Checkered Flag Cheater (20 page)

“I don't want to walk away,” Trace said. “But if we keep cheating, I'll never really know how good a driver I am.”

“Well, get used to that, because I've always got more tricks up my sleeve. If I can get one of those other carburetors to work right—”

Harlan and Jimmy appeared in the doorway.

“Come on in,” Smoky said. “We're about done here.”

“Yes, we are,” Trace said suddenly. He stiffened his spine.

Harlan and Jimmy looked at Trace uncertainly.

“I can't drive for you anymore,” Trace said to them.

“What?” Harlan exclaimed.

“Not this way,” Trace said.

“What way? We're winning!”

“I want to be
legal
and win.”

Smoky shrugged, shook his head with a mixture of sadness and disgust, and left the trailer.

“What are we gonna do now, Pops?” Jimmy murmured. His face had turned pale and scared.

“Don't worry about that,” Harlan replied, keeping his angry eyes on Trace. “One monkey don't stop the show.”

Trace shrugged. “Well, I'm no longer the Team Blu monkey,” he said. He turned, headed up to his cabin, and threw his stuff in his duffel bag. It was surprising how few things actually belonged to him.

When he came down, Harlan and Jimmy were still there, waiting. Jimmy looked away; Trace saw a glint of extra water in his eyes.

“That monkey crack,” Harlan began. “That's not exactly what I meant.”

Trace waited.

“I meant, Laura will have a new driver tomorrow,” Harlan said. “Drivers are a dime a dozen, but good ones—like you—are hard to find.”

Trace looked squarely at Harlan. “But with Smoky
building my engines, and you looking the other way, how would I ever know how good I am?”

A pause followed. Jimmy's eyes flickered back and forth between Harlan and Trace.

Harlan stiffened his back and put on his gruff face. “Okay, kid. I can sort of see what you're saying. And you're only eighteen. I've been there. So let's do this: why don't you go into the truck stop and cool off for a while? Get yourself a cup of coffee. Try to relax and think this through. Think about what you'd be throwing away.”

“I could go with him,” Jimmy said quickly.

“No,” Harlan said sharply. “Trace has to do this on his own.”

Jimmy's shoulders pulled in; he said nothing more.

“Okay, I will,” Trace said. “I owe you that much.”

“But we roll in fifteen minutes,” Harlan said, looking at his watch. “You're either on board or you're not.”

Trace swallowed, shouldered his duffel bag, and walked out. Across the empty, brightly lit lot, past the silent gas pumps. He checked the time on his phone.

Inside, he stepped up to the counter.

“What do you need?” asked a sleepy-looking older woman. Trace wondered more and more about people: what things—what decisions—in her life had brought her to this moment?

“Coffee.”

“Dark roast, medium, or light?” she asked in automatic reply.

“Whatever. Medium, I guess.”

Hot cardboard cup in hand, he went to the narrow side counter and sat on a stool. He took his time opening three creamers; each one made his black coffee a shade lighter. After he stirred the coffee, he pushed the little plastic cups into a triangle. Like a shell game—which one covers the pea? But tonight there was no pea.

He looked around the diner at the scattering of other late-night types, all alone, then checked the time again. He called Mel, but she didn't pick up; he didn't leave a message. He thought of calling his father, but didn't.

The coffee was horrible, and after a few sips he pushed it aside. He could see, through the front window glass, the big blue hauler, waiting beyond the far pumps. As the deadline approached—two minutes left—he carried his duffel bag to the front of the store. Near the door.

One minute.

Harlan revved the engine and brought up all the lights. It really was a beautiful rig.

“That your ride?” the guy at the till asked.

Trace swallowed. Ever so slowly, the Team Blu rig began to move. “No,” Trace said. “It's not.”

The long hauler eased away. At the stop sign, its brake lights came on; there was no oncoming traffic, but the brakes remained red—as if Harlan was waiting. Long seconds stretched toward half a minute—and then the tractor jerked forward sharply, pulling the trailer onto the highway. Its running lights streamed sideways as they
headed away, and then gradually disappeared into the night.

Trace went back to the counter. He spent a long time texting Mel. He told her about April, and also about Sara Bishop. The truth of both was way less bad than Mel believed. He told her about leaving Team Blu—and that he was coming home. After that he called his father.

When he finally set down his phone, the coffee woman came by, this time pushing a broom. Her gaze fell to Trace's big duffel bag. “You got a ride somewhere?”

“Yes,” Trace said. “I'm waiting for my father. He'll be here”—he checked his watch—“in a couple of hours. If that's all right.”

“No problem, we're open all night,” she said. Then she cocked her head to look at him again. “Your face seems familiar. I keep thinking I should know you.”

“I don't think so,” Trace said. “But maybe someday you will.”

“And how would that be?” the woman said, mustering a small smile.

“I'm a race-car driver,” Trace said.