Page 20 of The Fast Track

“You are the most ungrateful kid I’ve ever seen. And that includes all those spoiled brats at your old school. Keep up this attitude and you’ll never make it to Formula 1. Your performance at Spielberg—”

“Excuse me,” I say, blood rushing to my ears. “When did you become a driving coach? You can’t even parallel park.”

It’s mean and petty—even if it’s true—but Mom making comments about my race craft is a joke. She’s as clueless about driving as she is brilliant at the marketing side.

She narrows her eyes. “You know, I thought long and hard about whether we should take the plunge and move to Europe when Orbital called. If you were mature enough to handle the pressure and demands of professional racing.”

“Oh please, don’t act like you weren’t dying to go,” I fire back, too angry to keep my voice down even if Cantonese Grandma is still staring daggers from the end of the aisle. “Am I supposed to thank you for saying yes? For overlooking my so-called immaturity?”

Mom glares. “Sometimes you really are your father’s daughter.”

Mom confided in me once, after she had a few too many glasses of wine duringThe Bacheloretteseason finale, that Dadwas the biggest regret of her life. Taking a bet on the cute surfer boy from Hawaii did not pay off. In Mom’s opinion, growing up in beautiful, tropical weather had made Dad soft. Made him weak. Made him give up when he should have dug in and fought.

I swore then and there—in the middle of a tearful contestant confessional—I’d never be like him.

I want to unleash on Mom, yell at the top of my lungs, but I think Cantonese Grandma might keel over and die from disapproval, so I settle for the next most satisfying course of action: turning and power walking out of the store.

In the parking lot, I stare gloomily at our rental Lexus RX. The SUV looks comically large for its UK-size parking spot.

Justine: My mom is driving me crazy

Justine: What are you up to?

Roz: Wanna come by my place?

While Roz has mentioned here and there that she’s staying in a cute cottage just outside Milton Keynes, she never once brought up that it happens to sit on her uncle’s one-hundred-acre estate. My Uber rolls down a wide driveway, the kind I’ve only seen in movies. The oak trees lining the road on either side are so large, their branches almost meet over the middle.

A thousand times better than avoiding Mom in ourtwo-bedroom apartment. Our fight will die down, as all our fights inevitably do, but I’d still prefer to skip the part where we fill our shared space with silent rage and banging doors.

A woman in a matching polo-and-khakis uniform waits for me in front of the ivy-crisscrossed mansion. I pinch myself, just to make sure I haven’t magicked my way into an episode ofBridgerton.

“Miss Kwong?” she says when I get out of the car. “This way, please.”

The woman leads me down a stone path that branches off from the main house, through what looks like a Japanese Zen garden—complete with its own faux rock formation—and out onto a wide pool with a 1920s art deco tile design all around the edges. I’m still taking in the three breathtaking yet wildly different design vibes we just blitzed through when Roz, already in the pool, splashes her way toward me.

“You made it!” She climbs out, dripping wet, and throws her arms around me. “Everything okay with your mum?”

I ignore my now damp shirt and tell Roz the entire sorry saga. I’ve been bottling it up, half because sharing with Roz would mean having to acknowledge it really happened, and half because it’s so embarrassing coming immediately after that disaster of a race. But the altercation with Mom has given me a desperate need for a valve.

“I mean, Austria wasn’t that bad.” Roz frowns. “That recovery drive was ace, even if we didn’t have points to show for it. Maybe he’s just busy and used it as an excuse.”

I shake my head and sit down, letting my legs dangle in the crisp, clear water. “You should’ve heard him. He said he’s sick of everyone trying to force girls into levels they can’t compete at.”

“Shut up.” She whips her head toward me so quickly her giant sunglasses almost fall off. “He did not say that.”

“I know.”

“Bugger, I thought he was one of the good ones.”

“Me too.” I sigh and stare at the orange-and-yellow sun mosaic at the bottom of the pool. I once read somewhere water is supposed to bring calmness and serenity, but there’s no sense of that now even as I’m sitting next to what is probably one of the most exquisitely constructed swimming pools in England. There are simply no words for the disappointment roiling through me.

When I first got the call from Orbital—during a school day, in between classes—I knew my life was never going to be the same. I was so ecstatic I could barely pay attention in AP US History, a class I normally loved. My entire future had flashed before my eyes—living in Motorsport Valley, racing on all the circuits I’ve been watching on TV for as long as I can remember.

I’d been so excited to get into European racing culture. It was the home of F1, the pinnacle of motorsport, dominated by professional, well-heeled teams and sponsors that poured billions of dollars into building the fastest cars on earth.

So far, Europe has been one big flaming ball of letdown. There’s so much talk about Orbital’s inclusive culture, but I’m as big of an outsider here as I was back home.

Roz and I lounge some more—Roz tanning in the sun, me trying to forget my sorrows via the latest issue ofMotor Sportmagazine and stuffing my face with the platter of sausage rolls the Wilsons’ housekeeper laid out.