Page 78 of The Fast Track

Orbital hasn’t issued a formal press release yet about my departure, only a vague social media announcement that Georgios will be driving in my place at Zandvoort this weekend. Mom thinks they’re pacing out the messaging so it causes less of a kerfuffle.

The thought of Maddie having to cancel her party makes my heart break.

She continues, “I’m going to apply for Orbital’s Young Driver Program as soon as I’m old enough. Everyone says a girl can’t win in F1, but I think we can.”

“I think we can, too,” I say softly.

She beams, her face glowing.

There’s a tap on my shoulder. “?’Scuse me.” A little boy stands next to me. I recognize the black helmet tucked under his arm. “Are you the girl driver for Orbital?”

“Yes,” I say automatically. I stand up to my full height and stare him down. “If you try to push anyone off the track like that again, you can kiss your chances of ever driving for Orbital goodbye.”

The boy turns the shade of Szechuan peppercorn. Next to me, Maddie can hardly hide her glee.

“All right, kids, fab session. Let’s have a photo, shall we?” the bored-looking track attendant calls.

Maddie and her bully line up with the others in front of a black-and-white-checkered backdrop. The way the boys keep a perimeter around her does not escape me. A strange sense of déjà vu descends as I watch Maddie force her way into the middle of the photo, pushing disgruntled peers aside with bravado.

I clench my fist. I’ve come so far since my own karting days. I’m still a long way from F1, but I’m so much closer than I was. Even if it’s a tilted playing field and my own team won’t ever truly back me, there’s a whole community out there who does—Maddie, Mom, Roz (once she forgives me), my anonymous online well-wishers—and for them, I can’t give up.

Not now. Not ever.

Maddie isnotcanceling her watch party.

25.

“Are you sure you don’twant me to come with you?” Mom asks for the fifth time in ten minutes.

The imposing gray-and-black facade of the OTC entrance looms over us.

“I’m sure.”

I’ve been calling Frank nonstop for the last four hours. Unfortunately, he has chosen to ignore me. As have Cameron and Roz. Only Dietrich has given me any sign of life, and that was to leave a string of apology texts on read.

With no other path left, I’ve opted to gate-crash. I’m going to sit outside Frank’s office and wait as long as I have to until he hears me out.

“Call me if you need anything.” Mom squeezes my hand hard enough to grind my knuckles together. “It’s going to work. I know it.”

Her face tells a different story, even though she endorsed my Hail Mary idea and paid our cancellation fees for the Chicago plane tickets without hesitation.

I step out of the car. Behind me, the Uber drives off, taking Mom to the Starbucks at Kingston, where we agreed she’d wait. I take a deep breath to calm my nerves, then walk into the grand lobby.

I swipe my pass at the clear glass turnstile. The doors fail to open, beeping red.

“You’re no longer a registered employee,” the receptionist, Carolina, says from behind the visitor desk.

“But it’s only been a week.”

“Sorry, I don’t run security.” She yawns, turning her attention back to her phone.

That was ruthlessly efficient. I shouldn’t be shocked the racing team that’s won six F1 Constructors’ Championships moves quickly, but it hurts all the same they’ve already written me off, literally wiping me from the records.

I sigh and open WhatsApp. My thumb floats between Cameron, Roz, and Dietrich, debating who is less likely to ignore me. Again. Finally, I hit call on the last name, since he’s the only one who’s bothered to open our chat since Spa.

The line rings and rings. I’m debating taking my chances and jumping the turnstiles—the geriatric security guard looks like he couldn’t win a footrace against a turtle and certainly won’t be able to catch me—when there’s aclick.

“Yes?” Dietrich’s voice is flat.