The Outside Groove (19 page)

I took a lap with the field, a column of cars notably shorter than the one stretched before me at the start.

Car 14 earned a black flag—DQ, disqualification—for a flagrant bump-and-run, but Dale's car 07 suffered enough damage to need the Hook. While the track crew was hauling his midnight blue to the pits, the field ran two caution laps down the lane cutting straight across the infield, and then we ran two more back out on the track, crossing over into pairs in the backstretch on our fourth lap. When the pace car darted into the infield, I had to fight the impulse to punch the gas and ram the car ahead of me, an orange Escort with a green 33 and the words M
ARLIN
H
INES
, T
AXIDERMIST
stenciled across the back. The Escort was running alongside an unsponsored baby blue Tempo with a white number 01.1 had the inside lane on the restart with Larry's car 44 on my right again. Sliding around from turn three to turn four, I snuck a lightning-quick glance at the flagman. He held the yellow caution flag in his left hand, the green flag in his right. I had a feeling we'd get a fair start.

Coming around turn four and heading for the starting line, my legs literally shook, I was so anxious to take off. Apparently, so were cars 01 and 33. I didn't know which one accelerated first, but they led us out of turn four at top speed. We all punched the gas; I could feel the collective rumble in my bones. We held our positions and got the green.

I ran as close to car 33's tail as I could. He'd evidently been running in first place for a reason: He was clearly faster than car 01 beside him. As a result, I naturally edged up on Larry, who was stuck behind car 01 and too conservative a driver to do something crazy like jerk to the outside and try driving around car 01 three cars across. This worked to my advantage. When car 33 advanced, I advanced with him, and soon car 33 was alone in the lead and I was door-to-door with car 01. I started edging him outside, where there was plenty of room, since Larry still wasn't interested in driving the top of the bank. I kept at car 01 for a lap, nudging him out, moving closer and closer to my line. One lap later, I'd reclaimed my line.

The instant Theo's tire hit the arrowhead mark in turn one, a strange jolt of energy seemed to run through my ride, as if every mini-explosion under Theo's hood, every thrust of the pistons, had fallen into perfect rhythm. I felt as if I could've let go of the steering wheel and the tires would've dragged us around the track on a perfect line. Something completely tweaked was happening to me and my car, but I didn't fight it. For once, I didn't think about it too much. I was the car, and the car was me. We were running with these guys—and running strong.

I honestly don't remember too much of what happened next, since I kind of shut my brain off. If I had a thought, it was a desire—no, more like a hunger—for a sliver of track someone had left open like a piece of leftover pie. If someone dropped down close to me, I felt the slap of their door against mine as if they'd backhanded me across the face. But I didn't mind. In fact, as I purposely wedged Theo's front end in between the rear bumpers of the two cars ahead of me, car 01 and car 33, swaddling myself with sheet-metal chaos, adrenaline surged like a shot injected straight into my heart.

The two lead drivers must've thought I was nuts, trying to split them. It's true, there was no line to run there, but something told me—again, in my gut, not in my brain—that a dogfight was about to go down at the front of this field and that I could be more than a casual observer if I stuck close.

Car 33 sure seemed to acknowledge my presence. He drifted to the outside just slightly, as if to taunt car 01 into running closer to him, but quickly shut down the inside lane on me. I took this reaction to be a sign of, if not respect, then recognition. I was like some scavenger bird liable to snatch up anything unguarded. Inside lane, outside lane—it made no difference to the scavenger in car 06.

Still, those two drivers were running for the win, which made my pestering something other than the central conflict in this asphalt drama. In the next turn, they tapped doors. I held my line but favored the outside. Checking my mirror, I saw Larry on my tail but not that close. Tires. He must not have had the tires left. I watched car 01 fight back a little, pinning car 33 to the corner, and watched car 33 snap back, giving a tap on turn one, a stronger tap on turn three.

In another lap, my brain was functioning more normally again.
Take what the race brings you.
The words mixed with engine rumble that shook my body right up through my helmet, as if I really were a part bolted onto the chassis of my car. I stopped trying to create trouble and drove my line for a lap, watching the lead cars battle, preparing to seize an opportunity.

Coming around turn four, car 33 gave car 01 a very strong knock, strong enough to require the lead car to yank the wheel to correct his line.

The white flag flapped: One more lap.

I stuck tight to the drivers in the stretch and moved to my line in turn one. I watched them closely. In turn two, car 01 pressed car 33 to the inside, and car 33 gave a shove back. I ripped into the backstretch.

Coming up on turn three, I got to my mark and watched, waited, feathered the throttle as car 33 and car 01 touched doors again and ran like that, metal on metal, for a few seconds. At the shimmy of car 01's rear as he pulled back away from his opponent, I pressed the accelerator down evenly, gradually. I eased to the outside of 01 as closely as I could without touching him. Fighting Theo's tires in the turn, I held true to my line. I drove over the gash. The tires pushed. Sunburst. Accelerate. Exit.

I floored it and drifted with Theo's momentum just to the right. Car 01 and car 03 had clearly bled out cornering speed mashing against each other, and I gained car 01's rear tire and just kept gaining. I was dead even with him when the flagman leaned out with the checkered flag. I locked my arms and pushed the gas pedal so hard I was practically standing up on it. I blew across the line.

I rolled around turns one and two, and when I was coasting in the backstretch, I could make out Bean's voice over the loudspeakers. “Folks, I'm looking at the spotters' table, and ... and ... I don't believe it! It's Casey LaPlante by a gnat's eyelash! History in the making here at Demon's Run. It's Casey ‘the Lady' LaPlante taking the Road Warrior feature today. Unbelievable. ”

Coming down the main straightaway, I eased way off the gas and braked across from the flagman. He handed the checkered flag to a track official, who jogged around to my window. “Good run,” the guy said and handed me the flag. “Take a ride for the fans.”

I tried to drive around the track by steering and shifting with one hand while holding the flag out my window with the other, but I had trouble finding second gear, and for a couple of seconds I swerved all over the place.

“Apparently, Casey, you missed the class on victory laps,” Bean said. “Just try leaning the thing out the window. We get the idea. Be a shame to see you bite the wall when you're the only one on the track.”

The crowd thought that was pretty funny. As I rounded turn four and headed back to return the colors to the flagman, I glanced at Beer Belly Hill and into the grandstands. People gawked at me, open-mouthed, some of them holding beer cans in mid-swig.

***

Pulling into the pits, I was afraid I might run the Sharks over as they whirled around in a shrieking clump. Jim stood with his arms crossed, grinning what passed for a grin from him.

Getting out of the car, I was tackled by the Sharks, and through a tangle of legs and arms, I saw the rest of the crews up and down pit row staring, dumbstruck. The only person moving besides the Sharks and me was Mr. Blodgett, who was limping toward me at a brisk pace, kicking up dust in his wake. The set of his jaw suggested that he wasn't coming over to offer his congratulations. When he was about twenty feet away, he barked, “Who's the crew chief here?”

“I am,” Jim said.

Mr. Blodgett jerked his head toward the tech area. “Get this car over to tech in five minutes, or you're DQ.” Without another word, he turned and shuffled off.

The driver in the adjacent pit slot, Parker Hurley, laughed.

“Something funny?” T.T. said to him, peeling away from Theo.

Bernie and Tammy both grabbed her T-shirt and held her back.

“Looks like you've got yourself a teardown, Casey,” Parker said. “Sure hope those springs are up to spec.”

“Parker,” I said, “I've been looking all over for you. Where've you been hiding, guy?”

He frowned, and his crewmembers stepped to his side.

“Next time we race,” I added, “don't be such a stranger.” I handed T.T. my gloves and Bernie my helmet and unzipped my firesuit.

Parker muttered something under his breath, but I ignored it.

***

A person might've thought I was trying to smuggle drugs across the border, the way Mr. Blodgett and his tech crew made Jim and the Sharks pull Theo apart. I grew worried that we wouldn't be able to put him back together again. In the end, though, all of my engine parts measured up to regulation, and the only thing I lost was a chance to see Wade win the late-model feature. What a pity.

 

Back at my pit, the Sharks and I held a post-race debriefing while Jim loaded Theo onto the wrecker. It wasn't until I heard Bean say, “And we're about to see something in Victory Lane I'm not sure auto racing has ever seen before,” that it dawned on me that I was going to receive a trophy while standing in Victory Lane in front of most of Fliverton
and right next to Wade.

For a few seconds, I couldn't move. But as soon as I saw Wade swaggering down pit row toward the gate, I gave my firesuit zipper a yank up and followed him. He stepped onto the track and the crowd exploded. He waved this way and that, like a dictator greeting the masses. I'd have preferred to let him enjoy his triumphant moment alone, but I knew I was expected to step onto the track too. I took a deep breath and did what seemed natural—jogged onto the asphalt. The applause seemed to double.

“Here's your Road Warrior champion, folks,” Bean said as I ran past Wade. “A familiar name but a whole new frame, Casey ‘the Lady' LaPlante. Your vixen in car six'en.” The cheering swelled again as I stepped into Victory Lane, where Bean—wearing a blue Demon's Run windbreaker, his lower body resembling a kettle drum dressed in brown slacks, as if to match the three strands of brown hair stretched across his bald head—took my trophy off the stool next to him and handed it to me. Wade stepped up to the other side of Bean. “And here's older brother Wade the Blade, our Thundermaker Sportsman champ,” Bean added, tapping at the other trophy on the stool. “Good racing, Wade. We're going to get a word from you in a minute. But right now, I want to ask your kid sister something. Casey, about a month ago out here, you looked like you'd taken a wrong turn on your way to the library and ended up on a racetrack. But tonight, you knew right where you were going. What happened?” He moved the mike to my chin.

“Well, Bean, first things first,” I said. “I've got the best crew.” Three shrieks in the pits pierced the murmur of the grandstand crowd. “And to answer your question, I don't know, I've just been thinking a lot about racing since I was out here the last time. I got out here today, found a good line in practice. And, well, we've got a good car, good tires, and a good setup. We just got it done.”

It wasn't exactly the Gettysburg Address, but, then, I'd never heard anything profound come out of Victory Lane.

“Well, congratulations,” Bean said. “How about a big hand for Casey LaPlante, your Road Warrior champion.”

The crowd cheered. Wade clapped weakly.

“Well, what do you have to say for yourself, Wade? It's starting to feel like déjà vu here in Victory Lane. Tell us how it went today.” Bean reached over to Wade with the mike.

Wade gave the crowd a victory speech somehow even more vapid than my own, and I sort of zoned out. I was exhausted. After a few moments, the crowd cheered again, and I realized that the speeches were over. I turned to follow Wade to the pits, waving my trophy in the air just like he did.

The post-race party back at the house, which was usually a nuisance for me, since the racket made it impossible to study in my room above the driveway, was unnerving in ways I'd never imagined it could be. Wade's crew acted all friendly to me, mainly because I'd invited the Sharks, and the Sharks encouraged, in a manner I wouldn't call subtle, a high level of friendly interaction. But every time Fletcher walked over, I found something to pull me in the other direction—another bottle of water, another handful of chips. I couldn't imagine talking to him without exploding, and I was also stunned at his stupidity in thinking that we could even
have
a conversation in front of all these people without it being excruciatingly weird.

Mom floated around with her post-race
Vm-just-so-proud-of-my-son
smile on her face. Big Daddy hung out over by the car 02 trailer, one foot up on a back tire, lecturing a couple of Wade's crewmembers he'd trapped there. Every once in a while, he gave me a look that told me he'd want to chat with me when the party was over.

I'd given the Sharks crystal-clear instructions that they were to tell
no one
about Uncle Harvey or my Corkum County Speedbowl racing experience. I told them to pretend that Jim was the only guy in the Casey LaPlante racing organization. Since he wasn't at the party—he had cars to tow—I figured the story would work. But Big Daddy was no dummy, and his
We're-going-to-talk
looks made me think he might be putting the pieces of this puzzle together. A sip of beer. A long gaze over the yard.
Where did she
get
that ride?

Everyone's attention was suddenly diverted to a car straining up Meadow Ridge Road. The swale of the front yard obscured the vehicle from view for a stretch of about one hundred yards before the driveway, and as we all looked, listening to the car's muffler complaining, I got the impression everyone was guessing at what the distressed vehicle would look like.