Page 2 of The Fast Track

Roz puffs up indignantly. “How many other Asian girls with American accents d’you see floating around here?”

“Good point.” Cameron laughs, and something about his unapologetic blasé-ness rubs me the wrong way. I’m simultaneously envious and annoyed.

Roz rolls her eyes. “Anyway. I came over to tell you…” She grabs my shoulders and turns me toward the entrance of the cavernous event hall.

“He’s here.”

2.

Every molecule of air whooshesout of my lungs. I grab Roz’s arm for support. “Is that really Dietrich Lange?”

She giggles. “I knew you would lose it.”

“Big fan?” Cameron arches a single eyebrow, a trick I’ve never been able to master.

I give him ano kidding, Sherlocklook, because what junior driver doesn’t worship at the altar of Dietrich Lange? At nineteen, he’s the youngest F1 champion ever and the only driver in history to win the title his rookie season.

I’m not surprised to see other heads swiveling toward Dietrich as he enters the party. Britt Perkins swoops toward him like a VIP vulture, trailed by a bevy of our sponsors, identifiable by the fact they’re all well-dressed men in their mid-fifties who look like they can’t tell petro fuel from axel grease.

“He’s kind of cute, no?” Roz says.

“What do you mean, ‘kind of’?” The blond-haired, blue-eyed Orbital driver is drool worthy in an all-American boy-next-door kind of way. If all-American boys next door wereGerman F1 champions, but that’s beside the point.

If I play my cards like Dietrich, I could kill it in F3 this season, prove myself to Orbital, and get a seat for F2, then F1 the year after… maybe even win a championship before twenty, like he did.

My breath hitches. So many years of junior karting and dreaming about the future, and now it’s here staring me right in the face. It’s exciting and frightening and overwhelming all at once.

“Right, ladies, I reckon this is my cue.” Cameron downs the cup of beer in his hand. He’s technically underage, too, but no one on this side of the ocean seems to care about young people drinking. “I’ll see you at testing this weekend?”

I acknowledge him with a perfunctory nod, too focused on figuring out how I’m going to worm my way into the wall of people around Dietrich to introduce myself.

“Rosalyn, there you are.” A voice booms over us.

Lou Wilson, Roz’s uncle. He’s the owner of Orbital Racing, as well as the entire parent conglomerate. He’s someone who, when it comes to cards that determine my future, holds a royal flush.

I stand up straighter. I’ve only met Lou Wilson once, for about ten seconds, to pose for a cheesy staged photo showing him welcoming Orbital’s first female driver. I really would’ve rather just done the regular photo shoot like all the other drivers, but PR & Marketing made it clear they needed content for Women’s History Month.

“Good showing, eh?” Lou nods happily at the packed eventspace. The party is in full swing now, waiters carting out trays and trays of fancy hors d’oeuvres while empty bottles pile up behind the bar.

Roz shrugs and looks around furtively. She hates being seen with him, even though everyone already knows she’s his niece.

Lou turns to me. Before I can open with the charming greeting I have planned, he hands me his empty glass. “Another, please. Old-fashioned.”

Roz spits out her Pimm’s. “Uncle Lou? This is, er, Justine Kwong. On our F3 team?”

“Oh. Of course.” Lou blinks. “How was testing?”

“It doesn’t start until Thursday,” I mumble, reeling. I spent hours picking out my shirt and pants. It was supposed to be professional; it was supposed to scream “up-and-coming driver with lots of potential.”

Clearly not.

“Mmm.” Lou nods blandly, looking like he’d rather sample the caviar blinis than meet me halfway in my attempt to resuscitate our conversation.

Before we can verbally limp on, Britt Perkins pops up to his right. “Lou, it’s time.”

“Be right there.” He stuffs a lamb lollipop into his mouth. “Enjoy yourself, Rosalyn,” he says, then walks away without a second glance at me.

I sigh and take an extra-large sip of my watermelon seltzer. So much for impressing him. It’s bad enough Lou Wilson can’ttell me apart from a cocktail server; it’s downright devastating he didn’t bother apologizing for his mistake. I’m that much of a nonentity to Orbital.