Page 30 of The Fast Track

I’m about to chuck a part into the wheel pile whenCameron holds out his arm. “Wait, I think that might be half a wishbone.”

I squint at what I thought was a pushrod. The jagged, eroded ends could be anything—a snapped-off half wishbone or a socket that plugs into a gearbox.

“Yeah, see? The edges are too uneven. The other half’s got to be in here somewhere.” His cheeks pink with excitement.

“I never realized you knew so much about this stuff,” I say.

It’s ironic, because everyone outside the racing world assumes drivers know a lot about cars, but the reality is once you become remotely competitive, you hire a mechanic to help your kart run faster. The really rich kids come with full-time racing crews and never have to bother touching so much as a wheel nut if they don’t want to.

“I learned from my granddad. We used to tinker all the time in his garage.”

Given how pristinely Cameron dresses, I always assumed he’s one of those drivers who wouldn’t know how to change a tire if it flew off the car and smacked him in the face. The idea of him tinkering away in a giant garage full of vintage Aston Martins with an elderly grandfather—in my mind Cameron wears an apron to keep his clothes clean and his grandfather has distinguished snowy hair—is surprising.

“What? Why are you looking at me like that?”

“I just didn’t take you for the handy type, I guess.”

“Yeah, well, I am.” He turns back to rifling through thepile. After a moment, he looks over. “I didn’t take you for the handy type either.”

“Why? Because I’m a girl?” I bristle.

“Keep your hair on.” Cameron rolls his eyes. “Not everything’s about your gender.”

I feel myself deflating. How did I even get here? Where Cameron Evans, of all people, is telling me to be less concerned about my gender when I’ve spent my entire racing career trying to minimize it and fit in?

He shrugs. “It just doesn’t go with the whole vibe you’ve got with your socials.”

That stupid Instagram again. As soon as I don’t need sponsors anymore—when I’ve got my signature inscribed on the gold-plated F1 Drivers’ Championship trophy—I’m going to wrangle the password from Mom and delete the entire thing. I pick up a jagged piece from the pile and turn it over in my hand. “I don’t control my Instagram. My mom does the posts to make sure I can have enough followers for sponsors.”

“That’s not you writing those cringe what’s-it-purse posts?”

I gesture at my beat-up Trader Joe’s tote bag. “I’m flattered you think I know enough to post about purses.”

“Good point. If you ran your own accounts, it’d just be pictures of Cheetos.”

“That doesn’t sound half bad. Cheetos in front of different circuits? I’d follow that.”

“You would.” He groans, but I can tell he kind of likes the idea. “Is that how you got into racing? Someone bribed you with crisps?”

“Where do you come up with this stuff?” I burst out laughing. “No. My… parents got me into it.” Even after all this time, it’s hard to talk about Dad. “Instead of Saturday-morning cartoons, I got to watch F1 Qualifying.”

“Impressive. Most Americans have only cottoned on the last couple of years, haven’t they?”

Here we go. I do my best to ignore the lump that’s materialized in my throat. “My father studied abroad in London during college and his roommates got him into it. He always used to say if he’d known about Formula 1 early enough, he would’ve become a driver instead of a surgeon.”

Cameron chuckles. “So he got his daughter into it instead?”

“My mother was thrilled.”

“Really? She seems so enthusiastic. I always see her hovering around the OTC lobby.”

“If she could get a building pass, you’d see her twenty-four seven.”

“Is your dad going to come to any races this season?” Cameron asks the question so easily, so casually, that even if I hadn’t already seen his grandparents, parents, and uncles and aunts cheering him on at Spielberg, I would know he has an intact family unit.

“Um.” I look down at the partial wishbone that’s still in my hand. “Probably not.”

I feel his gaze on my face. “Not even Texas?”