Page 53 of The Fast Track

“Yeah, what kind of person would do that?” I try my best at a nonchalant ha-ha-ha, but I must sound off, because Cameron nudges my foot with his.

“You’re impossible.” Savannah swats Pat gently. “See what I mean, Justine? All the boys have is lukewarm rubbish tea.”

“Yeah, we want the good stuff,” Chloe says, threading her arm through mine. “Like, what’s the Marino scandal about?”

“You heard about that?” I ask, relieved we’re finally moving off the topic of mysteriously broken golf carts.

Chloe nods eagerly. “I try to keep up so my sister and I can have something to talk about.”

I’m impressed by how much she knows—the rumors only hit the paddock gossip mill a couple days ago. Supposedly, an unnamed male Marino employee, potentially one of the drivers or senior strategists, was accused of verbal abuse toward a female employee. I didn’t realize the news had already gone mainstream.

“Honestly, you probably know as much as I do.” I make a face. “Whoever it is probably should get fired, but if he’s important enough—which sounds like the case here—I’m sure it’ll be the usual slap on the wrist.”

“Ugh, that’s rotten,” Chloe says. I’m not sure if she’s talking about the scandal or my lack of juicy inside information.

“Right.” Cameron claps his hands together. “Shall we stand here and gossip all evening, or should we actually get to the fair?”

We work our way through the carnival rides and games: Pat gets the grand prize on the high striker his first try; Cameron sets a new high score on Whac-A-Mole. By the time we get to bumper cars, I’m itching to win something.

“Go get ’em, Justine!” Chloe calls from the sidelines. She and Savannah opted to sit out after Savannah almost threw up from teacups. (Georgios got too enthusiastic with his spinning.)

Our round starts. A techno remix of an old One Direction song blasts from staticky speakers as I troll around the rink, scouting for the guys through multicolored disco lights twirling from the ceiling. Pat comes at me first, but I swerve out of the way and manage to aim a reverse hit.

“Damn, Justine, you got me good,” he says admiringly.

Georgios clanks past, boomeranging off a hit he made on a ten-year-old. The opportunity is too good to miss. I chase after, backing him into a corner and smashing into his car. Then I reverse and smash into him again. I’m preparing to back up for a third time when someone else wipes me out with a well-aimed side hit.

“Evans: one, Kwong: zero,” Cameron calls out as he shoots by, looking as gleeful as a little kid on Christmas morning.

“You are so dead,” I yell, and back away from Georgios to follow him.

He gets blocked by a traffic jam of tangled cars. I get ready to go in for the kill, but the buzzer sounds, and everything powers down.

“We need to go again. I was so close,” I call over to him as I hop out of the car.

“Madwoman.” He laughs.

“Speak for yourself. What was that hit?”

“Helping a mate out. Georgios was already dead! You were literally stomping on his frozen carcass.”

“I don’t think you know what ‘literally’ means.”

“Yeah, well, at least I wasn’t the one who almost got us caught out.” He pokes me gently in the side.

“That was incredible!” Chloe cheers from the waiting area.

“I’m so glad we didn’t end up joining. Would’ve gotten smashed up.” Savannah shakes her head.

“Smashing, eh?” Pat gives her an over-the-topwink-wink nudge-nudge. She smacks him playfully on the arm.

“How do you handle it, Justine? Having to listen to this rubbish humor all the time?” She gives a playful, dramatic sigh.

“Our sense of humor is enchanting, thank you very much,” Cameron says.

We wander toward the next ride, the boys now arguing with one another about a kart race years ago where Georgios went into the wall and whose fault it was he did (Pat’s, according to everyone except Pat).

I’ve seen the guys sauntering around downtown like this before, brimming with confidence like they own the streets. Italways made me a little sad because it was something I thought I’d never get to be part of. But now I’m walking with them. Like I actually belong.