Yellow Flag (12 page)

Standing with Kris on Grandpa's enormous wraparound porch, Kyle remembered their races, the ones that always ended with him in the flower bed. The day he climbed back up the stairs with a garden rake and whacked Kris across the chest as he skateboarded past was the last day they raced around the porch. Kyle was eight, he thought, Kris ten and already a two-time quarter-midget champ.

“You never beat me.” Kris must have been having the same thought.

“But I whipped your ass once.”

“You needed a shovel. Blindsided me.”

“A rake. You saw it coming.”

“Whatever.” He threw an arm over Kyle's shoulder.
“Man, was I proud of you yesterday.”

“A monkey could've driven that car….”

“The way you stood up to Boyd.”

I think I just froze, thought Kyle. “Never saw Uncle Kale move so fast.”

“When it comes to the family or the car, he's a tiger.” Kris puffed out his cheeks and his stomach. “Rest of the time, Shamu.”

They laughed. Mom and Dad had taken them to SeaWorld just before Dad's accident. As Shamu, the killer whale, rose out of his pool, they had looked at each other and both said, “Uncle Kale.”

Kyle felt close to Kris on top of Hildebrand Hill. It had been years since Grandpa had thrown one of his last-minute Sunday-afternoon barbecues on the front lawn. My fourth-place finish yesterday was worth a celebration, Kyle thought, and I'm happy and a little scared.

He wondered what Kris thought about it. Not really Kris's style to think too much. The Intruder keeps his eyes on what's ahead. No mirror driving.

“Look who's here.” Kris elbowed him. Cowgirls were piling out of a van. “One for you, li'l bro. Do they love racers, especially after they get their pictures in the paper.”

He hadn't thought the picture on the front page of
the Sunday sports section looked much like him, but he'd enjoyed the headline: “Another Hildebrand Coming on Strong.” He got almost as much space as Gary, who had won the race in another thrilling duel with Ruff on their way to big-time NASCAR careers. The reporter who interviewed Kyle wanted to know all about high school, and he told her about the quintet. The reporter called Mr. G Kyle's other crew chief. It was pretty stupid.

He had thought about inviting Nicole to the barbecue. They could go on together to Mr. G's dinner. Friends and girlfriends were always welcome on Hildebrand Hill, but he wasn't sure she would be comfortable. Maybe, he thought, she would be too judgmental about his family or they would find her too New York—or maybe it's you, Kyle, not ready to handle your worlds colliding. She's got moves, she can be cool, and everybody would be nice to her because of you; even Uncle Kale could be a charmer at a party, so what's your problem? Maybe you don't want Jimmie and Nicole in the same place. Why? Maybe your problem is you think too much. Mirror driving. Keep your eyes up front.

Kris pulled him down the steps to the lawn. Low clouds of smoke drifted off the barbecues where Jackman and some of the crew were grilling burgers, franks, chicken parts, racks of ribs, and heaps of pork
strips. Tables were crowded with corn, baked beans, salads, mounds of chips, soda, beer, even Jump. Once Kris reached the cowgirls, Kyle was able to slip away from him. Kris could handle a herd of cowgirls by himself.

Neighbors and friends and cousins he hadn't seen in a while were hugging and pounding shoulders. Sir Walter cruised among them, kissing, squeezing. He spotted Kyle, beckoned him over. “That was something, Kyle. That was racing with your head.”

Kyle tried to sort out what he was feeling. How could you be happy and scared at the same time?

 

Mom and Dad were talking to Aunt Susan and a tall, gaunt man in white pants, a white shirt open to his belly button, and flip-flops. Kyle had never seen him before.

Uncle Kale was holding court in a hammock, a beer can balanced on his stomach. He looked happy.

Kyle looked for Jimmie, finally found her in a cloud of barbecue smoke flipping burgers. Her hair was pulled back and up, and her face was beet red.

“Hey.”

“Hey.” She looked glad to see him. “How'd the inquiry go? I left right away, back in the hauler with Billy.”

“They hollered at Boyd some for show, but his car
was wrecked so they didn't do anything. You were reading my mind.”

“Nah, I just figured you were smart enough to do what I would do.”

“Hope you told Uncle Kale that.” It felt like trash talking in the band room. Felt easy.

“Yeah, right.” She looked around, lowered her voice. “It was you who made him hire me back.”

“Who said that?”

“No secrets in the pits. Thanks.”

“Band fags need all the help they can get.”

“C'mon, gimme a break, I didn't mean to say that.”

“Sure you did.”

“Well, I'm sorry.” She flashed her big smile. “Bunch of the crew's going to Lobo tonight—the cowgirls got asked back. Guess why. Wanna go? My treat?”

“I got something to do.”

“Real music, huh?”

“I'll take a rain check.” When she nodded, he plunged on, “Maybe you'll come to a concert sometime.”

“I'd like that.” Her million-dollar smile disappeared. “You gonna have time for everything?”

That stopped him. “Time?”

“The second car and all.”

“Jimmie!” It was Jackman down the barbecue line. “You servin' or jabberin'?”

They looked up to see a line waiting for burgers. “Later,” said Jimmie.

 

He filled a plate with barbecue and corn and wandered the lawn, enjoying the smiles and the nods, the pats and the pinches. A couple of weeks ago he had been invisible. He chatted with Gary, maybe the first time alone, he thought, certainly the first time driver to driver. Gary told him to watch out for Slater, who was sneaky where Ruff was only mean, and wished him good luck.

He was surprised to see Lloyd Rogers. First time he'd ever seen a black face on Hildebrand Hill that didn't belong to someone who worked for the family. Rogers was talking to Uncle Kale, who had actually swung his legs over the side of the hammock so he was sitting up. It looked serious. Was Uncle Kale interviewing him? Maybe they were going to hire him to drive. He felt a flash of anger. Wait a minute, Kylie, you want out, right?

Right.

There were a lot of people on the lawn who seemed to know him better than he knew them. A lot of them had seen the story in the paper, and they congratulated him.

He checked his watch. Give himself time to get over to Mr. G's house.

“Kyle, good job.” It was Randall with his wife. Away from the track, in a bright-blue shirt and tan pants, he didn't look so old. “You know Melissa.”

“Great race, Kyle.” She was a teacher at the high school, but he had never been in her class. She turned to Randall. “Kyle plays trombone in the band.”

Before he could correct her, Randall said, “Multi-talented young man. Gonna be a lot on your plate when the new deal starts.”

“Randall may be in that new deal,” said Melissa.

“I been talking to your dad and grandpa,” said Randall. “Gonna need car chiefs and crew chiefs.”

“You'll quit driving?” said Kyle.

“It's time,” said Melissa.

“I'll miss you bumping me,” said Kyle, and they all laughed.

Dad called from across the lawn and waved him over. He was still standing with Aunt Susan and the gaunt man in white. Mom was gone.

“Kyle, this is Wolf Unger. He does TV commercials for Family Brands.”

Unger didn't shake hands, but he did look Kyle up and down, twice. “Good-looking family,” he said. He had a slight accent. “You're the musical one?”

“Takes after his mom,” said Aunt Susan.

“With luck and good weather we should be able to
shoot this in one day,” said Unger. “We want to get it on the air during the Charlotte race.”

“We start painting the grandstands tomorrow,” said Aunt Susan.

“Should be painting today,” said Unger.

“It's Sunday,” said Aunt Susan.

Unger rolled his eyes. “In my business, Sunday is Monday.”

Dad said, “They're shooting at Goshen Raceway next weekend, you, me, and Kris. There's a whole script. We're arguing over who gets the car.”

“And then two more cars appear,” said Aunt Susan. “It is so cool.”

Everybody knows what's going on except me, thought Kyle. Another flash of anger. He wondered if Kris knew. But Kris didn't really care. Just give him a girl, a beer, and a ride, he was happy.

“Don't get a haircut,” said Unger. “We'll have a stylist.”

Everybody tells me what to do. The anger spread.

Unger started to turn away, then said, “What is it you play?”

“What?”

“The trumpet,” said Aunt Susan. “He's very good.”

Kyle was surprised. Had she ever heard him?

“Marching band?” said Unger.

“Yes, and we have a brass quintet, classical and jazz.”

Unger looked interested. He plucked a business card out of a pocket, handed it to Kyle. “Have someone contact me. Might be a nice touch. A grace note, if you will.”

It was Mom's idea to bring Hildebrand Racing caps, T-shirts, and number 12 die-cast car models for Mr. G's kids. Who knew he had kids? He thought it would be too weird under the circumstances. The other members of the quintet would think he was buttering up, and Mr. G would think he was being ironical at a time when racing and music were colliding.

But Mom had insisted it was the right thing to do, and she had even gone to the race shop after church to pick out the gifts. Kyle almost left them in the Camaro when he got to Mr. G's house, an ordinary-looking ranch on a street of ordinary-looking ranches on the other side of Goshen. But then he saw the little plastic kiddie pool and a cheap metal swing set in the scrubby
backyard. There were kids. Nicole's Honda and Todd's Escalade were already in the driveway. He was glad to see they hadn't come together.

Mr. G was happy to see him and delighted with the gifts for his kids. “Marie, will you look at this.”

His wife, Marie, was dumpy and plain, not what Kyle would have expected, but she was also nicer than he would have expected and a terrific cook. She had made two kinds of lasagna, chicken, and a watermelon salad. They ate on the deck in the back while the two little kids played in the yard. Nice kids. Kyle was glad to see that his backup, Justin, wasn't there.

Mr. G put on the number 12 cap. “That was great what you said in the paper. The principal called me this morning.” Kyle blanked for a moment. What had he said? “He loved that crew chief line. So did I, after I found out what it meant.” He grinned. “You know, people, a crew chief tells the car chief and the pit crew and even the driver what to do. So a little more respect, please.”

They all started asking questions at once, even Nicole. Why was the car faster this week, did he have a plan from the beginning of the race, why was Boyd so pissed off? What was going to happen when Kris came back?

He enjoyed the attention, answered carefully without
saying too much, especially about Kris and the second car. Boyd was pissed off, he explained, because after finally getting a sponsor, he had wrecked his car.

“Boyd's spotter should have seen he was heading into the Dodge,” said Del.

“I guess he didn't have a sexy voice in his ear,” said Nicole.

“Saw that film,” said Jesse. “
Two Girls and a Guy
, Robert Downey Jr. and Heather Graham.”

“You made that up,” snapped Nicole. She seemed annoyed.

“You got another race coming up?” asked Todd.

There was a moment of silence, then Mr. G said, “Let's burn that bridge when we come to it. Marie made a chocolate cake.”

They started chattering about the Brooklyn Brass audition a little more than two weeks away and lost track of time. Mr. G eventually shooed them out, reminding them it was a school night. At the door, Kyle remembered the director's card and gave it to Mr. G.

“He said maybe we could do something in the commercial he's shooting.”

Mr. G held the card as if it were a lottery ticket.

 

“Want to stop by?” said Nicole.

“Why not?”

“Curb your enthusiasm.”

“Yeah, I want to. That better?”

He followed her home. The house was dark. They sat outside on the glider, so close he couldn't see her face in the dim porch light without turning. Their lips brushed.

She pulled back a little. “That number you ran on Mr. G was pretty slick.”

“Number?” It took him a moment. “That was real. It was the director's idea, not mine.”

“Oh.” She sounded pleased. “I thought you did it to buy more time for racing.”

“I don't know what I'm doing.” That hadn't quite come out right, but he didn't have a chance to play it over.

“You're telling me,” she said, and kissed him.

They had their hands inside each other's shirts when headlights appeared at the top of the driveway.

“Shit,” said Nicole.

Her parents seemed cool, a bearded dad in cargo pants and a mom in a flowered skirt. They said they had snuck out of a faculty concert. They invited him in, but Nicole reminded them it was a school night.

 

He had the dream that night, racing three wide, only this time he was caught between Jimmie and Nicole. He wasn't sure it was really a dream, more like imagination
in that floating time before you go over the edge into sleep. In any case, he didn't make himself wake up. He wanted to see how it turned out. But it just ended, going nowhere.

He woke up thinking it was going to be a sweet, easy week. Nobody would be on his case. It started that way. By the time he came downstairs Monday morning, Dad had left for the race shop. Besides 12A they were building a show car for Family Brands to display. There would be no performance engine in it, but it had to look exactly like the real race cars.

Mom was sleeping late. He remembered that had happened before, when Dad went back to racing after his accident. She hadn't wanted him to go back. There had been arguments. But Sir Walter had retired and said that the fans wanted a Hildebrand in the Hildebrand car. Grandma Karen and Aunt Susan were in the house every day getting Kris and Kyle off to
school while Mom slept. It lasted only a month or so. One day she started playing the piano again, and soon after that she was waking up in time for them all to have breakfast together. After Dad stopped racing, she started giving lessons. She loved doing it. She seemed much happier, even happier than before his accident. It was only later that Kyle figured out they needed the money.

And now she was sleeping late again. He wondered if she was avoiding the world because Kris got hurt or because he was racing. Or both.

Kyle tried not to think about that, enjoying the quiet time in the kitchen. He had a turkey-and-cheese sandwich for breakfast as he checked the ball scores on ESPN and glanced through the sports pages. There was a story about the return of Hildebrand Racing that quoted Family Brands vice president David Winik saying that “Hildebrand is a Family Brand, a perfect fit for our customers.”

Toward the end of the story Uncle Kale was quoted as refusing to say who would be the driver of number 12A, the “clone of the Blue Shadow.” The reporter speculated that drivers being considered included Boyd Jurgensen and Lloyd Rogers. No wonder Rogers had been at the party.

Kyle felt a pinprick of anger. How come I wasn't
mentioned? Not that I would take the ride. Would I? Or do I just want the chance to say no?

 

He felt better at school, a celebrity, waves and nods and fist bumps in the hallways, even from seniors, smiles from girls who had always looked through him. Teachers congratulated him. No hassle on his homework, or lack of.

He showed up late for quintet because the football coach cornered him in the hallway and demanded to hear about the fight in the garage. But his chair was empty and waiting for him. Justin, sitting alone in the back with his trumpet on his lap, pumped his fist as Kyle walked in. Jesse blew a tuba squawk.

Nicole squeezed his arm as he sat down next to her. Like they were a couple. He wondered again what would have happened if her parents had stayed at the concert.

 

He thought he played poorly, but no one commented. When they finished the rehearsal, Mr. G invited Justin up and handed out music for the three-trumpet flourish that opened the triumphal march in
Aida
. They had never played any opera before.

“Wolf and I were thinking,” said Mr. G, “it might work in the commercial.”

“You talked to the guy already?” said Kyle.

“Texted him last night, talked first thing this morning. He told me to prepare a few pieces to knock his socks off, although I must say he sounded like one of those Hollywood types who don't wear socks.”

Kyle remembered the flip-flops.

Out in the parking lot Nicole said, “Sorry about last night.”

“I'll take a rain check,” he said. Got two rain checks now, he thought.

She hooked an arm around his waist. First Public Show of Affection, he thought, proud and embarrassed. He glanced around. No one was paying attention.

“Next weekend?” she said. “My parents have a conference in Atlanta. And you don't have a race.”

“The commercial.” When he felt her arm start to slide away, he said, “Come with me?”

“Sure.”

He looped his arm around her shoulders.

 

It was almost suppertime when he got to the race shop, but there was no sense that the workday was winding down. Kris, Jackman, and Billy were working on number 12 in a repair bay, and Dad, Randall, Jimmie, and the mechanics and fabricators were working on 12A and the show car on the main floor. The
skeletons of backup cars were lined up like museum dinosaurs. Uncle Kale bustled back and forth among the cars, pointing and snapping orders.

He felt out of place, sorry he had come. Why had he come? He hadn't even thought it through when he'd left Nicole in the parking lot.

“Kyle!” Uncle Kale was waving him over. “In the car.”

Gratefully he climbed in 12A and worked his butt and back into the seat. “Needs more padding.”

“That's what you're here for,” said Randall.

“Meet twelve A's car chief,” said Uncle Kale.

“Your car chief,” said Randall, patting Kyle's shoulder.

Uncle Kale looked away.

Kyle climbed out without saying anything. He felt like he was in the middle of an
X-Files
rerun.
My
car chief? What about Lloyd Rogers?

It was going to be a long week after all.