Page 53 of My Return to the Walter Boys
“This first race is called a heat,” Cole explained as a colorful pack of cars drove out onto the track. The actual racing surface, a banked oval made of umber clay, was smaller than I expected. “It’s a qualifying round. Starting positions for the feature are determined by times in the heats.”
“Who do you think will win?” I asked as Cole snaked his arm around my back.
“Number 12,” he said, pointing to a red-and-gold car near the front. “He’s pretty successful for a local driver. Typically places on the podium and did a regional tour a few years back.”
“That’s cool, but I’m rooting for number 88,” I said, selecting the only car painted my favorite color.
Cole arched a brow. “Why?”
“Because it’s purple.”
“That,” he said, his eyes sparkling with mirth, “is aterriblestrategy.”
I shrugged, unconcerned about whether my selected car won or lost. This turned out to be a good attitude to have, because 88 crashed spectacularly as soon as the race began, spinning out and plowing nose-first into the wall.
“Told you,” Cole said as he laughed, but I pretended not to hear him over the roar of engines.
Watching the cars whip around the track was more fun than I expected, but my excitement quickly dulled due to the excessive amount of dirt. Whenever the cars flew around the corners, they kicked up a plume of the stuff, and by the time the first heat was over, a haze of dust lingered in the air like smoke. Squeezing my eyelids shut, I wondered how I’d get through the entire event if my eyes were already itching after one race.
“You good?” Cole asked, forehead crinkled with concern.
I frowned and tried to blink away the uncomfortable feeling. “I don’t know. Was I supposed to get a face full of dirt every time the cars went around the track?”
“Here.” He pulled something out from the pouch of his hoodie. My frown faded when I realized it was protective eyewear. There were two choices—safety glasses and a pair of goggles that looked a bit like the ones worn in chemistry.
“Are we doing a science experiment?” I asked but picked the second option because they had a foam seal. I’d look dorky, but thatwas a sacrifice I was willing to make to keep the dirt out of my eyes. As I pulled them on, my hair got tangled in the strap.
“Let me help,” Cole said, gently batting my hands away. He worked my curl loose, then adjusted the goggles so they fit flush on my face.
“Well,” I said, looking up at him. “How do I look?”
He bit down on his bottom lip to contain a smile. “Adorable.”
I rolled my eyes. “Oh, I’m sure.”
“No, seriously. The goggles really do it for me. If the next heat wasn’t starting, I’d be absolutely feral.”
In spite of his teasing, the goggles were a godsend, and I was able to enjoy the rest of the night without feeling like I needed to scratch my eyes out. I continued picking winners based on color schemes, and Cole continued to give me a hard time when they inevitably lost. My only deviation from this strategy was when Cole pointed out the driver he rebuilt an engine for—number 20, a mean-looking all-black car that reminded me a bit of the Batmobile—who ended up finishing fourth in his heat. Not terrible, but Cole was hopeful he’d do better in the feature.
Finally, it was time.
***
“That was a phenomenal race,” Cole said, his voice an amusing mix of exhilaration and disappointment as the crowd swept us out through the gate toward the parking lot, “but damn! He wassoclose.”
Number 20, whose name I learned was Carter, had almost clinched a win after battling from the middle of the pack up to the front. Cole and I spent the last three laps of the feature screaming at the top of our lungs, and even though the Batmobile look-alike crossed the finish line side by side with the leader, it was clear that Carter had taken second.
I grinned and swung our clasped hands back and forth. Despite the dirt, Cole’s driver not winning, and the goggle lines imprinted on my forehead, it had been a night that I would think about for months to come. “Thanks for taking me. I had a blast.”
“Cole!” someone shouted before he could respond. “Hey, Cole. Wait up!”
Glancing around, I spotted a heavyset man waving an arm over his head. The stranger was probably in his midforties, with a wild mop of curls and an abundance of freckles that gave him an element of youthfulness. He wore a racing suit that looked like Cole’s work coveralls, with the sleeves tied around his waist.
“Do you know him?” I asked, pointing out the man.
“Yeah, that’s Carter. Come on. I’ll introduce you.” Cole changed course, cutting across the flow of departing spectators, and I followed close behind him so we wouldn’t get separated. “Sorry, excuse us.”
As we approached, an unrestrained smile split Carter’s face. “Cole, my man! Thanks for coming.”
