Kiss the Bricks Page 10
“I’ll be there when you go out for your run. Do good, Katie.” He kissed my forehead and walked off, whistling, to reconnect with old pals.
I entered my garage and was immediately swept into conversation with my engineer, Nolan. The hour after my arrival went by in a flash, and before I knew it, I was circling the track with the first practice group. We had a half-hour break, then we were back out with the whole field at nine. We worked on the car, trying to make it faster with every lap, until time was called at ten.
The car could be better, could be worse.
It certainly wouldn’t be comfortable, trimmed as it was for maximum speed. Nerves danced the samba in my stomach.
I left the car to the crew and headed back to the garage for a dry set of clothes, food, and water. On my way back through Gasoline Alley, I ran into Sofia Montalvo, who looked down her nose at me. I ignored her and kept moving, which she didn’t like.
“It is as I told you,” she said loudly to the man with her. “Kate is so threatened by the success of other drivers, like me, she cannot even be civil.”
I turned to her, plastering a surprised look on my face and not caring how fake it appeared. “Sofia, I didn’t see you there. I was focused on important things.”
The man with her smirked, and Sofia gave me a nasty, patronizing smile. “I will wish you luck today, as I’m certain you will need it.” She tossed her head and moved off.
Whatever, you prima donna. We’ll see what happens on the track.
Two steps later I felt eyes on me. I looked around and saw a crew member from R-9 Racing a few feet away, leaning against the side of a building and glaring at me. The crewmember who’d egged on the belligerent fan on the first day of practice. The one who said girls didn’t belong at the Indy 500.
He had a scrunched up face out of proportion to the rest of his tall, wiry frame and leathery skin, courtesy of sixty years of too much sun exposure. He clutched his cigarette like it was life-giving, and he looked at me like I was the devil. I’d have walked past him without comment if he hadn’t tried to spit on my shoes.
“Excuse me? Can I help you with something?” My tone was far from gracious.
His lip curled. “You got nothin’ I want. But I got something you do.” He reached down and jiggled his junk.
“No way in hell.” I thought I might vomit.
“I think you do. Think you need a real man. ’Cause maybe if you got some righteous cock, you’d have all the thrill you’d need. You wouldn’t make a fool of yourself in these cars.” He leered, revealing crooked teeth, and looked me up and down, then rubbed himself again. “You’re a hot little package, so I’d give you what you’re asking for.”
I felt violated, and I wanted to run away, as if I could physically distance myself from the idea that anyone, no matter what age, would think such things, let alone say them to my face. But I made myself stand still. I took a breath and stared him down.
“You’re vile. And you’re wrong.”
As I walked away, I was immediately stopped by a fan for a signature. I felt the awful man’s eyes on me, but I refused to turn around. I rounded the corner to the next garage—though it wasn’t my row—and slumped against the wall.
How can he say those things out loud? How did no one hear that? How many people agree with him? How can I fight that attitude?
After a minute of feeling vulnerable and small, I pulled myself together, remembering the support of my team, family, and fans. Reminding myself the nasty crewmember was a single voice—an older generation. Not the future. Then I got angry.
It’s qualifying day. I refuse to let one asshole ruin everything I’ve worked for. He doesn’t get that kind of power over me.
Walking back to the Beermeier garage and receiving a text from my boyfriend wishing me luck finished soothing my rattled nerves, though tension among my crew had ratcheted up a couple notches. Some guys gobbled down sandwiches, while others obsessively patrolled the car, cloth in hand, polishing away grime. I spied Alexa’s father, Ron, and Chuck sitting on stools next to the coffee machine eating ice cream bars, and I leaned against the wall next to them.
“What do you think of our chances today?”
Chuck shrugged and jerked a thumb toward Ron. “He’s the expert.”
Ron studied the car. “I think your chances are good. Car’s solid, you’re more comfortable in her, and the team’s all pulling in the same direction.”
“I hope so.” Nerves skittered up my spine. “Were you as confident about PJ qualifying?”
“Never was.” He hitched a foot up onto the stool’s cross-bar. “The first year, she was so green, she couldn’t pass the rookie test.”
“That had to be awful.”
“It happened.” He shrugged, then glanced at Chuck. “It helped we had insurance to cover some of the costs—helped us both.” Chuck nodded.
Ron went on. “The next year, we had higher hopes at first, but so many problems it’d have been a miracle if she made the field at all.” He turned to me. “You’ve got more going for you.”
“What made you hire PJ in the first place?”
He stared at the ceiling. “A lot of reasons. I met her father somewhere, heard about her, and was impressed. Thought she deserved a chance. I thought it was time to shake things up in the paddock.” He turned to look at me again. “The environment has changed for the better now.”
“Kate,” Holly called from the office area, tapping her watch. My heart pounded.
Time to get ready for qualifying.
Chapter Nineteen
A short while later, I sat in the car, sweating. I was fourth in line to qualify, and my heart rate was in the stratosphere. I was focused on the six circuits ahead of me: an out lap, a warm-up lap, and four timed laps to determine if I raced the Indy 500 this year.
I should feel confident—I did. Somewhere under the nerves.
We adjusted and trimmed for speed—for yesterday’s conditions. Will they hold up or will we miss on the setup? Will I be too slow or will I be hanging on for dear life?
Every member of my crew stood around me as we made our slow progression to the head of the line, rolling me forward as cars pulled out for their runs. Three ahead.
Dear God, don’t let me make a mistake. Don’t let me screw up the car. Don’t let me screw up our chances to race. Stop it, Kate. You won’t. You’ll do what you need to do.
I moved my hand from the two anti-roll bar levers—one for the front and one for the rear of the car—to the weight jacker buttons on the steering wheel. These controlled minute adjustments in ride height, which affected weight distribution and stiffness from side to side.
But how has the wind changed, and what will that do to the car? Will I be able to go flat in the corners or have to lift? Will I be loose? Have push?
Racecars had two fundamental handling problems: understeer, when the front of the car wouldn’t turn—it “pushed”—and kept wanting to go straight even with the wheel turned, and oversteer, when the front turned fine, but the back end was “loose” or wouldn’t hold grip and would make the car spin out. Both the weight jacker and the anti-roll bars were used to fine-tune the car to find balance between both states—and drivers usually made small adjustments with both tools multiple times a lap. That was especially true at Indianapolis Motor Speedway, given the track’s two-and-a-half-mile length, where wind direction could cause significant change in handling from one end to the other.
Two cars ahead. My heart rate increased, until all I could hear was the pounding in my ears. I closed my eyes and focused on my breathing.
In and out. Deep breaths. In and out.
I popped my eyes open, afraid I’d missed something important. Bald John shifted next to me and checked the position of the umbrella he held over me to block the sun. Still two cars ahead.
Keep breathing. You’ve do
ne this before.
One car ahead. I focused on the nose of my car. Thought about the track. Worried more. The car ahead started and pulled out. First in line. I breathed as deeply as panic and tight belts allowed, ignoring the screaming voice inside me.
This is my only chance to make the race! Don’t screw up!
The car on track started its final lap. My team started my engine. Waiting.
Breathe. It was time.
The race director, who’d stood in pit lane in front of me and every other car in line, stepped aside and waved me out.
Alexa spoke in my ear: “You’ve got this, Kate.”
I couldn’t breathe. I rolled onto the throttle and released the clutch, spinning the wheels, but keeping the car straight. My heart was still in my throat, but the blinding moment of panic passed, and I started to settle.
For efficiency’s sake, my out lap happened while the previous driver took his single cool-down lap—that was the only time more than one car was on track during qualifying. The rest of the time, each driver had the track to him or herself.
You and the car. Feel it, figure out what you’ve got under you.
On my out lap, I put my foot flat on the floor and worked my way up to speed around the track. Down the front straight to start my warm-up lap, shift into fifth gear for my first time into Turn 1 at speed.
Time to see what I’ve got.
Turn 1 flat. Turn 2 flat, feeling a little slide, and bumping the rear anti-roll bar on the back straight. Building speed there, thinking about the coming lap.
Will I need sixth on the front straight? Will I be fast enough to carry sixth? Did we get the gearing right?
Through Turn 4, releasing my hands at the exit to get the best run down the straight to the line. Hoping for speed. Grabbing sixth gear. Crossing start/finish to begin my first timed lap.
“Green flag,” Alexa radioed.
I reminded myself to breathe. Kept my foot as flat as possible on the throttle, feeling my way, ready to move my tools if necessary. I dipped low to the apex of Turn 1, shifting my hands left slightly. Unwound the same small amount, let the car drift out to the exterior wall of the track. Foot still on the floor, car under me. Stay at the wall. Now shift left to the apex of Turn 2, holding the car steady, feeling the hum of the engine through my butt and legs. Looking down the track, down the back straight.
Touch the apex of 2, unwind the wheel, drift to the outer wall, flying down the straight. Move away from the wall, center track. All alone out here, use the space. Take a breath. Drift out to the wall, then turn the wheel for 3. Feeling less resistance in the front, turning less than last time.
Weight jacker one click to the right in the short chute.
Out of 3 to the outside wall. Turning in for 4, more push from the front end. Nudge the front bar. Foot planted down the front straight, moving center track and then to the inside wall, flashing past the lineup in pit lane. Focused on Turn 1 again.
Alexa radioed as I passed her. “Three more.”
The next two laps went by in a blur. Turn by turn the car got looser. In between screaming, Too loose! Hang on! at myself, I kept adjusting to compensate. First the jacker, then the roll bar, bit by bit, trying to keep the tires under me, holding onto the track, going as fast as I could. Not knowing my speed, only knowing the car felt slippery—hoping that meant quick. Hoping it was enough.
“One to go,” Alexa called.
I held my breath, balanced the car on the knife-edge of speed and grip.
Leave it all on the track.
I couldn’t keep my foot flat on the throttle anymore, not with tire wear. Not with it this loose. I downshifted to fifth and lifted subtly before Turn 1. Then gathered it up, taking Turn 2 flat, willing the tires to hold for two more turns. Move the tools, tiny lift before Turn 3. A tinier lift still before Turn 4. Throttle down—crossing the stripe.
“Checkered flag,” Alexa called. “Average of 228.402. P12 right now, which means you’re in the race.”
Chapter Twenty
As I slowed on my cool-down lap, I pounded the wheel and shouted inside my helmet, releasing my tension. Celebrating, because that speed was a full mile-per-hour faster than we’d gone in practice. My heart still pounding, I drove down pit lane and stopped on the row of bricks for our official team photo—which happened quickly, while the next car took their laps.
The crew crowded around the car, Bald John helping me remove the wheel to get out and replace it when I was sitting on the edge of the cockpit, feet on the seat. I undid my helmet with shaking fingers and put on a baseball hat. The crew lined up behind me, the photographer snapped photos, and I did my best to smile, sure I appeared manic.
After that, I stepped out of the car and let the crew pull it back to our temporary pit space. I walked with them, thanking everyone for their efforts, then joined Alexa and Nolan in front of our timing and scoring screen.
“Do we need another run?” I asked. On this first qualifying day, teams could take as many runs as they wanted or had time for during the official session, but by lining up for a new run, the previous time was deleted—obviously a risk when you had a decent time recorded already.
Alexa shook her head. “You’ve got us in the field.” She stepped out of the pit box to tell the team to take the car to technical inspection and then back to the garage.
“We’re sure?” I looked to Nolan, feeling the first trickle of relief.
“You went out twenty-third.” He checked the timing screen. “Two more in the books now, and you’re still P12. Nine more to qualify. Even if they all get ahead of you, which they won’t, you’re still in the top 33.”
“I say sixteenth—that’s what I’ve got in the pool.” Alexa grinned. “Get some rest tonight, and be ready to do it again tomorrow.”
All over again tomorrow for position—but I’ve made it into the race! I felt exhausted and overjoyed all at once.
By the end of that day, the Indy 500’s field of thirty-three was set. We didn’t know what positions we’d start, but we knew who’d take the green. Unfortunately for one team, we also knew who wouldn’t be racing. I couldn’t imagine spending months to pull together sponsors, team, crew, and car only to miss the race itself. I felt for the people packing up at the end of that Saturday.
I’d ended up in fifteenth—winning Banjo the betting pool—though the only use for that result was to place me firmly in the group of cars vying for positions ten through thirty-three the next day. We weren’t celebrating yet, because that wasn’t the end of the job. Merely the first step.
I drove home alone, remembering what my run felt like in each corner of each lap.
The same again tomorrow would be perfect.
On Sunday, we’d only have one set of four timed laps to establish our final starting position. The pressure would be on.
As I entered our apartment, Gramps and Holly were serving up dinner. I tossed my keys and tote on a side table—but my aim was off, and the bag upended on the floor. I crouched down, swearing, then froze at the sight of an unexpected item—another folded piece of yellow notepaper bearing my name in block letters.
Not again.
“Hurry up, butterfingers,” Gramps called.
I stood and turned, the folded paper in my hand.
Holly understood. “Shit. What’s this one say?”
I read it aloud. “‘PJ was murdered. Find out why or you’ll be next.’”
“Is it signed?” Gramps frowned. “Do you recognize the writing?”
I handed it over. “Block capitals and no signature.”
Gramps shook his head. “I don’t like this.”
“Me either. But they want me to figure out why PJ died.” I took a deep breath and said it out loud. “And I have to do that anyway.”
It took Gramps a minute. “Oh, no. No. It’s not your fight.”
He waved a hand. “A few idiots on their phones.”
“It’s more like hundreds of people having the conversation,” Holly said, “thousands of people monitoring it, and hundreds of thousands of people seeing it.”
“Plus dozens of blogs and articles and newsletters. You heard the people at the track calling me PJ—that comes from social media. The topic ‘call Kate PJ’ was trending this morning. I’m losing my identity!” My voice and level of hysteria rose.
“Katie,” Gramps’ voice was anguished.
I took Gramps’ hand and moved us all to the table. “Eventually it’ll be okay. But right now, everyone sees PJ. Everyone’s waiting for me to self-destruct. Some are rubbing their hands together with glee waiting for that. Some are telling me I deserve it.”
He paled and his jaw dropped. He turned to Holly, hoping she’d deny my words.
“True.” She shook her head. “And unfortunately typical.”
I made Gramps look at me again. “All those comments do is tell me I’m doing something right—but I’m sorry to worry you.”
He gathered his wits. “I’d rather know what you’re dealing with. My poor Katie.”
“The problem isn’t those comments,” Holly put in, “it’s that Kate is disappearing in the eyes of the racing world.”
“We can’t stand for that.” Gramps thumped his fist on the table, rattling the serving spoons.
I smiled. “It’s also about the lies. Everything people know about PJ is lies, and I’ve damn well had enough of lies tarnishing someone’s name.”
The others were silent, aware I was talking about my own history as well as PJ’s. Holly, who’d been filled in about the family documents, glanced between me and Gramps. Gramps stared at his plate.
I blew out a breath. “Look, if PJ’s memory were respected, no one would taunt me with her. Plus her mother asked me to clear PJ’s name and restore her dignity. That’s a tough request to ignore.”