Red Flags (10 page)

Chapter Eighteen

I'd put on my helmet, HANS—or Head And Neck Support device—and gloves, and was sitting on the pit wall taking a quiet moment to visualize the car and the track, when I heard Coleman and my father behind me.

“The team says she's on target so far,” Coleman said.

“As we expected,” my father replied.

“I can only stay briefly into the afternoon, but you'll be here longer?”

“Yes.”

“Keep me appraised. If all goes to plan, we should look at an oval race for her before this season ends. Give her a real test run in these cars.”

I felt a thrill of excitement, and I held still, sure they didn't know I was in earshot.

“Coleman, how is Holden doing? About Billy?”

“He's grieving. Upset he and Billy had been separated and punished with probation and community service the last year.” Coleman sighed. “He thinks if they'd been together, Billy wouldn't have been killed.”

“Don't forget the fines we paid for them.” My father paused. “He blames us for Billy's death?”

“Currently, yes. He's not thinking logically.”

“My impression was he'd been doing better this year, overall.”

“He's taken to his new role better than Billy had. But I'd always thought he was smarter. Less indulged.”

I rolled my eyes.

“I don't mean Billy wasn't talented or capable,” Coleman amended. “But Billy expected things to come more easily to him than Holden did. Both boys had every advantage, but Billy acted like he deserved them. Maybe that's simply a father's bias.”

This time my father sighed. “I can't disagree with you. I was pleased with Holden's work in the San Diego branch, but I can't say the same for Billy in Los Angeles.”

The rest of the afternoon passed in a flash and also felt two weeks long. From one to five, the track was open to all testers, and I made the most of it. Every thirty or forty minutes I pitted for more fuel, an adjustment, a chat with the engineer, or new tires. Otherwise, I turned laps. They weren't all pretty, but I stayed out of the walls, which was more than every driver could claim.

One rookie learned it wasn't only the seams we had to watch out for. We also had to be careful of the transition from the banked track surface to the flat warmup lane or apron. A young Brazilian Indy Lights driver came out of Turn 4 too low and too fast, catching the apron with his left front tire. The change in angle, at high speed, unbalanced the car enough to send it spinning up the track and slamming into the outer track wall. He was helped out of the car and walked gingerly, but under his own power, to the ambulance. It was a sobering reminder for all of us to be aware of where we placed every wheel. We were red-flagged—all track activity stopped and drivers called into the pits—for thirty minutes.

On track, I worked on feel and speed. I got better at adjusting the anti-roll bar and weight jacker, which shifted weight from one side of the car to the other, to help the car turn more or turn less. I also got better at understanding the effect of minor changes. I counted it as success when I stopped thinking “too much push, make it stiffer,” and reached for the levers automatically.

Alexa and Xavier talked me through every lap, assuring me I was up to speed well and had a good feel for the car in clean air. I could tell from their reactions they liked the feedback I gave—explaining how the car felt on corner entry, mid corner, and corner exit, along with where the bars were set for different passes—and the questions I asked about the technical details.

I did 212.2 mph at my best, on fresh rubber in the cool, clean air at the end of the day, compared to one of the current IndyCar drivers who'd done 213.5 during the morning session. He'd gone faster later, when his team adjusted the car for more speed, but I'd gotten damn close when our cars were similarly set up. I called that a speed win.

But it wasn't all sunshine, roses, and clean air. The tough, real-world part was handling my own car with other cars all around. And crossing those stinking seams.

I started slowly, on my own, changing lanes and crossing the seams on corner entry and exit, to get a feel for them under the tires. Then Matt King and I teamed up to pass each other on the straights, for a sense of them with changes in airflow. The big test was side-by-side in the turns, Matt's car getting under me, close, both of us on the ragged edge of speed and grip, knowing one wrong move by either one would mean we both ended up in the wall.

The first time another driver passed me in a turn, I gave in to the knee-jerk reaction to get out of the throttle and let them fly past. The driver immediately slid up in front of me on the high line and took away my clean air, making my car go from decently behaved to garbage. That got me mad, which meant the next time someone tried a pass, I made him work for it, keeping my foot in it, hearing Alexa in my ear. “He's inside, Kate. Inside. That's good, hold your line, make him take it. Still inside. Clear.”

As I shot down the front straight, Xavier chimed in. “That's good, Kate, try to stay up there longer next time. We're telling you they're coming, so hold the throttle in the clean air while you've got it. Let's work on your confidence in dirty air.”

In the late afternoon, back to green after the Brazilian driver's accident, I came upon another car from a long way back. I inched ever closer over a series of laps and caught him. I needed to pass, and it would have to be done in a corner, which meant dirty air, bumps, and seams.

Alexa radioed as I was on the back straight. “You got this, Kate.”

I rolled through the long sweep of Turns 3 and 4, thinking through the advice she'd given me.
Wherever possible, cross the seams early, before you're cornering hard. Stay between them or straddle them. And hang on.

Down the front straight, I got close behind the other car, building as much speed as possible in the tow effect created by him breaking the hole in the air for both of us. As the track started to bend left for Turn 1, I tugged the wheel left and slipped below him—and lifted almost immediately, unprepared for how unsettled the car got.

I recovered, keeping the car straight and falling back in line behind the other driver.

Alexa spoke while I was on the back straight. “Doing fine, Kate. It'll feel different going inside of someone else in lane three. Squirrely. Now you're ready for it, give it a try again.”

I took a lap to regroup. Got close behind the car again on the front straight. Heading for Turn 1. Slipped below him at corner entry. My heart thudded as I saw the black line slide under my car, left to right. I held on and exhaled as I realized I'd survived. Foot on the throttle, turning the wheel into the long turn.

“And he's outside,” Alexa called, marking where the other car was relative to mine. “Outside. Outside. Doing great. Outside. Outside.”

I was almost past him, leaving some room. Maybe too much room, because I kept my left rear tire on a seam too long. It grabbed hold of my car and didn't want to let go.

Instead of hearing the “Clear” call in my ear from Alexa, I felt myself slipping, the back end of the car tipping up the track.
Shit! Don't wreck! Don't hit the other car. DON'T LET THIS HAPPEN!

Alexa was in my ear. “Hold it! Outside, car coming past you.”

I reacted without thought. Eyes focused forward. Hands counter-steering, pointing the wheels where I was looking, not where the car was headed. Foot off the throttle. Body braced. Feeling the car tipping, bouncing over a bump, tipping—recovering! Quick hands the other way to counteract the swing.

“
Clear!
Use all of the track,” Alexa called.

Rear of the car snapping back and forth three times. Settling. Car pointed straight, foot back on throttle.
Go, get back on it!
My heart beat as if I'd sprinted a marathon distance.

“Good job, Kate,” Alexa called. “Good hands. Keep it steady. Gather yourself back up.”

I didn't bother replying. I focused. Tamped down emotions and looked forward. Caught that slow driver again a lap and a half later. Then I was right behind him again, staring down the track at Turn 1.

On the front straight, Xavier spoke. “Keep doing what you're doing, Kate. Nice smooth hands on the wheel.”

I dropped down into the lower lane, exactly as I'd done before. Kept my foot planted. Remembered the mistake last time and looked ahead down the track, through the turn, seeing the curve. Visualized hitting lane three between the seams.

“He's outside. Outside. Keep it steady,” Alexa reminded me.

I concentrated on my car, on carrying enough throttle into the corner. Eyed the seams and stayed off of them. Kept my hands still and my shoulders loose to absorb the bumps I ran over. Stayed with him through 1 and 2, but couldn't get clear. We exited Turn 2 side-by-side, and I added “exiting a turn in lane three next to someone” to my list of uncomfortable sensations. As we blasted down the back straight, the other driver made back some of the ground he'd lost.

“Still outside,” Alexa said. “Keep on it. Keep working him in 3 and 4. Stay smooth.”

I was still ahead by a nose turning into 3, which gave me the advantage, especially since I had no seams to contend with there. I gritted my teeth and kept my foot down. Later I thought I got through the lap on will alone.

Alexa talked me through the rest of the move. “He's still there, in lane four. Still there. Still outside. Outside. Keep working that throttle, Kate. Outside. Still outside. Outside. At the rear corner. Keep on it. Still there—
clear!
Good job.” I heard delight in her voice.

I let myself breathe down the front straight. I'd had a moment and learned from it. Used the mistake to make myself stronger. I still wasn't ready to tackle a race, but I knew I was getting better, faster, and smarter about the cars. I buckled down to make the most of the last hour.

I was low in Turn 3 on my final, cool-down lap after the final session ended, when Xavier came on the radio, sounding strange. “When you pit, Kate, we want you to stay in the car until we signal. Alexa's on her way back over, and we've called security. They'll help you.”

“Copy. What's going on?”

“You'll see.”

I was too occupied with braking and steering down pit lane to think much about it. Once I arrived and parked, it was all too apparent what the problem was.

The paparazzi had arrived.

Chapter Nineteen

Why half a dozen pushy photographers were in pit lane, I didn't know. But given I was being told to stay in my car, and that they were being held back from entering pit lane right behind me, I assumed I was their target.

Because I found Billy? He wouldn't be important enough. Neither is the fact I'm testing for IndyCar. Because of Maddie and the celebrity race? Must be.
Alexa arrived to help me out of the car and offer me a Beermeier Racing hat. When I'd pulled off the helmet, HANS, and balaclava, I wiped down with the towel she also provided and put on the hat. I could cover my flat, sweaty helmet-head, but I'd have to live with the creases in my face from tight-fitting safety gear.

“We figured there was no avoiding them, so we might as well get the team some publicity. You game?” Alexa gestured for a crew member to collect my helmet and gloves, and she handed me water.

“Any clue what it's about?”

“No, except they're not motorsport press. They're entertainment media.”

Maddie.
I drank down half the bottle of water and nodded at Alexa.

We walked to the rear of the car, toward the opening in the pit wall and the increasingly agitated photographers.

As they saw us, they started shouting questions and directions. The first clear voice to rise out of the noise stopped me in my tracks.

“Kate, is it true you're dating Lucas Tolani?”

“How'd you bag the most eligible bachelor in Hollywood?” another man shouted.

Alexa turned to me, her eyebrows raised.

“Met him,” I muttered.

“Kate,” yet another photographer yelled. “Do you think a girl driver can hold onto Hollywood's biggest playboy?”

Alexa and I both tensed at the “girl driver” comment, and she recovered first. She spoke quietly. “Since you can't get out of this, let's give them a little girl-driver ass-whoopin'.”

“I'm so sorry.”

She laughed. “You didn't call them out, did you?”

I shook my head.

“Then not your fault. Besides, I think it's funny.”

I was too dismayed for humor, but I was all for her team benefitting. I stepped forward and raised my hands. “I'll answer your questions if we do this calmly. I've been driving the racecar for most of the last eight hours, so I'm a little tired.” The sound of shutters tripping as I spoke unnerved me, but I tried to ignore it. “Why don't you get a photo with us and the car?”

As they gathered around, I insisted on pulling Alexa into the photo, spelling her name for them. They asked for me alone, and after five minutes of that, I answered questions.

“No, I'm not dating Lucas Tolani. I met him through Maddie Theabo, who I'm coaching in the celebrity race at the Grand Prix of Long Beach next weekend. You should all come watch, it'll be fun.”

“Do you want to date him? Has he asked you?” Another photographer inserted.

“No comment.”

“Do you think a girl driver can hold onto him, when supermodels can't?”

I tried to keep a pleasant expression on my face, but I wasn't sure I succeeded. “That's insulting on a variety of levels. One profession is no better than another, just different. I'd never presume to comment on why he did or didn't date a supermodel, an actress, or a librarian. It's none of my business.”

The men clamored again, but I held up a hand and waited. “Lastly, I'd like to ask you never to use the term ‘girl driver.'”

“What the hell do we call you then?”

“A driver. A racer. A racecar driver. A female driver, if you have to. But ‘girl' conjures up the idea of ruffled dresses and pigtails. I'm twenty-six years old. I'm a racecar driver, and I happen to be female.” I looked at Alexa and back at the men. “And in case you didn't know, Alexa was also a racecar driver. Now she owns a successful racing team, and she's one of the few women doing so. Anything to add, Alexa?”

She smiled at the group. “What she said. And please spell my name right.”

I fielded a few more questions, and then we got rid of them. I slumped onto the pit wall, exhausted. Up and down pit row, teams disassembled their setups. Most had rolled their cars back to their trailers already. All other drivers, including Matt from the second Beermeier car, were gone, and I was disappointed not to have a chance to debrief with him.

Xavier approached with another bottle of water. “Not the usual end to a test day.”

My adrenaline and bravado were fading, leaving a residue of embarrassment. Here I was, auditioning for a respected team on the next step up the ladder, trying to be a focused, effective, considerate team player. I might have succeeded earlier in the day, but I'd punctuated the event by attracting the circus. “You were great today, Xavier. I'm so sorry for the intrusion.”

“Highlight of the day for us. The crew had a ball.” He chuckled, taking off his hat with one hand and rubbing his bald head with the other. “You didn't see it, but they were photobombing your shots. They're all hoping to find themselves in the tabloids tomorrow.”

I sat up a little straighter. “Good. I mean, thank you. I'm relieved to hear it.”

He patted my shoulder. “Don't worry, kid. You did good today, and the idiots at the end didn't change that.”

Alexa walked over. “He's right. In fact, the crap at the end shows me you can handle yourself—and dumbass questions—straight out of the car after a long day.”

I stood up. “Thank you. For the day and also the backup at the end.”

“You earned it, and like Xavier said, you did well.” She narrowed her eyes. “I'm not saying I'd put you in the car for a race tomorrow, but you got farther along today than most rookies here. I told James you'd be welcome at Beermeier whenever you're ready.”

Relief and happiness flooded my body. I tightened my grip on the water bottle, making it crackle. “Is my father still here? I thought he had to leave mid-afternoon.”

Alexa shrugged. “We had that conversation at lunch. And you didn't screw up this afternoon, so it's still true.”

“I almost did.”

Xavier grinned. “Kid, a racecar driver who's never had a change-your-underwear moment at Fontana is a mythical creature. A unicorn. You recovered.” He tapped a finger on my hands, which were clenched together in front of me holding the water. “And you've got some quick hands there. Good hands.”

Mission accomplished.
I stuck out one of those hands and then changed my mind and hugged them both. “Thank you for the day. The car was great. I mean, it felt broken, but I'm now used to that being great. And you both were supportive and responsive. Your whole team was. Thanks very much.”

“Our pleasure,” Alexa responded. “Hope we'll work with you in the future.”

“I hope so.”

During the hour-long drive west back to Beverly Hills, I made two calls. First, I spoke with my grandparents, though I didn't have any more than a “how-are-you-fine-good” exchange with my grandmother. Gramps, on the other hand, was able to put aside the means by which the day's test had been paid for and focus on the results. I reported only the good, and my near spin, and he was thrilled for me.

Then I dialed Holly. But instead of her voice, I heard a man.

“Kate! How'd the test go?” asked Holly's boyfriend Miles Hanson, the tall, dark, and handsome NASCAR rock star. Talk about a woman bagging an eligible bachelor.

“It was great, Miles. Big, powerful car. Probably like yours. Tell me, do you get on an oval and think the car feels bent?”

He laughed. “Only right after a road course race, and only for a couple seconds. But I remember the first time I got in a car set up for a high-banked oval. Those are really canted sideways to handle the angle. IndyCars must be also.”

“Sure are. I'm not used to that in the Corvette. But these were more powerful. And bent.”

“Glad to hear it went well. You looked good.”

“Thanks, I—what? How did you see…there are photos already?”

“Here's Holly. Talk to you later.” I heard fumbling and scraping sounds.

“Nice move, Slick,” Holly told him. “Now, Kate. The test went well?”

I filled her in on the day's racing details and outcome, explaining the surprise of finding photographers and their stupid questions in pit lane. “What are you seeing, Holly? And where?”

“Well, sugar, you want the good news first or the bad news?”

I fought the urge to thunk my head against the steering wheel. Not wise while driving west on Highway 10 back to the Los Angeles metropolis.

“Actually,” Holly mused. “It's not so much bad news as…tacky.”

“Give me the tacky news first, then cheer me up.”

“You've made the entertainment magazine sites, the Hollywood gossip blogs, and Racing's Ringer. So far. We'll see what comes up tomorrow.”

“What are they saying?”

“You're referred to as Lucas' new love, his ‘walk on the wild side,' since you're not a model or an actress, and a ‘merely pretty, girl driver.' Which is flat out rude.”

“Can I die of embarrassment?”

“Not hardly. Here's the good news. Great photos of you, Alexa, and the car.”

“Are there crew members in the back? They were trying to get in the frame.”

“You can see them making faces.”

“Perfect. Give me the rest.”

“The photos are good, and you look seriously great. Vital and strong, you know?”

“You're not saying it to make me feel better?”

“I'm not, I swear. Yes, what they say about you is tacky and embarrassing, but you look good and you got the car and Beermeier team name out to a bunch of viewers who'd never normally see it. That's great. It's what you want—minus the tacky. How did the team deal with the press?”

“I was mortified they were there about Lucas. Alexa was amused. Had fun with it, like the crew.”

“There you go.” Her voice lightened. “Take the good from it and flick off the rest.”

“Thanks, I needed that.”

We chatted a couple more minutes about my test and Miles' race that weekend at Bristol Motor Speedway, a track I'd always wanted to experience. Then I was alone with my thoughts in my rental car. That is, I was alone with a few thousand other drivers, all heading west into the fading sunlight at a minimum of seventy miles per hour. I shook my head. What a place.