Page 9 of The Fast Track
Georgios nudges me, jolting me out of my thoughts. “She’s talking to you.”
I realize Britt’s staring expectantly, as is everyone else in the room.
“Uh, yes?” I sit up straighter and do my best to look like I haven’t been zoning out. Britt can make a driver’s life remarkably unpleasant—she once sent Caleb to a community service event at a landfill—so I definitely don’t want to get on her bad side.
“I was just commending you, Justine, on your Instagram,” she says. “If you haven’t seen her feed, gentlemen, I highly recommend it. The speed and consistency at which she posts is exemplary.”
The boys tap away at their devices, presumably all checking out my Instagram.Oh no.
The profile Mom runs focuses on Racing As A Girl,lifestyle, and fashion—all the things I don’t want highlighted. I’ve lost count of how many times my pleading for her to pivot has fallen on deaf ears. (“You’ve gotta lean into your differences!” she always spouts off in response. “Girlboss!”)
“Half of these are ‘outfit of the day’ posts.” Cameron furiously scrolls on his phone. “How’re we supposed to do that?”
“Now, it’s not the hashtag—”
“No one would like my posts if it was just me standing around in my clothes.” Grayson jerks his thumb at me. “Only birds can post like that.”
“Yeah,” Pat pipes up. “My clothes all look the same.”
“Gentlemen!” Britt titters. “As I was saying, it’s not the hashtag that’s been a winner for Justine; it’s her frequency and consistency.”
“Donboy19 says, ‘Love your shorts. Where did you get them?’?” Grayson reads aloud. “MadisonXOXO says, ‘Nice stems!’?”
I am highly, highly questioning Roz’s taste in men. What does she see in the guy, anyway? I mean, he has an eight-pack, but other than that, he’s as basic as hand soap.
“Can you come up with a strategy that works for us?” Cameron asks. “No one’s going to compliment my legs.”
Us—as inNot you, Justine. You don’t belong with us. My fingers clench, nails digging hard into my palm.
“I’ll like a post with your hairy legs.” Grayson snickers.
“Thanks, mate.” The guys fist-bump each other. Cameron leans over his table and smirks down the row at me. “Maybe my legs will get as many likes as yours.”
I want to fit in. I want to be one of them, someone who blends into the metaphorical crowd and is only judged by her skills on-track. I know I should probably laugh off Cameron’s comment, play it cool and unbothered, but his cheeky half dimple, combined with the malicious twinkle in his eye, sets me off.
“Please. Like half your stories aren’t post-workout thirst traps.”
Someone lets out a low whistle.
“She’s not wrong, mate.” Pat elbows him, grinning.
Instead of squirming with embarrassment at being called out, the obnoxious smile on Cameron’s face grows wider. “You stalking my socials, Kwong?”
“Do I look like a D-list WAG wannabe? Because that’s all I see in your comments.”
“Some might argue that’s exactly what your feed looks like.” He reads from his phone. “?‘Happy hump day, everyone! These sneakers are like walking on clouds—link in my bio.’?”
The guys side-eye one another and snicker like it’s the funniest thing they’ve heard all day.
“Gentlemen.” Britt clears her throat, her eyes darting to the back of the room. “Let’s get back on topic, shall—”
“Thank you, Britt.” Frank’s voice echoes behind us. The room stills instantly. “Let’s finish it up. Seems like our young drivers are well versed in social media already. Justine, Cam—outside.”
A gloomy pit expanding in my stomach, I shuffle out with Cameron a few feet behind.
“Tell me,” Frank says, closing the door to the multipurposeroom after us. “Is it too much to ask that a rote training session go undisturbed by your squabbling?”
I blurt out the first words that come to mind. “Cameron started it!”
