Checkered Flag Cheater (5 page)

“Get what?” Trace asked.

Mel walked away, still clutching her flowers. The cluster of girls swirled protectively behind her, and escorted her through a decorated, sheeted-off area called “Sail Away Powder Room—Ladies Only.”

“Well, that went fairly well,” Patrick said, trying to make a joke.

“What do you know about it?” Trace growled.

“Know about what?” Patrick said.

“Her,” Trace said. It was the only word left in his head at this moment.

Patrick stared. “Are you, like, stoned or something?”

Trace grabbed Patrick by the cummerbund.

“All right already!” a girl's voice called. Amber Jenkins came hustling over, unsteady in high heels; she was strapped into a pink dress with puffy shoulders, and her
hair was pulled upward and frozen in place with shiny spray and glitter.

“Hey, Mr. Big,” she called, and pulled Trace away from Patrick.

“Hey, 13a,” Trace said, and got a big hug. Amber drove a Mod-Four at Headwaters Speedway, but tonight she was in full girl mode: she smelled good, plus had some serious cleavage going. Tugging her front up, she balanced herself on her high heels. “Aren't you supposed to be in Iowa tonight? That Super Stock invitational thing?”

“Yeah.” Trace looked around for Patrick, who was angrily straightening his cummerbund.

“We keep track of you, you know,” Amber said, holding on to Trace's arm. “Sara Bishop sent me your racing schedule.” A couple of other girls nearby ditched their dates in order to join Trace and Amber; quickly Trace became the center of a growing circle.

Beau Kim shouldered his way through the ring of kids. “Don't tell me, dude—you lost your ride!”

“No way,” Trace said. Kim, another Mod-Four racer at the local speedway, was with a cute younger girl Trace didn't know.

“He came back to check up on Mel,” Amber said, trying for a joke.

“Just call me the Placeholder,” Patrick muttered.

Trace ignored him. “Actually, I didn't want to miss seeing all of you in your monkey suits.”

“Says the monkey!” Beau shot back. There was good-natured jeering at Trace's street clothes.

“What, can't afford a tuxedo?” someone asked.

“You look like you just came from the pits,” Amber said, rubbing at something on the side of his face.

“Uh, Trace? Could I get your autograph?” Beau Kim's date asked. Her voice fell dead center into a moment of silence between songs. She held out the prom-night program.

“His autograph?” Beau said to her.

“Yes, why not?” the girl said. She looked at Beau.

Among the circle of kids, it was like someone had hit a giant Pause button.

“What is wrong with you?” Beau asked his date.

The girl snatched back her hand as if she had been stung.

“Wait—it's okay. No problem,” Trace said.

Beau's date set her chin defiantly as Trace took the program and pen from her. “See?” she said to Beau.

“Will you sign my program, too?” asked another girl—and then another. Quickly a cluster of giggling girls formed around Trace, which was the moment when Melody and her attendants returned. Mel, still clutching her corsage, looked like she had finally found the right words for Trace—until she saw him signing autographs.

“Great!” she said. “Just freaking great!” She wound up like a baseball pitcher and threw the corsage at Trace. The fastball of pink carnations was high and outside. It hit another girl's tall, lacquered swirls of hair—and tipped the big pile sideways. The girl shrieked as the collapsing hair
fell over onto her right ear; she whirled around, swearing, as she looked for whoever had ruined her hair.

“Plus I hate these shoes!” Mel shouted. She took off her high heels and pitched them high and far, for maximum distance. First one and then the other crashed into the papered horizon of blue-green waves. Big sheets tore and peeled, falling of their own weight, revealing the concrete-block gym wall behind.

Things went downhill quickly after that. Adults homed in, corralled Mel, and hustled her in one direction; other parents broke up the group around Trace, escorting him out into the hallway. Behind, on the sinking cruise ship, the music played louder and faster—something to dance to.

“This one is gone. He won't be coming back tonight,” one of the adult blackjack dealers announced to the table of foyer guards.

“I knew he was trouble!” the tidy woman at the table said. She narrowed her eyes at Trace.

Beau, now dateless, said, “We came to steal your daughters, and we'll stop at nothing!” He leaned in to make a face at the woman.

“All right, that's it!” said a couple of dad types working security. Within seconds, Beau and Trace were pushed out the door—ejected into the cool spring night—and the door slammed shut behind them.

Trace and Beau looked at each other.

“All in all, that went fairly well,” Beau said.

“Yeah, right,” Trace said. From inside the gym came the muffled disco beat, then the long, low sound of a ship's horn.

“Someone must have seen an iceberg,” Beau said. “Céline Dion's gotta be next up on the sound track.”

They looked around. The parking lot was quiet; there was no sign of Mel.

“Want to cruise for real?” Beau asked.

“Why not?” Trace said with a shrug.

He squeezed into Beau's tricked-out Civic, and settled back as Beau accelerated away from the parking lot. The exhaust pipe's big collector can hummed
Wha—whaa—whaaa—whaaaaaa!
as he went through the gears. The stereo woofer in the trunk thudded like thunder.

“I got a bottle in here, too,” Beau shouted.

“I could use a drink,” Trace shouted back.

“Not that kind of bottle,” Beau said. Watching his rpm, he reached down and flipped a toggle switch—and the Civic punched forward as if it had been slammed in the rear end by a logging truck.

“Whoa!” Trace called.

“Nitrous!” Beau said. “Cold air intake, turbo, 4-2-1 header, custom can by Tenga—this baby's got it all.”

“What's it do in a quarter mile?” Trace asked.

“Around fourteen seconds flat,” Beau answered.

“That beats a lot of V-8s,” Trace said.

“Tell me about it,” Beau said. “Off the line, they hole-shoot me big-time—then think they've got it in the bag.
About the time they let off, I get all ricey on them, and shoot past them like they're standing still.”

“Sweet,” Trace said, “but don't get us killed, all right?” They were doing ninety.

“Good point,” Beau said, and backed off. “The goal in life is not to be a cliché.”

“Huh?” Trace said.

“Like stalling the car on the railroad tracks on prom night? That sort of cliché.”

“Or being an Asian kid who drives a rice burner,” Trace said.

Beau looked at him.

“Hey, it's true,” Trace said.

“Yeah, well,” Beau said, cracking a smile. He down-shifted sharply into a U-turn, and headed back toward the city limits sign.

“So what else have you got under the hood?” Trace asked.

As Beau went into four-cylinder tech talk, Trace checked his phone.

“As if she's going to call you,” Beau said.

Trace looked out his side window. “I should have let her know I was coming.”

“A little late now,” Beau said, downshifting once more.

They drove down Main Street, which was mostly empty. “I probably should head home, check in with my old man,” Trace said. “It's been a while.”

“Okay,” Beau said. “I'm going to drive around until I
find some V-8 sucker to hustle. Lots of them in this town.”

“If you see her, call me,” Trace said.

Beau dropped Trace back at the school, chirping his tires as he left the parking lot. Trace listened to him go through his gears, then turned to his own car. On the way home, he called his father.

“Trace! What's up?” his dad asked.

“Nothing. Well, not nothing. I'm in town.”

“Town? What town?”

“Here. Headwaters.”

There was silence. “Aren't you supposed to be in Oskaloosa tonight?”

“Yeah, well, it's a long story.”

“Holy moly. You didn't—”

“No, I didn't lose my ride,” Trace said. “I'm just taking a night off. I came back for prom.”

There was murmuring in the background. His father's voice came back, louder this time. “Prom? You never said anything about coming home for prom.”

“Kind of a last-minute thing,” Trace said.

“Ah, okay,” his father said.

“Anyway, I'll be home in about ten minutes.”

“Ten minutes? Ah, okay, great. See you soon, kid.”

Kid.
His father never called him “kid.” What was up with that?

“Okay,” Trace said. He shut his phone, shrugged, and headed northwest out of Headwaters and into farm country.

The Bonham farmstead had a wide yard, fronted on
the west side by shiny grain bins, then the long machine shed on the south. Trace's house, a modern rambler, was tucked behind a windbreak on the north.

Parked by the house was a Corvette, a nothing model, early 1980s, with a door dent. His father hadn't said anything about a 'Vette.

Trace parked and went inside. He did not bother to knock, but actually thought about it—which was a little strange. It still was his home.

“Trace!” his father called. He came across the room in jeans and T-shirt, barefooted, and gave Trace a hug. He smelled like a woman—perfume of some kind. Women and booze.

“Well, hi again, Trace,” came a woman's voice. It was Linda, his dad's girlfriend. She was wearing one of Trace's shirts—a white one—and not much else that Trace could see. Her hair was wet.

“For God's sake, put some clothes on,” Don Bonham said as Trace pulled away.

“I have clothes on.” Linda giggled. “I found this nice shirt.”

“More clothes!” Don said. He stalked across the room, grabbed her elbow, and spun her around, then pushed her out of sight down the hallway. He turned back to Trace. “I'm really sorry.”

Trace shrugged. “Hey. I guess it's Saturday night.” He turned to the refrigerator, which had a half loaf of bread, lots of beer, some pickles, and a big block of stinky cheese.

“Hungry?” his father asked quickly.

“Not really,” Trace said.

“That cheese is not for everyone, but it'll grow on you,” he said.

“Looks like it's already growing,” Trace said.

“Have a beer, then,” his dad said. “Unless you're going out again.”

Trace paused. From the rear of house, probably his parents' bedroom, Linda was singing.

“We're kind of partying,” his dad said. “I wish I had known . . .”

“Yeah, I meant to call,” Trace said. “I didn't know you had a roommate.”

“Linda doesn't live here,” his dad said sharply.

“She seems pretty well at home,” Trace shot back.

“Hey, I need a life, too,” his father said. “Your mother and I—”

“I gotta go check on some things,” Trace said. “I'll be back later.”

“Wait, don't go!” his father replied, reaching out, but staggering.

Trace brushed off his father's hand. “Don't!” he said—his voice loud and sharp, just like his dad's. Within a minute, he was speeding down the driveway.

4

Trace headed back toward town. He wanted to stay off the main drag—if Beau saw him, he would think Trace had ditched him—and there was no future in going back to the high school. He made a pass down Main Street, looking for Mel's car. As if she'd be cruising tonight. With nowhere to go, his steering wheel turned him east, toward Headwaters Speedway. He knew this short drive by heart, and it felt strange heading that way without his old Street Stock swaying on a trailer behind.

The speedway was dark except for pale moonlight, which created shadows on the huge humps of dirt, and on heavy dirt-moving equipment—scrapers, bulldozers, and graders. As track manager for her dad, Johnny Walters,
Mel had been talking about upgrading the track for two years—her goal was to bring back sprint cars, the kind her father used to drive—but Trace and most other drivers never thought it would actually happen.

The speedway gate was open; he drove inside. Quietly closing his car door, he walked across the torn-up parking lot to the old wooden arches, and then into the grandstand. Inside, there was just enough moonlight to see the track—which was clearly wider now, and its corners taller. He stepped onto the dirt. Reaching down, he gathered up a clump and sniffed it: earthy, soft clay that squeezed into a ball. No more sand. No more stones working up through the gravel to break a steering rack or ring a driver's bell when they spun up and whacked him in the helmet visor. Car counts had been falling every year at Headwaters because of the increasingly rough track. He pitched the clay ball toward the new, high-banked turn 1.