Page 39 of The Fast Track

He looks as happy as a puppy. “Not as thick as I come off, eh?” He fishes his water bottle out of his bag and sits down next to me, taking a large glug.

“I never said that.” Out loud.

“You’ve never said anything good until now either.”

I make apffftsound. “Like you need compliments from me.” I quote the top comment from his latest Instagram post. “?‘Always perfect and always will be.’?”

His smile stretches so wide, you’d think I just told himhe’s the most wonderful boy to ever exist. “I knew it. Youarestalking my socials.”

“You wish. It was the first thing that popped up on my feed this morning.” Not exactly the truth, but I have zero desire to see the peacock mode he’s sure to go into if I admit I once scrolled through his post history until I was well into his junior karting years.

“You can be honest, I don’t mind.”

“You’re ridiculous.”

“Ridiculously intelligent, you mean to say.”

I laugh despite myself and throw a loose piece of asphalt at him. “Do you have any more you want to run through? Otherwise I promised my mom I’d do fifty SAT questions before dinner.”

He catches the pebble easily. “You’re up.” He leans over and tugs the end of one of my braids. “I like these, by the way.”

Zing. I feel something deep in my stomach that has nothing to do with the subpar overnight oats Mom fed me for breakfast.

“It’s my go-to when I don’t want to brush my hair,” I explain, and immediately want to clap a hand over my mouth. Why does my brain function like an engine in desperate need of an oil job when I get the slightest bit nervous? And on that note, me being nervous is completely silly to begin with. I’m talking to someone who’s more likely to block me on a hot lap than kiss me in the rain, or show up at my window with a boom box, or any other kind of nice running-to-the-train-station-type gestures.

His laugh is like a thunderclap. “Barking mad.” He shakes his head, grinning.

I shove my review book at him. “Here, start on page 239.”

I get up and bend over the partially finished car, all too conscious of his presence.

“Many animals,” Cameron reads, “including humans, must sleep, and sleep is known to have a role in everything from healing injuries to encoding information in long-term memory—damn, this is boring—but some scientists claim…”

As I’m finishing up the rear wing and debating if it’d be weird to ask Cameron if he wants to grab lunch, Pat’s voice sounds behind us. “Hey, guys.”

I jump, dropping the piece with aclank. Pat and Sasha are driving up in a golf cart, the electric motor ninja quiet.

“What are you guys doing here?” My question is two-pronged. Why are they at Lot 19—which no one would ever bother going to unless they were explicitly ordered—and what is Sasha doing on Orbital Campus at all when he drives for a different team?

As if he can read my mind, Sasha says, “I had a confidential meeting at the OTC.”

I freeze. My thoughts immediately leap to the F2 seat. Was he meeting someone about it? Judging from the smile that’s turned into a sneer, he definitely was. And he wants me to know it.

My mind churns at the possibility. It wouldn’t be the first time a team chose a driver outside their own youth academy,but it happens so rarely it hasn’t crossed my mind there could be candidates other than Cameron and me. But Sasha is good, and he comes with ample sponsorship dollars from his father’s company. F2 teams may be better funded than F3 teams, but a giant sack of money gives any driver a leg up.

I sneak a peek at Cameron. If he has any feelings about this development, he’s doing an excellent job hiding it. His expression is placid, deliberately uncurious.

I do my best to follow his lead; I don’t want to give Sasha the satisfaction of knowing how much he’s thrown me off.

“What’ve you got there, mate?” Sasha cocks his head at Cameron, then gets out of the cart to walk closer.

My heart drops from my stomach to my toes. Cameron attempts to hide my prep book, but Sasha’s too fast.

“SAT Premium. Kwong, are you studying?” He gives me an incredulous look, using the same tone I’d use to ask Mom if we’re really having bitter melon for dinner two nights in a row.

My face grows so warm it feels like a stylist is blasting a salon-grade hair dryer at me. Sasha’s quizzical stare twists into a delighted smirk. Behind him, Pat looks embarrassed for me, like he’s accidentally walked in on someone in the bathroom.

“I just, you know…”Come on, brain, think of something.