Page 5 of The Fast Track

That I’m not just some “tick-the-box” diversity hire.

3.

Barcelona, Spain

Circuit de Barcelona-Catalunya

Formula 3 preseason testing

Lizzie looks even more beautifulin our team garage than she did on display. The Météo-France radar this morning reported clear, crisp skies with not a hint of wind—perfect track conditions.

My heart pounds.

This is it. My professional debut in Europe. What I dreamed about when I won my first karting competition at Evanston Raceways. What Mom and I used to fantasize about while road-tripping to races, spinning wilder and granderwhat if?scenarios with each cornfield we passed.

I’m alternately excited and terrified to climb into Lizzie’s cockpit. A twinge of fear nibbles away inside me, the way it always does at the beginning of a new category, when you’re not quite sure where you stand among the field. Cameron and Georgios’s words from the kickoff party echo ominously in my ears.

I push away the curls of self-doubt and focus on Lizzie. Envision the track we’re going to be running on. I have every curve, every corner—from the long opening straight to the relentless Turn 3—memorized after weeks of preparation.

“Easy, Kwong. I think you might be drooling.”

I don’t need to turn around. It’s only been seventy-two hours since we met, and sadly, I can already recognize Cameron’s annoying voice.

“You’re so funny.” I don’t bother taking my eyes off the yellow rising-sun Orbital logo against Lizzie’s navy paint.

“Lighten up. Just a little teammate banter before we kick off.”

I have no patience for his antics this morning. Not when my professional debut is minutes away. “Can you go ‘banter’ with Pat instead? You’re ruining my pre-driving vibes.”

“How ’bout you lot quit nattering about vibes and get on the track?” Frank, our team principal, has somehow snuck up on us despite being shaped like a high school football coach with the tread of an elephant. I blame Cameron.

“Of course. Absolutely, sir.” I flush.

“I told you before, no need for that ‘sir’ crap.”

“Yes, sir. I mean yes, Frank. It’s cool if I call you that, right? ’Cause—”

“Get in the car, Justine.” He lumbers back to his seat on the pit wall.

“Yes—” I choke back thesirbefore it comes out of my mouth. I can see Cameron smirking from the corner of myeye, so I slam my helmet on to avoid having to look at his shit-eating grin.

Here we go. I take a deep breath and turn back to Lizzie. Pulse flickering, I lower myself into her cockpit and slide into the black carbon fiber seat. It’s a perfect fit, designed just for me.

No, really. I had to sit in a butt mold for three hours so they could tailor-make it. Holding still for the length of a superhero movie kind of sucked, but it’ll be worth it when I win my first F3 race, lock in the championship, and prove that I belong.

I flip my visor down, my heart thumping.

The safety panel on Lizzie’s steering wheel lights up, and I tap her accelerator. She glides down the pit lane, past the garages of the other F3 teams, and toward the jagged peaks of Montserrat towering in the distance. Once we hit the racetrack proper, I drop the throttle.

Lizzie hurtles down the circuit at 80, 100, then 180 mph. My heartbeat accelerates along, the familiar rush of joy and adrenaline sweeping over me. No matter where I am—a state-of-the-art circuit with the Catalan mountain range as backdrop or a muddy Midwestern junior track that doubles as a cow pasture on weekdays—the first burst of speed never fails to thrill, to make me feel like I’m soaring.

Turn 1 comes at the end of the long opening pit straight. I slam the brake down at the last possible millisecond. Lizzie’s speed drops instantaneously and my torso strains against the six-point harness. Three g-forces bear down on my body, thesame amount an astronaut experiences during a rocket launch.

A deafening screech pierces the air behind me. In my mirror, Cameron is veering around the corner, a cloud of smoke issuing from his front right wheel as he locks his brakes from mistiming the turn.

I let out a gleeful cackle. He may have more experience racing open-wheel cars, but so far I’m looking better on-track.

We both decelerate to enter the upcoming chicane—back-to-back turns that form an S—and Cameron manages to slip past me before we’re out of the second turn.