Page 40 of The Fast Track

“Don’t worry your pretty little head.” Sasha gives a nasty laugh. “You can always drive for the W Series if F3 doesn’t work out—no, wait. They canceled it because there wasn’t enough talent.” He chuckles like he’s just told the world’s funniest joke.

“Mate.” Cameron shakes his head at Sasha, who shrugs in awhat?way.

I narrow my eyes. W Series was an all-female racing category that ran parallel to F3. It was supposed to encourage more women into motorsport and help provide a pipeline of talent for F2 and F1. I watched the early races breathlessly, tracking all the drivers and hoping to follow in their footsteps. The series was canceled after only a few years for many reasons—lack of audience, funding difficulties—but a dearth of talent was not one of them.

“That’s not funny,” I hiss.

“Let’s be truthful, we all know the W Series was a joke,” he says between laughs.

“Come off it, Devs.” Cameron unfolds his tall body and stands up. “You’ve said enough.”

“I’m watching out for a fellow driver.” Sasha snickers. “What will the F2 team principals say when they find out she’s studying for uni?”

My heart sinks. Because he’s right. If word gets out—which, knowing Sasha, it surely will—this will be a ding on my creds. Not a big, ugly, automatic-red-flag kind of ding. But in a sport where there’s only room for a handful of athletes, the smallest error can mean the difference between moving up or being dumped out cold.

“That it’s a normal, rational course of action to take.” Cameron pulls his tablet out of his backpack. “I’m studying too.”

Sasha stops cackling.

“I’ve got A-levels next month.” The edges of Cameron’s ears are pink again, but other than that, he’s so blasé he might as well be talking about the weather.

Sasha and Pat side-eye each other. I’m stunned, too.

Finally, Pat clears his throat. “That’s cool, man.”

“You’re leading the championship; I don’t see why you’re bothering,” Sasha says grumpily, but the tide of the conversation has turned.

“I hope you’re better at exams than you are atCall of Duty.” Pat gives Cameron’s shoulder an affectionate punch.

“If that’s a reference to Sunday, I’ll have you know I was also keeping an eye on the oven for my nan.” Cameron grins.

“Can we get to lunch already?” Sasha glances pointedly at his watch, a diamond-studded contraption that somehow looks cheap on him.

“You lads go ahead first. I’m gonna clean up with Kwong,” Cameron says.

Sasha gives him aseriously, mate?look.

Pat shrugs, reliably good-natured as always. “Sure, catch you later, man. See you around, Justine.”

The two of them shuffle off.

“I don’t get it,” Sasha says as they drive away. “She’s not that hot.”

And I thought I couldn’t despise him more. I resist the urge to sprint after them and give Sasha a resounding thwack with my SAT book.

I turn back to Cameron, whose face is now bright red. “Thanks for sticking up for me.”

“It’s my fault,” he says. “I told the boys to meet me, I didn’t think they’d get here so quickly. They’re normally late to everything.”

My stomach curls in dread. “Sasha’s totally going to blab it all over the paddock, isn’t he?”

Cameron works his jaw for a second, then shakes his head defiantly. “So what if he does? We’re not the first junior drivers to make backup plans. I wouldn’t stress about it.”

His words, so casually uttered, serve to remind me of the yawning chasm between us. For Cameron, having others know he’s studying is a minor inconvenience. No matter how much Pat and Sasha roll their eyes, he’s still part of their pack, and no one’s perception of him is going to be swayed if he takes an A-level or two.

My reputation, on the other hand, might as well have been built on a pile of sand. And not the nice kind you get in Hawaii, either—more like the gross, silty stuff on the shore of Lake Michigan. Any rumor about me has the potential to snowball, no matter how innocuous it starts out. By the time whispers reach the team principals, taking the SATs will have turned into something far more ominous—Justine Kwong clearly lacks confidence. Why should we back her for the F2 seat when she doesn’t back herself?

And that is something someone like Cameron, a card-carryingmember of the old boys’ paddock club, can never understand.