Page 76 of The Fast Track

“Mom.” I bury my head in her shoulder. “Too soon. Let’s not talk about Europe for like ten years.”

She chuckles. “I guess it’s also too soon to discuss college.”

“Mom.”

“What? With your backstory, I think we have a solid shot. It’s too close for early decision, but we should be able to pull a competitive package together for regular admission.”

I laugh. So much for trying not to be a tiger mom.

We order in. Mom lets me get a can of pop along with my deep-fried fish and chips (extra tartar sauce on the side). After dinner, we snuggle up on the couch. I’m too drained to take in something new, so we watch all our favorite classic movies, one after the other, until neither of us can keep our eyes open anymore.

24.

“Rise and shine!” Mom sings.

I squeeze my eyes tighter and tunnel into my duvet. I don’t want to be awake yet. It’s been a week since I was fired from Orbital, seven whole days of no longer being an up-and-coming talent but a failure packing up her barely lived-in apartment.

Mom whips the blankets off, leaving me blinking into the morning sun. “It’s your last day in Milton Keynes,” she announces, like I don’t already know. Our flight is scheduled for the afternoon, and I’m a swirl of emotions I haven’t quite worked through yet. “We should do a proper send-off.”

“A proper send-off?” I repeat dumbly.

“Gougou.” She sits on my bed, running a hand through my matted hair. “We’ve been racing for eleven years. I thought it’d be nice to do something fun to bid it farewell. That is, unless you’ve changed your mind.”

To her credit, Mom has held her tongue and hasn’t tried any full-on persuasion campaigns to convince me to stay, eventhough I can tell she’s dying to. Still, she can’t help letting little hopeful tidbits slip out every now and then. I would admire her tenacity—clinging onto hope down to my last eight hours in England—if it weren’t directed at me.

“I’m done,” I say quickly. Even if I could scrounge up sponsors—which, after all the unflattering coverage, would be a steep hill for even Mom to climb—I can’t bear to go back to Formula Regional in the US, tail tucked between my legs. Everyone would have a field day, including vile mouth breathers like Timmy Harris, who I used to trounce.

I’d rather take my chances at a regular life and never have to look at a racetrack again.

“If you’re sure.” Mom sighs. “Let’s go put proper closure around England before you start a new chapter.”

“What does that even mean?” I ask, wary of where she’s going with this. For sanity-preservation purposes, I’ve asked her not to bring up any future planning until our plane lands in Chicago. I still caught her scrolling Stanford’s admissions website yesterday, though, right in the middle of my post-dinner rewatch ofPurple Noon.

“I promise it’s better than lying in bed until the airport shuttle arrives.”

Mom’s idea for a grand emotional closure turns out to be a visit to Trustmore Karting Club, the amateur circuit outside Milton Keynes, where local kids race. It isn’t like anything I used to go to—the sleek entrance hall looks closer to the OTC lobbythan the ramshackle shed that functioned as the reception at Evanston Raceways, my childhood track.

No wonder racing in Europe is so much more competitive, if kids are starting here. I gawk at an exhibit celebrating Trustmore alums who’ve made it big. There’s the old karting helmet of an F1 driver, child gloves of an IndyCar driver, and a pair of junior boots that belonged to a MotoGP rider.

Beyond the initial display is a life-size cardboard cutout—of me. It’s from Orbital’s promo photo shoot at the beginning of the season. I stand in the cocky pose the photographer dictated: body to the side, arms crossed, head to the camera. A hopeful, toothy smile is plastered across my face.

That was taken two days after I landed in Milton Keynes. It hurts to see this sunny likeness of myself, before the reality of racing in Europe set in.

“Seriously?” I turn to Mom.

“I swear I had nothing to do with this. I just thought it’d be nice for you to have one last drive before we head home.”

Home. Ninety-nine percent of me can’t wait until our flight so I can hightail it to Chicago and never think about the UK and Europe or racing again. The remaining 1 percent dreads it.

I tiptoe toward the glass case behind my cutout, despite every instinct in my body telling me it’ll only make the pain worse.

Across the top, someone has hung aGIRLS RUN THE WORLD!banner with glittery pink letters. Below is a meticuloustimeline of my career, starting with a picture of me in Evanston, then various articles and photos from local newspapers and club announcements. It culminates in pictures of me at Orbital, including a team shot of me, Cameron, and Pat posing together from the same promo photo shoot as the cutout. It’s painful to see him, to see us. A sharp reminder that I’ve lost more than my F3 seat.

“Wow, this is great.” Mom whips out her phone to take a picture. At the look on my face, she shrugs and puts it back into her pocket.

“Justine?” A cheerful voice rings out over the entrance lobby, followed by theclick-clickof kitten heels on linoleum.

“Chloe?” I squint. Even though I met her through the guys and she clearly parties with the drivers and mechanics, I’m shocked to see her here, at an actual circuit.