Page 74 of The Fast Track

A spark of irritation shoots through me. Roz is crying like it’sherlife that’s been ruined just because the article mentioned her twice, when, as far as I can tell, she’s still gainfully employed.

“It’s already out there. What will that even do?”

“We should at least respond with something. What about thatMotor Sportarticle?”

I appreciate Roz’s concern, I really do, but I just need some time to think. To breathe. To figure things out. “Why are you so stressed? You’re only in two lines; you’ll be fine.”

Roz sniffs. “You’re not the only one affected by this. My family chat has been blowing up. Daddy is livid—this is exactly why he didn’t want me to go into motorsport.”

“Look,” I say, desperate to get her off my back so I can go cry in peace. My shot at F1 has collapsed like a supermassive black hole and Roz is worried about her family group chat. “It’s gonna be okay for you. You’re going to have a job no matter what. It’s not like your uncle will fire you.”

“Are you saying I only have my job because I’m a nepo baby?”

“No! You’re so talented. I’m just saying you don’t need to stress this much. You’ll still have your spot on the team.”

“Because it’s Uncle Lou’s team. So, a nepo baby.”

My temper flares. It’s like she’s misinterpreting me on purpose. “If you’re going to insist on twisting what I say, then sure. Fine. Nepo baby.”

Roz’s face falls. “I don’t even know how we got onto this. But for what it’s worth, it’s not just about you. Or me, for that matter.” She draws a breath, her lips a thin line. “That article used us to make women in motorsport sound like a ridiculous idea. Partying in short skirts at clubs, incestuous paddockdating—like that’s all any of us are good for. There was zero mention of the races we’ve run. Anything we’ve accomplished. There are girls looking up to us who might try to race or study engineering, so pardon me if I’m keen to right the narrative.”

Her words make me want to curl into a ball on the ground.

“There’s no wayMotor Sportwants to interview a former F3 driver.” Saying it out loud makes it feel so much more real, a gut punch that’s worse than any high-speed collision I’ve been in.

“What?” The color drains out of Roz’s face. “Please tell me you’re kidding.”

“I wish,” I say, my voice breaking.

Then I turn and run.

If I’d stood there looking at Roz another second longer, I would’ve burst into tears, and the last thing I want is for the entire paddock to see me cry. I dash for the exit, slowing down to go through the turnstiles, and break my way into the parking lot.

Luckily, there’s no one in the cab line. The traffic is all one way, with everyone coming in for the F1 race. If the taxi driver is surprised at a grimy, smelly driver still wearing a full race suit diving into his back seat, he doesn’t show it. “Où aller?”

I take a deep breath. “The airport, please.”

23.

Milton Keynes, United Kingdom

It’s only when I openthe door to our apartment, everything in exactly the same state it was when my life wasn’t a flaming garbage fire next to a dynamite factory, that reality sinks in.

I’m never going to be an F1 driver.

The Marino model car on the shelf mocks me. Its vivid red screams “you’ll never get to drive one now.” Impulsively, I grab it—one of the few things of Dad’s I convinced Mom not to throw out—and toss it onto the floor. It thuds soundlessly against our plush rug. It feels only natural to peel off my suit—now crusty with dried sweat—and lob it over the car.

I’m on a roll now. Next to go into the pile is my Orbital water bottle. Then my team polo, followed by the matching jacket. All of them a reminder of how much I tried and how it wasn’t enough. I’m about to chuck my Orbital baseball cap into the growing discard heap when the front door bangs open.

“Justine.” Mom stalks in.

My insides shrink until they’re a little hard pit. She never uses my English name.

She’s so furious, she forgets to take her shoes off at the front door and marches right into the middle of our living room. The last time she did that, we got a letter in the mail from Dad. Mom walked it out to the deck—still wearing her wedges—and tossed it into the firepit before I could convince her to open it.

“What happened?” Her voice dips a little, and I know she’s on the verge of tears.

I didn’t know there was a feeling worse than rock bottom.