Checkered Flag Cheater (4 page)

Sixty miles north of Minneapolis, the shimmy in his right front tire grew from teeth-chattering to car-shuddering. In the center console, Trace's can of cola slowly came to a boil—brown foam oozed onto the seat and floor. He drove slower and slower.

Finally, he wheeled into a gas mart parking lot, then got out and popped open the trunk. The skinny donut of the spare tire was hard to the touch—fully inflated. So far so good. He lifted out the tire and then unfolded the flimsy jack and extendable cranking rod. Before jacking the out-of-balance front tire fully off the asphalt, he fit the tire iron onto the first nut; loosening lug nuts required some back friction on the tire. However, the first nut didn't loosen. As he leaned into it, the whole car torqued
backward—and threatened to tip off the undersize jack. Trace positioned the tire iron horizontally, then stood up and pressed down onto it with his shoe. Nothing. He put both feet on the skinny iron rod—balancing himself against the hood—then bounced. The car rocked, but the nut remained frozen. He swore for real this time.

“It's a conspiracy,” a woman's gruff voice said.

Sweating, Trace glanced up.

“Car companies and tow truck drivers—they're in cahoots,” she said. Paused beside her pickup was a middle-aged woman in a faded brown Carhartt jacket and black stocking cap pulled low. She was holding a gallon of milk. “They tighten those nuts down with an air wrench. That way you have to call a tow truck.”

“No kidding.” Trace breathed deep. Her face was weathered—had seen a lot of sun and wind. She was clearly an outdoorsy type. Trace tried again, bouncing atop the tire iron.

“I hate to say it, but you're either going to strip the stud or break an ankle. Then you're for sure not going to get that tire changed.”

Trace stepped down. He pursed his lips. Just what he needed, a peanut gallery.

“I think I've got some WD-40 in my toolbox,” the woman said, opening her end gate. “There might even be a torch in there—if there's any gas left in it.”

“That would help,” Trace said. He wiped sweat from his face.

The woman secured her milk, then climbed into the
junk-filled rear of her truck, an older Ford F-150. She rummaged around in the diamond-tread toolbox, then turned and tossed a blue spray can with a red top to Trace. Digging deeper, she came up with a small propane torch.

“Great,” Trace said as he sprayed the four frozen nuts, then let the fluid penetrate. The woman climbed down, produced a cigarette lighter, and with a
pop!
lit the torch.

“I'll do it,” she said, motioning for Trace to step aside.

“Okay.” He wiped away the excess penetrating oil, and moved back.

She knelt by the wheel. “A lot of young people nowadays ain't good with cars,” she said, squinting as she moved the shivering yellow point of the flame from one nut to the next. “Not their fault,” she added. “It's the auto industry and the politicians. They're in bed together, too. They try any way they can to cut people off from understanding their own cars—and being able to fix them.”

“Maybe so,” Trace murmured. He checked his watch. This pit stop was getting way too long.

“They've got us by the throat with most every car built since about 1996,” she said, working her flame back and forth. “A ‘check engine' idiot light shows up on your dashboard, and you got to go back to the dealer. They plug your car into their computer, and half the time there's nothing really wrong. It's something like ‘Check the check engine light,' but they still charge you seventy-five bucks.”

“Let me try those nuts now,” Trace said. He didn't have time for this.

She moved aside. Trace fit the wrench to the first nut, which loosened like a spoon twisting in warm butter.

“You can buy those handheld computer code readers,” she said. “But the dealers don't want to share their codes. They won't tell you what the numbers mean.”

Trace quickly spun off the last nut, jacked the car higher, and swapped tires. On the skinny spare, he tightened the nuts snugly in a crisscross pattern. Then, after lowering the car, he wrenched them tighter.

“Somebody taught you how to do that right, at least,” she observed.

“Thanks,” Trace said, though she didn't pick up on his sarcasm.

“Anyway,” she said, and spit to the side, “what this country needs is a true people's car. Like the Volkswagen Beetle. That was the whole idea—a car that anyone could drive and anyone could fix. In German,
Volkswagen
means ‘the people's car'—did you know that?”

“No, I didn't,” Trace said, in his car by now. He fired the engine.

“It was one of Hitler's ideas,” the woman said. “Not many people know that, either.”

“Gotta go,” Trace said, yanking the shifter into gear. He accelerated away. The world was full of crazy people, but at least this one had tools.

The wheel shimmy was gone, and Trace concentrated on making up time. North of Little Falls, he ducked off Highway 10, the main route northwest, and took Highway
64 up through the woods. It was a narrow, two-lane black-top with pines close up on both sides. There was less chance of highway patrols here, but more chance—Which is exactly when a whitetail buck bounded up from the ditch. Head up, horns erect, it raced across on a collision course. Trace went into deer-whack mode: he lifted his hands off the wheel and closed his eyes. It was his personal—maybe crazy—solution to a deer on the highway. He would either hit the deer or not hit the deer, but at least he wouldn't swerve to avoid it, go off the road, and end up as a mangled tin-can sandwich in the trees.

When he opened his eyes, the highway was empty ahead. The white flag of the deer flashed once in the side mirror, and then was gone into the gray pines. He let out a breath and put the pedal to the floor; a near-miss usually meant at least a few miles of deer-free driving.

The sun was fully down by the time he drew near Headwaters, population 9,274. As always, the parking lot of the smoky old Eagles Club south of town was full of cars and trucks. An auto consignment lot across the street had doubled in size since he'd been home. It now had a section that included snowmobiles, ATVs, and fishing boats—even a couple of tractors. Which reminded him: he had forgotten to call his father, but later on that. Right now he pulled his Team Blu cap low over his forehead, slouched down in his beater, and headed west to the high school.

The parking lot was jammed. The cars and pickups
were shinier than usual; everybody on a date had detailed their ride. He spotted two familiar vehicles right away: Beau Kim's dropped black Honda Civic and Amber Jenkins's dusty Chevy pickup. He did not see Mel's white Toyota. Then again, why would it be here if she had a date?

He parked his car at the far end and headed to the main entrance. In the foyer was a table of PTA adults.

“Excuse me!” one of the women said quickly. She was one of those supertidy mom types, the kind who totally overparent their kids.

“Yeah?” Trace said. He had tried to slide by, as if he hadn't noticed the table full of sign-in sheets and plastic wristbands.

“This event is for high school students only,” the woman said. She sat up straight in her chair, her eyes wide and unblinking. Pager in hand, she was in full stranger-danger mode.

“I am a high school student,” Trace muttered.

“At this high school?” the woman asked. The other chaperones stared at him.

“Sort of.”

“Do you have your ID?”

Trace fished through his wallet and found his old school ID. In the photo he was clean-shaven and had short hair.

“Trace Bonham?” she asked. At his name there was a murmur from the table.

“Yes. That's me.”

The woman stared at his ID, then at Trace. “Would you mind taking off your cap?” she asked.

“Yes, I would mind,” Trace said.

“Trace!” said a man's high-pitched voice from behind. It was Mr. Jorgenson, Trace's ninth-grade history teacher.

“Mr. Jorgenson. Hey.”

They shook hands, after which Trace grabbed back his school ID.

“What a surprise! I'd heard that you left us for good,” Mr. Jorgenson said as they moved past the table toward the gym.

“Nope, just back for a visit,” Trace replied.

At that moment, Mr. Jorgenson's pager chirped—clearly he, too, was on security detail. “Gotta run,” he said, and turned back to the foyer. Trace was left alone to walk down the wide hallway toward the music and colored lights.

He took a breath, then stepped into the doorway. The basketball gym had been transformed into a giant cruise ship. The back wall was papered and painted to look like a wide blue ocean. The prom theme, in giant letters, was “Sail Away!” Little sandy islands and palm trees receded into the distance. At the base of the fake horizon was the ship's railing made of pipe, where kids leaned and sipped “drinks”—probably pink lemonade. In the foreground was a ballroom and casino with adults dressed up as blackjack dealers, all the better to spy on the kids. Above the dancing and gambling throngs, the long arms of the retractable
basketball hoops were ringed with black construction paper in order to resemble big smokestacks. Actual puffs of “smoke” came from the pipes.

“Oh my God! Trace? Trace Bonham?”

He turned.

A short, round-faced girl, probably in ninth or tenth grade, and dressed as a cocktail waitress, paused beside him. She carried a tray of pink-colored drinks.

“Yeah?”

She squealed, and the tray of drinks tilted—Trace grabbed the front edge to steady it. Faces turned briefly toward the doorway, but the deejay's sound track covered her breathless voice.

“I can't believe it. I heard you're going to be on TV? Or in a movie? With your race car!”

“No,” Trace said. “I just drive the car.”

“I love those billboards with you leaning on your car,” she said in a rapid-fire gush. “Some of my friends have them as wallpaper on their computers, and nobody famous has ever come from this school!” She began to hop up and down, her drinks slopping over onto the tray.

“Be cool!” Trace said, trying to keep his voice down.

“Could I have your autograph?”

“No, not now,” Trace said.

“Please?” Her chirpy voice lifted toward a shriek.

“Okay, okay!” Trace said. He had a pen, and looked around for something to write on. She set her tray on the floor and leaned in close.

“Here—on my arm,” she said, holding out the inside of her forearm.

“This is a ballpoint pen. It might hurt,” Trace said.

“Like I care?” the girl said with a giggle.

Trying not to pierce her skin and tattoo her with ink, Trace signed his name. As he moved the pen, he said, “Do you know Melody Walters?”

“Who doesn't?” she said.

“Is she here?” Trace asked as he finished.

The girl, beginning to bounce again, pointed to a cluster of tuxedoed boys and formally dressed girls crowded around a blackjack table. Tudy and Leonard, both looking sharp, were the center of attention; Leonard, in an all-black tux, was shaking dice, ready to throw. He looked very lucky tonight.

Then Trace squinted beyond them, and saw her—white strapless dress, blond hair up in elaborate swirls. In her heels Mel was over six feet tall.

“Thanks,” Trace murmured. When he turned back, the girl was rapidly thumbing her cell phone—which meant he had to move fast. He took off his cap, sucked in a deep breath, and stepped onto the gangplank made of two-by-fours.

He headed straight to Mel's group. Patrick Fletcher stood beside Mel. His right hand rested on the small of her back, but she was turned away from him as she laughed and talked to a group of girls also in gowns and with high hair. Mel held a large corsage of pink flowers.
The other girls saw Trace before Melody did; one by one their mouths froze around their last words spoken. They began to poke one another with their elbows. Suddenly Mel's laughing voice was the only one in the group. She turned to look over her bare, tanned shoulder.

“Hi,” Trace said.

Mel's eyes went from smiling to stunned.

Patrick turned, too. His eyes widened, and his hand dropped from Mel's lower back. She wore eye shadow and pink lipstick, and her upswept hair had fine flecks of glitter, some of which had fallen into the delicate white ridges along her collarbone, and farther down, onto the soft swell of her very white cleavage. Her face turned pale—as if all the blood had suddenly been sucked from her cheeks.

“Trace!” she whispered.

“Hey, everybody,” he said, and flashed a smile.

“Whoa! It's Trace!” Patrick said, rocking back as if hit by an invisible shock wave. He pretended to collapse into the arms of another guy—which brought a giggle from the girls. All except Mel. Her gaze stayed locked on Trace.

“Why are you—What are you trying to do?” she finally said, her voice shaky.

“I didn't want to miss my prom,” Trace said, glancing around. “Last-minute decision. Left Team Blu, bought a used car, and drove home.”

“Left Team Blu for good?” Patrick asked. He seemed taller, bigger, than last summer, and he finally had some blond chin whiskers of his own.

“Are you kidding?” Trace said, purposefully not looking at him. “This is only a visit.”

“Well, lucky us,” Mel said.

There was dead air. Patrick took the lead. “Come on, guys, let's pick it up here. Trace the famous race-car driver is back!” There was an edge of sarcasm in his voice.

The whiteness of Mel's face turned slowly into blotches of color on her neck.

“How could you do this?” she asked Trace.

“Do what?” Trace asked. The girls around Melody had pulled in tighter—like bodyguards—and glared at Trace.

“You truly don't get it, do you?” Mel said, her voice recovering its strength, and color rising up into her cheeks.