do want you to be yourself. The thing that will draw a team to you is the same thing that will draw fans. Something genuine deep down inside. Something they identify with. Something that
reminds them that they’ve been at the back of the pack, believing they can overcome the odds just like you.” She stopped right in front of him. “But you need to be the best
you
you can be. If your South Carolina drawl is real, don’t get rid of it—use it to your advantage. Words are another tool of the racer, so when you open that mouth, have something to say and don’t hem and haw and um and uh.”

Jamie knew exactly what Charlyn was talking about. But it was different, of course, when she sat in the interview room facing the camera and the lights. She could see her own face reflected in the camera lens, and she wondered if someday this video would be played during a big race, poking fun at how far Jamie had come. Or would her racing dreams crash right here?

“All right, sit up straight, and let me see that smile of yours. No matter what I throw at you, I want your personality to come through,” Charlyn said. “You got it?”

“Got it.”

“Ready?”

Jamie scooted back in her seat and took a deep breath. “Ready.”

“Why would a nice, pretty girl like you want to ruin an entire sport?”

Jamie’s mouth dropped open. “Uh . . . well, I mean, I’m not trying to ruin anything. . . . Uh . . . I’m just trying to—”

“A girl may look good in a fire suit, but to think you could hang with the guys is silly,” Charlyn interrupted. “They’re stronger, they can last longer in a hot cockpit, and they’re not trying to prove anything about their gender. Plus, they don’t need to check their makeup after each turn.”

Jamie’s stomach churned. She liked to think she was quick on her feet and could fire off a snappy comeback with the best of them. She had a lot of practice with Kellen at home. But the attack dog questions from Charlyn felt like an ambush.

She took another breath. “Just because I’m a female doesn’t disqualify me from racing. I’ve learned a lot from watching my dad race, and I’ve learned a lot behind the wheel in the different levels I’ve gone through. The biggest lesson I’ve learned is that the length of your hair and fingernails doesn’t disqualify you from this sport.”

“But when you push your way—”

“I’m not finished,” Jamie interrupted, and she could detect a smile on Charlyn’s lips. “When I climb into a cockpit, the car doesn’t know whether I’m male or female, and it doesn’t care. Why should you or anybody else?”

“Because people’s lives are at stake,” Charlyn said.

“I can drive as safely as any guy on the track,
probably safer. But I don’t see why people should discriminate against me just because I was born a female.”

There was a long pause. “Anything else you want to say?” Charlyn said.

“Yeah. I’m not in this to make a statement. I’ll climb into a race car and chase down any guy or girl or grandma. Doesn’t matter to me. I want to win the cup.”