Page 47 of The Fast Track

“So Mum’s in Biarritz on a mini girls’ holiday, and one of the women is apparently married to the managing editor atMotor Sportand—” Roz gasps, staring wordlessly at her phone.

“What?”Motor Sportis the most prestigious, influential magazine for racing. Everyone from Otto Warner down to the interns reads new issues religiously. I want to know what’s got Roz gaping like she’s seen the second coming.

Before I can get up and read over her shoulder, a shadow falls over our table. “Hello, Justine, Rosalyn.”

Dietrich is standing over us. To my surprise, he pulls out the empty chair between us and sits down. The OTC canteen functions like the cafeteria at my old high school, even though Orbital Racing is in fact a professional organization. The popular kid equivalents—the F1 drivers, team principals, head strategists—rarely show up to the canteen, since they’re usuallybusy with interviews, fan meet and greets, and countless other Important People duties. On the opposite end of the spectrum, I’m relegated to a seat near the condiments bar, about as low on the social ladder as you can get. As it was at high school, the different cliques do not tend to mingle.

As such, all eyes are on us.

“Holy shit,” Roz mouths at me over Dietrich’s shoulder.

Cameron, Pat, and Grayson openly gawk, lunches frozen halfway to their mouths.

“What are you reading?” Dietrich asks, cutting into his salmon and couscous like he sits with us every day.

I force myself to answer the question instead of asking if Dietrich got lost on his way to the F1 table. “Roz was saying something aboutMotor Sport… Roz?”

“Er, right.” She gives a little cough to clear her throat. “So, they might want to do an article on us. Me and Justine.”

“Seriously?” My heart thumps.

“That’s interesting,” Dietrich says. “They rarely write about F3.”

“I know, right?” Roz’s eyes glimmer. “Mum’s friend reckons they could do an angle on the only female engineer-driver pairing in all of formula racing. ‘The Dynamic Duo,’ or something like that. They might even have Liam Granville do the interview!”

And just like that, my excitement dies.

I want to be inMotor Sport. I want to be interviewed by Liam Granville, the legendary journalist who’s documentedall the modern greats. I want to be on the cover, holding a giant trophy on the top step of the podium.

But I don’t want to be featured just because I’m female. Because it’ll ease some editor’s conscience about years of only putting white male talent on the cover.

“Sounds like a lovely chance,” Dietrich says.

Roz beams. “They’re keen to do it in the next couple of months, cover one of our races—what d’you reckon, which one should we do?”

“I don’t know,” I say slowly. “I’d rather get their attention by actually winning instead of under some forced novelty theme.”

I feel, more than see, Dietrich raise his eyebrows.

“What are you on about? You’re top three in the championship right now,” Roz says.

“Yeah, but I’m still thirty-three points behind Sasha and fifty-two points behind Cameron.” The words rankle.

“Third out of thirty is nothing to sneeze at! Think of all the publicity, it’d be fab.” Roz is starting to sound dangerously like my mother.

“Rosalyn has a point,” Dietrich says. “Everyone in the paddock has seen you race now. Only someone not paying attention would think you’re only here as a novelty.”

My stomach somersaults. Add ‘knowing the exact right words to say’ to the list of his perfections.

“See?” Roz says triumphantly. “What d’you say?”

Still—as sweet as Dietrich’s compliment was, it doesn’t entirely melt away the cold reality. I am doing well, far betterthan most people in the paddock expected. But there’s no escaping thatMotor Sporthas never featured an F3 team as their cover story. It’d be a giant flashing LED billboard to all the other drivers, yet again shouting about my differences.

“Please, please, please? My dad—” Roz breaks off with a quick glance at Dietrich. She doesn’t want to say it in front of him, but it would be the best kind of validation for her in front of her family.

I stare at my plate of half-eaten fries. “I have to think about it.”

Roz lets out a long, dejected sigh. “Fine. Will you let me know before too long, though?”