Page 8 of The Fast Track

If you googled “overprotective ambitious tiger mother,” Mom is who would pop up. She tuts like I just told her I failed my SATs. “I saw. The media are all over it already.” She showsme the article she’s been reading on her phone:True Talent or Misguided Attempt at Increasing Representation?: F3’s Female Hope Shunts During Preseason Testing.

I drop my duffel bag, crammed full with toiletries and gym clothes. Pat McCombe, the third driver on our F3 team, also spun during testing. But I haven’t seen a single article, or even a tweet, about it.

“You need to be more careful,” Mom scolds, as if I’m not already aware.

“I got assigned Dietrich Lange for mentor,” I say in an attempt to distract her so I don’t spend the next hour getting lectured. “That’s a good sign, right? Orbital wouldn’t waste Dietrich’s time with a young driver they didn’t believe in.” At least, one would hope they wouldn’t.

Mom’s face transforms. “It’ll be great publicity.” She whips out her phone and pulls up Dietrich’s Instagram feed; it’s mostly photos of him celebrating podiums and wins. My heart flutters in excited anticipation. I can’t believe I get to spend time with someone who has so much talentanda dreamy smile.

“Anything he posts gets half a million likes,” Mom says. “Do you think his social media manager would be open to collab posts?”

When I first started karting, Mom thought it was way too dangerous and tried to talk Dad out of it every single weekend I had a race. When Dad decided he couldn’t take the Winnetka suburban lifestyle anymore, I was petrified she would stop taking me and make me join a normal sport whereeleven-year-olds weren’t zooming around at 75 mph. Instead, she pulled the biggest about-face I’ve ever seen—got more organized than Dad ever was, cold-called real sponsors instead of hitting up our neighbor’s dental practice, hired a dedicated mechanic. It was basically her overachiever’s version of a post-divorce makeover.

The rest, as they say, was history. Now she’s my “momager,” lives with me in the UK, and spends at least two hours a day creating content for my official accounts.

Before I can tell Mom I’d prefer she stay far away from Dietrich Lange’s social media manager (and the rest of his team, for that matter) to minimize the chances of her embarrassing me, she touches my welt. “Let’s make sure to cover that up for your shoot this afternoon.”

“Today?” I groan. “I could’ve sworn that was tomorrow morning.”

“No, your session around the factory is tomorrow; today is street clothes.”

I resist the urge to keel over and bury my face in the beige throw pillows. I’m perfectly aware this is part of the job that comes with being a professional driver—more followers online means more businesses willing to cough up sponsorship dollars—but I wish Mom would stick to more traditional driver content. I already stick out like a sore thumb.

“Can’t we do a me-in-the-gym-training post? Or me in the simulator? None of the other guys hire fashion photographers for their social media.”

“Too boring.” Mom makes a shooing motion with her hand, like my words are flies she can swat away. “I was thinking we could have you wear those new shoes Puma sent over.” She moves to my closet, rummaging while muttering to herself.

I roll my eyes and flop back onto my bed, exhaustion from the past three days creeping in. I wish I could curl up on the couch and do nothing except binge Netflix and eat Cheetos for the rest of the afternoon, but it’s useless to argue with Mom when her mind’s made up. She used to be a trial lawyer, so trying to talk sense into her is asking to get yourself backed into a corner with twenty different holes poked in your reasoning.

Mom steps out from the closet, brandishing the outfit she picked out. “This will look fantastic. Now get dressed and let’s get going.”

6.

My first meetup with Dietrichgets scheduled three weeks later. I spend so long picking out what to wear, I run late for our public relations training in the morning. A few years ago, an Orbital F2 driver made a joke about slapping a mechanic in one of his postrace interviews. It got taken out of context and went viral, and Orbital had to issue a statement that the company does not condone or promote a culture of violence. Since then, all junior drivers are subjected to a mandatory media boot camp prior to the start of each season.

The guys are clustered toward the front of the spacious multipurpose room when I arrive. Like all things in the Orbital Technology Center, everything from the lectern to the chairs and table set out for our use is sterile white. It makes me feel like I’m in an operating room. That or some futuristic minimalist spaceship, which was the vibe they were going for when an architect dreamed up this place twenty years ago.

I avoid the empty seat by Cameron and drop down next to Georgios on the other side of the room. Georgios shifts hisleather cross-body bag subtly away from my scuffed backpack. Note to self: Make sure to wipe the dried mud—remnants of a mother-daughter camping trip last summer—off the canvas later.

“Hey, guys,” I say.

I get a combination of disinterested nods andsuphead tilts before everyone goes back to whatever conversations they were having, as if I didn’t exist. Georgios turns his back to chat with Caleb and Pat at the next table, leaving me feeling like it’s junior karts again and all the boys are making plans for a hangout I didn’t get invited to.

I take a deep breath to clear the thickness in my throat. It’s okay. I’m here to win. I’monlyhere to win.

“Good morning, all.” Britt Perkins shuffles into the room. Her normally sleek hair is matted and sticks up in five different directions. She looks more like me on an average day than her usual groomed self.

“Today we will go over a number of topics,” Britt croaks. There’s a nonzero chance she might pass out on the lectern.

Next to me, Georgios lets out a resigned sigh. I resist the urge to join him. It’s clearly going to be a long morning.

Britt reads off prepared note cards in her froggy voice. We go through everything from “how to provide engaging interview responses” to “how to navigate sensitive questions.” Studying for the SATs would be more thrilling. We’re two very long hours in when she turns to the final subject on the agenda: social media.

“Now, it is important to keep your online presence balanced…”

I tune this out, since I have zero control over my own socials anyway, and sneak a peek around. Pat’s still staring at Britt, but in a blank, unseeing way that makes it look like he’s fallen asleep with his eyes open. Grayson, Caleb, and Georgios are in various states of boredom, from nodding off with chin in hand to openly texting. Cameron, however, sits with his back perfectly straight as he taps away on his tablet, avidly taking notes.

Of course he actually takes an interest in these obligatory training sessions; it fits the pattern of him being everything obnoxious.