Checkered Flag Cheater (6 page)

Which was when he heard something.

He looked around.

There was only silence.

He listened longer. A small, swallowed sound came from up in the grandstand, near the announcer's booth. For a moment he thought it was a night bird—an owl of some kind—but then he realized it was a hiccup. Someone trying not to hiccup.

“Hello?” he called into the shadows. He headed up the worn wooden steps toward the announcer's booth. Mel was sitting there in the dark.

“What are you doing here—” she said, finishing with a hiccup.

“I'm not sure,” Trace said.

She was silent. He could see the white side of her face and her silvery ponytail and lots of white papers on the desk. It looked like she had been working, and then turned out the lights when she heard a car. Her prom dress was gone, and she was back in normal speedway clothes—jeans, sweatshirt, and racing cap. On the road, whenever he thought of her—which was every day—she looked exactly like this.

“Well, I can tell you one thing for sure: you made a complete ass of yourself at prom,” Mel said.

Trace was silent. “It was really stupid—I mean, not letting you know I was coming.”

“The whole prom thing was stupid. I will never put on high heels for a boy again in my life,” she said.

There was a long silence. A really long silence. “I know how to get rid of hiccups,” Trace ventured.

“Like what—scare me? Well, you don't—
hiccup!
—scare me, sorry.”

“No, not that. You have to get the air out of your stomach. It's sort of like that Heimlich thing, but slower.”

“What, are you—
hiccup!
—a doctor now, too?”

“Just trying to help,” Trace said.

Her chair scraped, and she came to the doorway of the shack. “All right. I'll try almost anything.”

“Stand up and face the track,” Trace said. He stood
behind her and looped his arms around her belly. She smelled like peaches and hair spray and summer.

“Now what?” she asked.

“Now I'm going to slowly squeeze upward on your belly while you bend forward.”

She actually followed his instructions—and burped. She straightened up and broke away from his arms. “That's it?”

“We'll see, won't we?” Trace said.

Mel sat down on the bleachers and stared off at the track. They were quiet for a long time, which was a good sign. No more hiccups.

“You looked so different,” she began.

“Different? Like how?”

“Older. Like a man. When you showed up at prom, I didn't recognize you. That's what upset me.”

“Hey, I'm the same guy,” he said.

“No you're not,” she answered. “I know about race-car drivers.”

She meant race-car drivers and girls—fence bunnies (as Harlan called them).

“I don't do that,” Trace said. He should have said,
I try not to do that
. But that part didn't come out. He turned away, as if to survey the speedway. “The track is going to be great.”

“Yes, it is,” Mel said, coming over to stand close beside him. She looped her arm through his.

“It's going to be a whole different speedway!” Trace said.

“You thought I couldn't make it happen?” she teased.

“No. Not that,” he said. “It's just a way bigger deal than I imagined.”

“Like me,” she said.

“Yes, like you.” He turned back to her; she pulled him down beside her on the wooden bleachers.

“This whole grandstand is going to be demolished,” she said, touching the worn wood. “New aluminum bleachers with seat backs. New concession area. New johns.”

“Sounds great,” Trace said.

“Let's hope so. This whole thing has to work, or the bank and some investors aren't going to be happy with me,” Mel said, looking across at the construction equipment.

“It's gonna make it,” Trace said quickly. “Drivers are going to love the new track, and it starts with that. Once you have the drivers—once the car count is up—the fans will follow.” There was excitement in his voice.

Mel was silent. Then she said, in a softer voice, “I was surprised that you came here to the track tonight.”

“Yeah, well, my options were kind of limited,” he replied.

She stared at him.

“I went home, but my dad has a girlfriend. They were pretty drunk.”

“Oh dear,” Mel said.

Trace shrugged. “Adults. What can you do?” he said flatly. He leaned back on the bleachers and looked up at
the moon. So did Mel. The moon had a large bite out of its right side.

“There's a word for that,” Mel said.

“For what?”

“For which way the moon is scooped out, but I can't think of it right now.”

“Don't ask me,” Trace said. Their elbows touched as they leaned back farther.

“Remember last summer when you took me to the gravel pit to see the meteor shower?” she asked.

Trace nodded.

“I really screwed that up,” Mel said.

“No you didn't.”

“Don't lie. I did. And you know what?”

“What?”

“When I got home, I stayed up late, and you were right—the Perseid meteors started shooting across the sky one after the next. They were unbelievable.”

“I stayed up, too,” Trace said, turning to her. “I saw them.”

“We just didn't wait long enough,” she said.

Suddenly they were kissing—hard, hungry, bruising kisses. They made out like crazy, until the bony edges of the wooden bleachers dug into their backs.

“Wait,” Mel said, breaking away. “Come.” She led him inside the announcer's booth, where it was much darker, and they fell into an old easy chair—a recliner—that smelled like cigarettes. There they went by feel. All-over
feel, their hands everywhere at once, until they were breathing hard. Mel suddenly pushed him away. “Don't move,” she said.

He obeyed.

She stood up. There was soft rustling, then the brief tearing sound of a zipper, then more rustling. As his eyes adjusted, moonlight slowly pooled in two perfectly round planets, swimming toward him, growing more distinct—or else he was jetting toward them at warp speed through the blackness. The quick glint of Mel's teeth—she was smiling—flashed like a shooting star, and he reached for her. Her skin was fragrant, and shiny, as if the moonlight was inside her. With her help he peeled off his shirt—but a minute later Mel sucked in a breath and stiffened in his arms.

“What?” he whispered.

“I . . . can't,” she breathed.

“Why not?” he groaned.

“This would be my first time.”

“Yeah?” he said too quickly. “I mean, are you scared?”

“No. I've always had this dream—about me and you—that our first time would be someplace really nice.”

“Like?” he said, trying to buy time, holding her close, continuing to stroke her long, smooth bare back.

“Like, in a hotel, with a big feather bed. And candles. And a Jacuzzi. And chocolates and champagne.”

“That's really girly,” he said.

She giggled, and kissed his ear. “A smoky old announcer's
shack and a wrecked-up chair—that wasn't in my fantasy.”

“It works for me,” he said—pretending to be joking.

“I want to,” she said quickly, “but not here. Not tonight. We need to plan ahead.”

“Tomorrow night?” Trace said.

“No, dummy.” She laughed. “Plan ahead ahead. Like meet someplace out of town. Spend the whole weekend together.”

“The whole weekend?” Trace said.

“Why? Does that scare you?”

“No. It's just that I race most weekends,” he replied. It was a stupid comment; he felt their big moment slipping away.

She was silent. “This summer, then,” she said. “We need to wait until this summer. We'll both be done with school then, and things will feel totally different—and I'll be totally ready.”

“This summer?” Trace began. Mainly he was thinking about punching himself in the face for being so dumb.

“Think you can wait that long?” she asked softly, blowing warm air into his other ear.

Trace swallowed. “No problem.”

She giggled.

After they put themselves back together, they headed to Perkins. It was three a.m. by then, and the place had only a few kids in prom clothes; most were at all-night, lock-in-type parties. Trace and Mel ordered major breakfasts—omelets and pancakes.

“You two sure are hungry,” the waitress remarked.

“No kidding,” Trace said, which brought a smile from Mel.

Then, as they ate and hung out, they talked. Mel told him about the racetrack, about school, and about Patrick.

“We're just friends,” she said.

“Maybe in your mind,” Trace mumbled.

Color came back into Mel's cheeks. “So why didn't you ask me to prom?” she said. “You came back. You could have planned ahead just a little bit, and not turned the whole thing into a soap opera.”

Trace looked down. “I wish I could do it over.”

“Anyway,” Mel said, “let's talk about you.”

“What about me?” Trace replied.

“What it's like with your crew? Racing. Being on the road all the time.”

Trace glanced down briefly, then told her the main parts about being on the road: Harlan, the crew chief and full-time huckster for Team Blu; Jimmy, the Xbox king and Super Stock setup guy; Smoky, the team motor man. He didn't tell her about Sara Bishop, whom he talked to a lot—mostly about racing. Or April, the college girl from North Dakota, whom he had met at a speedway concession stand.

“Have you had any more engine protests?” Mel asked; the first one had been at Headwaters last summer.

“Yes,” Trace said.

“And?”

He shrugged. “We always pass inspection.”

She cocked her head. “You don't seem all that happy.”

“I miss working on my own engine. I like to know exactly what's in there.”

“You're a pro driver now,” Mel said. “You can't do everything.”

“I suppose you're right,” Trace said without enthusiasm.

“Do you see much of that creepy Laura from corporate headquarters?”

“She's not that creepy,” Trace replied quickly.

“Yes she is. I don't trust her.”

Trace laughed—then saw that he shouldn't have. “Don't worry. She's way too old for me.”

“I would certainly hope so,” Mel said. “And what else aren't you telling me?” she teased.

“That's pretty much it. Racing, then hanging out in my little cabin, thinking about you.”

“Yeah, right.”

Trace was silent.

“Sorry,” Mel said. She leaned against him. “I believe you.”

“Let's talk about this summer instead,” he said.

Mel blushed slightly.

“When does summer officially begin?” Trace asked, stroking the backs of her hands with his thumbs.

“According to the calendar? Or according to me?” she said.

“According to you,” Trace said.

She pulled her hands away. “The Fourth of July,” she said, color coming into her cheeks. “That always feels like summer to me.”

“I'll bring some fireworks,” Trace said. “I can get real ones down in South Dakota.”

“I don't think we'll need any fireworks,” she said.

They hung out at Perkins until dawn, and then left in separate cars. Mel went home. Trace headed to South Dakota to catch up with Team Blu.

5

Trace arrived at the Dakota State Fair Speedway in Huron, South Dakota, not long after the pit gates opened. Heats started in two hours. He parked across the pit fence from the Team Blu hauler, staggered out of his car, and hurried to the gate. His pit pass was waiting.

Inside the pits he walked past a lineup of race-car trailers and haulers, their stock cars unloaded and pointed toward pit row. Team Blu's Freightliner hauler was buttoned up, the Super Stock out of sight. Smoky's mini–motor home, an older Gulf Stream camper with a Ford nose, sat alongside the hauler; its roof bristled with antennae, including a small satellite dish. Smoky always parked so he could watch the track from his side
window. Harlan lounged in his lawn chair beside the tall blue Freightliner like a security guard for a Southern rock band.

“My, my, my—look what the cat drug in,” Harlan said. He wore his usual Team Blu T-shirt with the sleeves cut off to accommodate his beefy arms, along with sunglasses and a red do-rag. He was having a cigarette. At the sound of voices, the trailer's side service door opened a crack; Smoky, like a Team Blu trailer troll, peered out, with Jimmy Joe's narrow face popping up briefly over his shoulder.

“Don't ask,” Trace said to his crew.

“You're lucky we didn't change the lock on your cabin,” Harlan said.

“Sorry,” Trace mumbled. That was all he could think to say, or explain. His butt was dragging, big-time.