Page 56 of The Fast Track

Mom sets her Boots bag down on the counter. “For tomorrow night,” she explains, taking out a pack of mints and blotting paper. “It’s going to be all eyes on you when you’re next to Dietrich Lange.”

My heart sinks. The last hazy wisps of mywhat-ifswith Cameron vanish as I realize that Dietrich, who by all measures should be the boy of my dreams, has barely crossed my mind all evening.

“How come you’re so cool with Dietrich but not Cameron?” I challenge. “Is it because he’s a big F1 star?”

Mom gives me a look. “Who is your biggest competition atraces? Who are you up against for the F2 seat? You’re a smart girl; you can do the math.”

I can. And Cameron and I are an equation that does not result in a rational answer, no matter what dimensional plane we’re on.

“Gougou.” Mom sighs. “I get it. You’re a young woman. With young woman hormones and needs—”

I will the ceiling above me to crumble so I can get knocked in the head and develop amnesia and never have to remember Mom using the wordshormonesandneeds.

“—but you’re so, so close to the finish line. You’re top three in the championship; you’re a front-runner for the open seat next year. We’ve wanted and worked for this for so long. Are you really willing to risk it for some boy?”

Left unspoken, like a fifteen-ton elephant in the corner, is the specter of Dad and the lesson he inadvertently imparted: Trophies stick around; people do not.

Mom’s right. I’m on the brink of having everything I’ve ever wanted, everything I’ve been working for.

But somehow it no longer feels like enough.

17.

Everything about the Orbital galamakes an appearance on my Least-Favorite Things list: a high-maintenance dress where I have to sit in one very specific position unless I’m willing to give up breathing; heels so thin and tall, I risk snapping my ankle anytime I take a step; and jewelry so heavy, my earlobes feel like they’re doing dead lifts.

Thankfully, Mom left for London first thing, so at least I don’t have to deal with her buzzing around while I’m getting ready. She was already so over-the-top, she booked the most expensive stylist in town, and that was before Dietrich invited me to go with him.

“Here we are.” The stylist holds up a mirror so I can see the back of my head reflected in the vanity. “What d’you think?”

She’s done some sort of fancy twisted side braid with a delicate silver filigree ribbon woven in. My makeup is heavy, though somehow still fresh and dewy. I look shockingly good, like someone who belongs at a gala dinner where there’ll be separate knives for seafood and fish.

“This is amazing,” I breathe, silently thanking Mom for however many hundreds of pounds she shelled out for this.

Given what happened last time I was late for Dietrich, I make sure to get to the lobby of my building at least five minutes before he’s supposed to pick me up. On the way down, I mentally run through the list of conversation topics Mom wrote up for me—ask sponsors about their children (because rich people love talking about their kids), ask sponsors about their philanthropic initiatives (because rich people love talking about their money and foundations are the only classy way to do it), and, when in doubt, smile and nod.

The elevator doors open, and I immediately spot Cameron standing near the lobby entrance, dressed head to toe in black tie.

My heart hammers against my chest. Then prickling nerves set in, because I realize I haven’t told him I’m going with Dietrich. Not that we’d be expected to keep each other posted on gala plans; we didn’t even kiss last night. Still, the sense of unease sets over me, jangling against the part of me going gaga over the sight of Cameron in a tuxedo.

He doesn’t spot me at first. He’s talking to a gorgeous older woman who is definitely his mother, judging by her luscious brown hair and the long lashes framing her deep coffee eyes.

“Hey.” His eyes widen when he finally sees me.

“Hey.” Self-consciousness seeps over my body. I hope he doesn’t notice my baby-giraffe-learning-to-walk gait, courtesy of the sky high Louboutins Mom bought me for the occasion.As I’m mincing closer, one of my toothpick heels catches on the edge of the lobby carpet and I stumble forward.

Strong arms catch me inches before I hit the ground, and the next thing I know I’m tilted forward, pressing into Cameron with both hands on his chest, gripping the lapels of his tux for purchase. He looks down, his eyes as dark and close as they were last night outside this very lobby.

He swallows. “You clean up nice, Kwong.”

My ears are on fire and my brain is screaming to take a step back, to stop gawking like an idiot, but I can’t tear my eyes away. “Thanks. You do too.”

He gently helps me upright, taking a disappointing step back.

“Heels really are ‘no pain, no gain,’ aren’t they?” Cameron’s mom chuckles.

I jump. I’d completely forgotten she was here. I sincerely hope she doesn’t judge me for drooling all over her son right in front of her.

“You must be Mrs. Evans.” I blush, holding out my hand. “I’m Justine, Cameron’s teammate.”