Page 24 of Until The Lights Go Out

“Helmet off the seat,” he said without looking at me. “You’ll scratch the visor.”

I grabbed my gear bag and slung it over my shoulder.

“Yes, sir.”

He kept working, tightening straps around the kart frame, muttering something under his breath about braking points and hesitation. I crouched down beside the trailer and unzipped my bag to shove my gloves inside.

Something white peeked out from the top, and I frowned at it. I hadn’t put anything in there.

I pulled it out, and a folded piece of paper with my name scribbled across the front in big looping handwriting stared back at me.

I glanced up instinctively, checking my surroundings. My father was still busy securing the kart.

I unfolded the note. The handwriting inside was messy but enthusiastic, letters leaning wildly across the page.

Theo,

You’re actually pretty good for someone who looks like they swallowed a lemon all the time. I mean that as a compliment. The Turn 3 move was clever. I almost didn’t see it coming. But also: I won. So technically that means I’m better right now.

Sorry about that.

Not really though.

— Maisey

P.S. Don’t tell your dad I talked to you. He looks like he might explode.

I stared at the paper, then read it again, letting my eyes scan over the handwriting. My lips twitched before I could stop them. I folded the note quickly when I heard my father step down from the trailer.

“What are you doing?” he asked.

“Just putting my gloves away.”

He looked at me for a long moment, eyes narrowing slightly like he was deciding whether he believed me.

Then he nodded once.

“Good race,” he said stiffly. The words were so unexpected that I almost looked around to see if he was talking to someone else. “You’ll correct the mistakes next time.”

“Yes, sir.”

He turned back toward the trailer. I slid the folded note deeper into my bag.

When we stopped at a small gas station on the drive home, my father went inside to pay. I stayed in the car. The rain had stopped completely, leaving the parking lot shining under the gray sky. I pulled the note back out, pushing my fingers over the now-soft crumpled paper, and I read it again. I flipped it over, finding some empty space on the back. I rummaged through the glove compartment until I found a pen. Quickly, I wrote out a reply.

Maisey,

You only won because you cheated with that weird turn thing you did. Also I do not look like I swallowed a lemon. Also my dad doesn’t explode. (Usually.)

— Theo

P.S. Next time I’m winning.

I stared at it. It felt weird, the whole writing to someone I barely knew—writing to someone my dad definitely didn’t want me talking to. But I folded the note anyway, as carefully as I could.

When we got back to the track the next weekend, I slipped the paper into the side pocket of my gear bag. Right before practice started, I saw Maisey walking past our spot in the paddock. I hesitated before I grabbed the folded paper and jogged a few steps forward.

“Hey.”