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Authors: Erik E. Esckilsen

The Outside Groove (20 page)

BOOK: The Outside Groove
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“Coates,” a couple of people mumbled and returned to socializing as a road salt-ravaged Honda turned into the driveway with the telltale bark of a car suffering muffler problems.

Big Daddy stepped away from the trailer and moved toward Wade just as Mom was doing the same, the two of them converging on their son like Secret Service agents on the President. As Big Daddy said something to Wade, Mom hovered around them, wringing her hands as if she wanted to fix Wade's hair or tuck in his shirttail.

The Honda pulled onto the shoulder across from our driveway, and a heavyset guy in a green corduroy shirt, black fleece vest, and blue jeans stepped out. Before closing the door, he reached inside and retrieved a camera and notepad.

It was Vin Coates, racing reporter with the
Granite County Record.
It'd been about a year since I'd seen his bearish frame and curly blond hair crossing our driveway. The previous year he'd been driving a Toyota of a vintage and condition similar to his Honda, and he seemed to have gained a few pounds, though it was hard to tell with guys Vin's size. He chatted for a few moments with a couple of Wade's crewmembers, but not with his notebook or camera out, as if he were killing time while Mom and Big Daddy prepped Wade for the interview. Eventually, Vin looked over the crowd, caught Wade's eye, and nodded. Instead of approaching Wade, though, Vin kept looking around.

I instinctively stepped back.

The instant his eyes met mine, the crowd fell silent. Everyone turned to me. Wade, Mom, and Big Daddy didn't look pleased. Even Mom's post-race perma-smile straightened into a lipstick line.

Vin cut through the crowd and approached, his hands taking up his camera. “Casey,” he said when he was about ten feet away, “how about a picture?”

I couldn't speak, not with the entire party staring.

Vin held the camera up, fiddled with the lens.

Behind him and off to the side, I saw the Sharks squeeze together, looping arms around each other, pointing to my name on their T-shirts and making goofy faces—like some lame, girl-band publicity photo. I laughed, and Vin clicked off two quick shots.

“You ran quite a race out there today,” Vin said and clicked another shot. He snapped the lens cap on his camera and slung it behind his back, pulling a notebook from his vest pocket.

“Thanks.”

“Didn't even know you were a driver.”

“I ran that one time about a month ago.”

“Oh, right.” Vin chuckled. “I remember.” He flipped open the notebook and pulled his pen cap off with his teeth. “You hardly looked like a rookie today,” he said.

“I had a lot of things go my way.”

“Looks like you've been practicing.”

“When I can.”

“Tell me about your car. Where'd you get it?”

“They're not exactly rare, Warrior cars. Four cylinders. Stock, basically. Strip it clean. You know all this. Anyway, got mine off a guy outside of town. It needed some repairs, but now we've got it up to spec and running right.”

“What about your crew?”

“What about them?”

“As I'm sure you know, it's almost as rare to see women back in the pits as it is to see women drivers.”

“Rare but decreasingly rare, Vin,” I said, trying to sound knowledgeable enough to keep him from probing my racing history. “At the national level, women are more visible in all branches of racing, from the pit crews to the drivers. You've got to figure that the short tracks around the country are seeing that increase. I mean, every racer starts somewhere.”

Vin didn't say anything, just scribbled in a way that made me think that what I'd just said would be a quote in his article. It was something that T.T. had told me about. She'd read an article in
USA Today
about women in auto racing. “Who are these girls in your crew?” Vin said, still scribbling away. “I don't recognize them. The kid with the tow truck.” A scowl flashed across the reporter's face.

“Him I recognize.”

“The girls are from ... they live downstate. They're old friends.”

“They seem to know what they're doing.”

“They pick things up pretty quickly.” The moment the words left my lips, I glanced over at Bernie and Tammy, who were standing shoulder to shoulder and flirting so brazenly with Dale and Lonnie that I suddenly wished my parents had hired chaperones.

“So ...,” Vin said, looking me in the eye, “any desire to race your brother?”

I shook my head. “Not to state the obvious, Vin, but we drive in different divisions. And the equipment he uses is tens of thousands of dollars more expensive than mine—dollars that our organization doesn't have.”

“Not this season anyway. But what if you went after some sponsors? You could race Wade in, you know, upcoming seasons.”

“There aren't going to be any ‘upcoming seasons.' If Wade has his way, he'll be on a Circuit team before too long, and I'm going to college in the fall.”

Vin shifted his weight and poked at his meaty chin with his pen, as if trying to summon a particular word or phrase. “Put it this way,” he said. “Can you at least imagine what it'd be like to race your brother? That'd be exciting, wouldn't it? Or would you be intimidated?”

I understood now: Vin was just fishing for a good quote. I indulged him. “Intimidated?” I said with a chuckle. I must've said the word too loudly because Wade shot me a look. “No, I wouldn't be intimidated,” I added more quietly. “I know how he thinks. And I don't find that intimidating. ”

Vin smiled as he scratched at his notebook. I could tell that he'd collected what he'd come out here for. Mentally reviewing the brief exchange, I was satisfied I hadn't given him too much.

“Well, I guess that's it,” Vin said, then flipped his notebook closed. “Thanks for your time.” He turned back to the party.

Looking across the driveway, I saw Wade stand up more erectly. Vin caught his eye and nodded again, but, instead of cutting through the crowd in his direction, he started back toward the rusty Honda.

The party grew quiet as Vin shuffled to his car, packed himself inside, and drove off.

***

For the first time in my life, I was the last person to leave the post-race bash, and when I stepped inside, Big Daddy and Mom sat at the dining room table, clearly waiting for me. Mom smiled a half smile, wrinkling her brow and sitting up in her chair. My father stared into his beer can. I acted as if nothing was wrong. Because, as far as I was concerned, nothing
was
wrong.

“Good party,” I said to Mom as I approached the table.

“Thank you, dear,” Mom said. “Casey, your father would like ... your father and I would like a word with you.”

I shrugged. “All right.”

“Sit down,” Big Daddy said, taking a sip of beer and setting the can aside.

Mom took the can into the kitchen. As she rinsed it and carried it to the recycling bin, Big Daddy stared at the ring on the table where the can had been.

“Casey, I want you to understand something,” he began, clasping his hands on the table. “Ah, shoot,” he said and leaned back.

“Did I do something wrong?”

Mom returned and sat down.

I addressed her: “What's this about? I win the Road Warrior feature and suddenly I feel like I'm about to get grounded.”

“OK.” Big Daddy didn't so much say the word as exhale it, his hands slapping the edge of the table. “I'll give it to you straight.”

I locked eyes with him, and in that instant I knew just what he was going to say. So I said it for him: “You don't want me to race anymore.”

Big Daddy wrinkled his mouth in a pained little grimace, like I'd seen him do when sorting through bills, then looked away.

I turned to Mom, who gave me the
I-know-it's-a-difficult-thing-for-you-to-understand-now-but-when-you're-older-ifll-all-make-sense
look that'd been driving me crazy since I was nine years old and Wade started racing Karts.

I turned back to Big Daddy, and already it seemed like the matter was settled. Squinting at some blank spot on the ceiling, he appeared to be calculating, running numbers—tire pressures, lap speeds, sway-bar adjustments.

“Is that it?” I said. “No explanation, just no racing? I'm, like, grounded from Demon's Run?”

Big Daddy nodded. “Sorry, Case. I am.”

As I was about to refuse his order, I hesitated, distracted by a thought crackling across my cerebral cortex, a thought so obvious it was almost embarrassing. This was my moment, my Uncle Harvey moment. Big Daddy wanted something from me. What was he willing to give in return? Information?
Sensitive
information?

Ever since the day I drove up to Uncle Harvey's place to see about getting a racecar, I'd been anticipating the moment when Big Daddy was so overjoyed with Wade's success that he might be able to tolerate a question or two about what'd happened between him and his older brother. Mom had refused to get into that discussion up at Uncle Harvey's, and Uncle Harvey hadn't been any more willing to talk about it the previous night, but there in the dining room I suddenly seemed to have the tiniest bit of bargaining power. Leverage. I hadn't figured out how the conversation would go, and I definitely expected it would open wounds that could hurt my racing prospects. But, with Cray College on my horizon, and Fliverton soon to be a reflection in Hilda's rearview mirror, I wanted to know what I was leaving behind—not just in the place but in the people. My people.

“Why?” I asked, playing this out. “I already bought the season's license. And I won the feature today. I mean, I made all the license money back in one day.”

“I know you did, I know you did,” Big Daddy said, acting more relaxed now, as if certain I wouldn't disobey him. “So, it's like this. Wade is off to a very good start.”

“What does that have to do with me?”

“Well, up until today, it didn't have anything to do with you.”

I looked at Mom. She stared at her hands.

“So,” I said, “what changed today?”

Big Daddy sighed, squinted at the table, and crossed his arms. “Case, you know you're brother's trying to get picked up by a Circuit team. ”

“You're kidding—”

“Casey,” Mom interjected. “Your father and I support you in everything you do.”

“I know,” I said, trying to let a touch of the angelic Casey that I once was creep into my voice.

“Well,” Mom went on, “right now, Wade needs a great deal of our support.”

I looked at her and feigned a puzzled expression. “He lives here rent-free. You feed him. You look the other way as he breaks every heart in Fliver—”

Big Daddy stood up, pushing his chair back so quickly that it almost tipped over. “Look,” he said, not seeming so relaxed anymore. “Here's the deal. Wade's got a shot at the Circuit, and it's this year. And one thing the Circuit teams are looking for is a driver who can not only win, but who can generate some kind of, you know, buzz. Who can get people behind him.”

“Do they consider all the girls Wade's put behind him—”

Big Daddy rapped his knuckles on the table loudly enough to make Mom flinch, which sent blood flooding into my face. I turned to Mom but found her looking at her hands again.

“I know you understand exactly what I'm saying, Casey, and I know you're just being difficult because...” Big Daddy looked away, a gesture that seemed to mean something, I wasn't sure what.

‘“Because    I said. “Why am I being difficult?”

“I didn't mean anything by it.”

“I think you did.”

“Casey.” Big Daddy leaned back on his heels, put his hands in his back pockets, acting casual all of a sudden. Acting. “I don't mean any offense. But I can imagine that Wade's success might ... I don't know, bother you a bit.”

“Bother me?”

“Yeah, well, I mean, he's a champion, Casey. He's number one. Now, you're a fine runner...”

“Dad, for your information, I took third in the counties. I even beat an exchange student from Africa. You want me to go get the ribbon?”

Big Daddy gazed across the kitchen in the direction of the garage. “It's Wade's time,” he said in such a serious tone that I almost laughed. Almost. “No one's going to catch him. Not this season.”

“Well, no one's going to catch me either,” I said.

“You run a very good race, Casey. I'll grant you that. All your mother and I are asking is that you not distract attention from your brother. He needs to be the focus. We need to win the races, and we also need to get the coverage.”

“The coverage? Oh, like Vin Coates tonight, out in the driveway?”

Big Daddy shook his head lightly. “No more games.”

This was it. This was my opportunity.

I looked at Mom, but she was staring into the living room with the distant look in her eyes I'd seen up at Uncle Harvey's. I wanted to say something to her, to ask her where she was just then, but I knew this conversation was all about me and Big Daddy. “What do you mean, games?” I said.

Big Daddy pulled his hands from his pockets and held his arms out to his side, palms to the ceiling. “Your season's over, kiddo. Until we seal a deal with a Circuit team.”

Kiddo.
So, I was a kid all of a sudden? He was, like, waiting for me to hop off the merry-go-round?

He walked to the refrigerator. “You're not racing.”

The slight hitch in his voice gave it away: He
really
didn't want me racing. How
much
didn't he want me racing?

Mom reached out and touched my arm, a gesture I usually took to mean that she'd like me to please be cooperative. Following her arm up to her face, though, I saw something in her expression that I hadn't seen in a long time: the faintest hint of recognition, of that connection that we were supposed to have as women—the connection that I had with the Sharks. Was that what I saw there? Was Mom
seeing
me? Seeing...
me?
I wondered what expression had danced across her face as I was taking the checkered flag earlier that day, if she was even watching.

BOOK: The Outside Groove
11.76Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

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