Page 16 of The Fast Track

My right foot feathers the throttle, ready to flatten it at a millisecond’s notice. My heart hammers over the revving of Lizzie’s 380-horsepower engine.

Three.

Two.

One.

A pause, then the entire row of red lights flickers off. Lights out.

I drop the clutch and slam my foot on the accelerator as twenty-nine other drivers do the same. Lizzie roars to life. Mybody lurches back into my seat and the cockpit temperature rises instantly.

I’m quick off the starting line, faster than J. P. Ribeiro in front. He positions his car to cover me off, but I’ve already accelerated on the opposite side, sailing past.

To my right, Javi Diaz of Piranelli Racing has also had a good start. We enter the first turn side by side. I’m on the outside line, an easy place for someone to run me out wide if I don’t place the car just right—J. P. has recovered from his poor start and is only half a car length behind me.

I wait as long as I can before braking. Even with three-a-day training sessions, my calves burn as I thrust down on the pedal.

Next to me, Javi has braked earlier; Lizzie glides ahead before we hit the apex of the turn.

“Yes!” Roz shrieks so loudly over the radio, I wish I’d turned the volume down beforehand. “P2, Justine, P2!”

My heart pounds with exhilaration, but it’s too early to celebrate.

Next up is a chicane. I lift slightly and apply brakes as I enter from curve to curve. I don’t see, so much as feel, other cars behind me. The nose of one—maybe Javi, maybe J. P.—nearly brushes Lizzie’s rear wing.

“You’re lapping two-tenths faster than Diaz,” Roz reports, her voice breathless. She sounds as elated as I feel.

I focus on picking up time as I run my laps—seconds can mean the difference between first and eleventh place. Lizzie’stires hold up despite how warm the temperature is, gripping the paved track firmly as I make my turns. With every lap, I brake a little later, accelerate a little earlier as fuel burns off. Javi Diaz in P3 behind me appears fractionally smaller in the side mirror every time I check. I’m dropping him bit by bit.

“How’re the tires feeling? D’you think we could extend this stint?”

Before every race, the tire manufacturer and engineers estimate the number of laps each set of tires can withstand. Their predictions are never 100 percent accurate, landing somewhere in the vicinity of so-so. That’s where driver judgment comes in.

“Or would you rather play it safe and box?”

Ahead, Cameron pulls into the pit lane, leaving me in P1.

I, Justine Kwong, am leading. In my debut race. I hope every team principal scouting drivers for next season is watching.

“Hello—can you hear me? What’ll it be?” Roz comes over the radio again.

I could pit now, return to the race in P8 or P9, and try to drive my way back to first, running the risk of being overcut by Javi Diaz.

Or.

I could stay out and do some overcutting of my own.

My tires feel good; my last turn was my fastest cornering speed yet. With Cameron in the pit, I’ll have clean air in front of me—ideal for putting in strong laps.

I keep the throttle pressed to the floor and whir past the pit entrance. “I want to stay out.”

“All righty, let’s get ’em.”

Lizzie’s steering wheel is vibrating slightly more, but tire grip still feels solid as I wind my way through the next chicane. My heart jumps when I see cars ahead of me again—backmarkers. I’m officially lapping other cars.

The trackside marshals wave giant blue flags—the signal for lapped cars to yield. The first car in front of me, a Carden, pulls over obediently. The next car, a Charlemagne driven by Ashveer Kaur, also edges over on the track. He’s not making it as easy as the Carden, but it’s no problem; the Charlemagne is no match for Lizzie. I brake as we go into the corner and prepare to skate past.

My butt feels it first.