Page 70 of The Fast Track

“Race prep.” Cameron holds out the extra-large sheaf. It’s a technical printout of the Spa-Francorchamps circuit, listing in excruciating detail the camber of every turn, the dimensions of DRS zones, optimal acceleration, and braking points. I want to kick myself—why hadn’t I thought to do that? And, a small voice whispers in the back of my head, why didn’t Cameron share this with me in all the time we were hanging out yesterday? Granted, we were mostly listening to his grandfather’s stories about the 1960s Merseyside music scene or making out when his grandparents left the room, but still.

Dietrich looks at the paper, eyebrows raised. “This is impressive. Did you make it?”

“My granddad did,” he says proudly. “Would you want to review with us? If you don’t mind?”

“Sure,” Dietrich says amiably, and Cameron and Pat look like a couple of kids who just got handed golden tickets to the Chocolate Factory. A part of me feels irritated at Cameron for not sharing this earlier and opportunistically gleaning tips off Dietrich, clearly trying to extend his championship lead. I would have done the same, but that doesn’t make it less annoying.

I pay close attention as Dietrich walks us through every anecdote he has about Spa for the next hour. Best ways to take corners. Best strategies for cold weather, hot weather, rain or shine. To my surprise, Cameron and Pat chime in with their own anecdotes too.

When we’re halfway over the English Channel, Cameronslips his hand under the foldout table and laces his fingers through mine. I instinctively glance at Dietrich and Pat; luckily, they’re too engrossed in a discussion about Eau Rouge’s safety upgrades to notice. My earlier irritation lightens a little and I give his hand a squeeze.

After all, I’ve still picked up useful tips from the group discussion. And I’m still Lou Wilson’s lead horse for the F2 seat. From what Lou mentioned at the gala, he’ll be watching live, probably the only F3 race he’ll attend in person this season. Spa will be the perfect opportunity to lock it in once and for all.

22.

Liège, Belgium

Circuit de Spa-Francorchamps

Belgian Grand Prix

Upon the lights out signal, thirty engines roar to life. I’m off the starting line faster than anyone else in the top four except Cameron.

Turn 1 comes mere seconds later, and I use my momentum to overtake J. P. Ribeiro, who started third. Sasha, who was on pole, has been passed by Cameron. In his usual style, Sasha careens his car wildly around the track for the next few turns, desperate to regain his position.

I itch to join the fight—these are where opportunities to jump places present themselves—but force myself to give them space. As Dietrich would say, fifteen more laps to go. Plenty of chances for someone to make a mistake.

Sasha grows more and more erratic in his attempt to regain position. He locks up as we move into Turn 8, sliding wide and giving me the perfect opening.

I nudge Lizzie onto the inside line. As I do, Sasha’s Triton car moves back toward me abruptly, cutting me off. Way, way off base for what you’re allowed. I have to drop back to avoid an accident.

I punch the radio button. “Please tell me race control saw that!”

“I’ve already spoken with them—they’re investigating,” Roz says.

With the damage Sasha’s done to his tires, it’s only a matter of time before I pass him. Unfortunately, he refuses to concede gracefully. He weaves all over, trying to defend.

As we move into the third turn of Lap 7, Sasha lunges into the corner. I grasp the opportunity to slip past.

His brakes lock and he struggles, righting just in the nick of time but sliding into the front right of J. P. Ribeiro’s car. J. P. hurtles off the track and hits the asphalt runoff.

“Is it game over for J. P.?”

“Appears so,” Roz says. “That was dirty.”

I grimace, wishing Sasha a hefty penalty. “Is it me versus Cameron for the win?”

“Roger.”

My heart pounds. This is the closest I’ve gotten to a win all season. Cameron is ahead, but advantage is to me because he’s done so much tire damage battling Sasha earlier.

If I can run my laps smoothly, I should have a very, very good shot.

I reach for my deepest area of focus. Slowly, I gain, lap after lap, millisecond after millisecond. As I come into strikingdistance, Roz’s voice crackles over the radio. “I just got told it’s Multi-13, Justine.”

“What? Seriously?”Multiis Orbital’s code for team orders. Cameron is 1, Pat is 2, and I’m 3. Multi-13, in this case, means the team wants us to hold our current positions. Cameron first, me second. This is presumably so we don’t risk an on-track battle where we end up taking each other out and Orbital winds up with zero points. But in reality, it’s preventing me from making a fair fight for first place.

“?’Fraid so.” Roz sounds unhappy but resigned.