Braking Points Page 8

  “That works. Now set up Twitter on your phone.”

  Holly pointed me to a number of people to follow, including her, the Series, other teams, and the Breast Cancer Research Foundation.

  “Now what?” I looked at her.

  She rolled her eyes. “Tweet something. Figure it out while I play with your makeup again.”

  Twenty minutes later she reappeared for an update.

  I felt like a bear coming out of hibernation. “I haven’t done anything. I fell down a rabbit hole of Twitter.”

  “That’ll happen. Tweet something, now.”

  I typed, watching the character count with fascination as it ticked down. “@katereilly28: Ready or not, here I come. Trying to figure out Twitter. Looking forward to Petit next weekend. See you there?”

  I put my arms in the air. “Yesssss!”

  Chapter Fourteen

  My priorities Saturday morning were a good workout in the hotel gym, a hearty breakfast, and a three-block walk to the Beauté and BCRF press event at Centennial Olympic Park. Holly skipped the workout, but joined me for the second two. We arrived at the park an hour before start time, as camera crews set up tripods and assistants ran around with clipboards.

  The tent next to the stage was the preparation and make-up area. Once there, I changed into my pink polo shirt with the twin Beauté and BCRF logos, and a stylist threaded a scarf through the loops of my black twill trousers, tying it in a jaunty square knot. I met the two spokeswomen who’d been missing the day before: the pro basketball player, a tall Asian woman, and the marathon runner, who was short, dark, and wiry.

  As the six athletes were prepped and styled, we shared stories of getting the call from Beauté and making the trip to New York for our first photo shoots. After the Beauté social media rep walked by, waving her phone in the air and calling out, “Don’t forget to post about this!” we also swapped Twitter names, followed each other, and retweeted BCRF and Beauté posts.

  I was relieved to find the others equally nervous about being the face of a beauty line. As Tina put it, “I’m used to the spotlight, but not to looking good in it.”

  “I’m safe,” Carrie, the rower, declared. “If I’m not dripping with sweat, no one will know who I am.”

  “At least you’re used to talking about sponsors, Kate,” noted the basketball player. Siena was her name.

  “I’m surprised you’ve gone five minutes without naming names,” Tina teased. “Isn’t that in your contract?”

  I smiled. “They pay the bills, we talk about them. We practice interviews and sound bites about as much as driving. But this is different.” I looked around at the others. “This is bigger than my team or sponsors. More important.”

  Though we were all nervous, each was proud and excited to have earned the chance to affect a larger community. Even without Racing’s Ringer chastising me, I knew I was a standard-bearer for women in my sport, a role model for young female racers. The day had finally come when I had the platform to do good on a larger scale.

  The irony was that as Racing’s Ringer took me to task for not doing more, this sponsorship deal had already been signed. I wondered how he’d take today’s news.

  “Uh oh.” Holly browsed the Internet on her phone while I sat in the makeup chair, a man working on my hair and a woman putting lip liner on me.

  “Ut?” I couldn’t move my lips.

  “He’s at it again.”

  “Ashing’sh Inge?”

  “Yes, Racing’s Ringer. Do you want to ignore it, or know now?”

  I pointed to the floor, meaning “now.”

  “He dug up old stories of you behaving badly—he’s calling them ‘unconfirmed,’ which doesn’t mean much. Three stories now, and he claims there will be more in a series of reports that will ‘expose Kate Violent’s true character.’” She made air quotes with one hand around the last words.

  The makeup artist was dusting powder over my face, so I could form words again. “Kate what?”

  “He’s given you a new nickname, something he’s fond of doing. You’re now ‘Kate Violent.’”

  “But…”

  “It’s awful and catchy. Read the stories.” She handed over her phone as the hair and makeup team pronounced me done and instructed me not to mess anything up.

  According to the Ringer’s first “eyewitness account,” I was a poor sport. The story was from my formula days, involving Ellie and Juliana. It was true I’d bumped Juliana in the braking zone for a corner, sending her into the wall and me into first place for the win. What few had seen was Ellie attempting a kamikaze pass and hitting me, to start a chain reaction. Of course, the Ringer told only half the story.

  The second incident concerned a specific regional race in which I’d “clawed” my way to the front of the field and “ruthlessly” blocked the faster drivers behind me. When a competitor managed to get beside me, I’d “shoved” in front of him—the Ringer triumphantly labeled this evidence of my violent temper—causing a wreck and ending the other driver’s day. I closed my eyes and felt the shame and despair of that moment as a weight on my shoulders—even fourteen years later. I was eleven when it happened.

  The facts were correct. My coach that year in the go-kart ranks was working on my toughness, my will to win. I listened to his voice in my head instead of my own and pulled the bonehead move, causing my first bad accident and sending Sean Ellis, now a friend and former competitor in the Star Mazda series as well as karts, airborne in a double-flip worthy of a gymnast. I’d learned that day to trust my own instincts, no one else’s. Sean and his parents forgave me sooner than I’d forgiven myself. Now, I felt ashamed all over again.

  I scrolled to the last story and laughed so I didn’t cry—Beauté promised their makeup was waterproof, but I didn’t want to test it. That story, also true, defined selfishness and aggression. I was eight, and it was my fourth race ever. I wanted to win, did something awful to make it happen, and figured out I didn’t want to succeed that way the minute I took the checkered flag. I tried to make the race officials give the trophy to the kid I’d wrecked, but they wouldn’t. I tried to get out of the winner’s circle ceremony, but Gramps wouldn’t allow it, wanting the shame of the moment to teach me a lesson. I accepted the trophy with tears streaming down my face, then went straight to the other kid’s truck and trailer. Wiping away tears and snot with the sleeve of my racing suit, I stuttered out an apology, thrust the trophy at him, and ran off.

  That day, I resolved to win fairly or not at all. But the Ringer didn’t want to talk about kids growing up. He wanted to talk about what an asshole I was.

  “Holly!” I hissed at her. “What do I do? Should I tell someone here?”

  “What did your crisis PR people say about stuff from the Ringer’s blog?”

  “Ignore it.”

  “You’re prepared if reporters ask, right?”

  “I have three responses to deflect the topic, plus I’m loaded with talking points.”

  “Like my mama always said, if trouble finds you, so be it. But there’s no need to go huntin’ for it.”

  I settled back in my chair. “Ignoring it.”

  “Speaking of huntin’ for trouble, when’s that sponsor event?” Holly took her phone back.

  “Tomorrow morning.” I looked around the tent, smelling makeup and hairspray, seeing women and pink. “Can you imagine a more stark contrast?”

  I had obligations to Beauté as my personal sponsor, and I also had obligations to sponsors of the Sandham Swift Racing team, such as mentioning sponsor names when talking about the car and participating in events, activities, or photo opportunities with their representatives. At the crack of dawn Sunday morning, Jack, Mike, and I would meet reps from the 28 car’s title sponsor, BW Outdoor Sportsman’s Supply and Goods, or simply “BW Goods,” a national hunting superstore. We’d meet hunters, shoot guns,
and—if we were lucky, I was told—pose with fresh kill.

  I studied my face in the mirror. I was getting used to being made up, but I was more accustomed to seeing sweat, matted hair, and the creases my fireproof head sock made on my face. This was an enhanced me, closer to the feminine ideal—which made it not quite me. In my mind, “feminine” meant fluttery, giggly, helpless, and being swathed in ruffles and pink. But here I was wearing pink and makeup, looking softer, pretty. Maybe I could find a compromise between sweaty, athletic tomboy and prissy, perfect, can’t-get-dirty girly-girl.

  I caught Holly’s eye as she looked at my reflection. “I’m not sure where I’ll feel more out of place, here or there.”

  “You’ve got more potential for girly than you let on, sugar, so I’d pin my money on tomorrow being more strange. Then again, maybe you put on your Kate Violent persona and let those guns rip.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  Seven of us in pink polo shirts stood at the entrance to the tent with three black-clad women wearing radio headsets prepping us for our one-by-one reveal. The addition to the six spokeswomen was a breast cancer survivor who radiated energy and goodwill. She went on stage first, after Beauté and BCRF executive introductions and a basic summary of the partnership. Her name was Anne, and she was thirty-three, a survivor of stage four breast cancer, diagnosed three days after she turned thirty. Those of us waiting looked at each other in shock.

  Athlete introductions were next, first Siena, then me. I walked up four steps to the stage and shook hands with the row of bigwigs, momentarily disconcerted by the stage backdrop: black and white headshots of each spokeswoman. There I was, larger than life. Turning, I stepped to the microphone and looked out at the audience, seeing a handful of press, a couple dozen staff members from each organization, and at least two hundred breast cancer patients, survivors, and supporters.

  We’d been prepped for the statement, warned to keep it to a couple sentences. I was so moved by Anne that I jettisoned what I’d prepared and spoke from the heart. “For months, I have been thrilled and proud to be part of this partnership, and I thought this day would never arrive. But being here, seeing you all, meeting Anne backstage…I am humbled. Humbled and honored. Anne, and all of you out there who are dealing with this every day, you are the real heroes. I’ll do anything I can to support you. Thank you.” Anne hugged me before I reached my chair.

  Considering the work put into making me pretty, the formal part of the program was brief, and after that, the executives took questions from the press. I scanned faces in the crowd, thinking about their courage, but snapped to attention when I heard my name spoken by a male reporter.

  “Can you or Kate Reilly comment on the difficulties she’s been having lately? I understand she had a run in with another driver and some fans. She’s also involved in a police investigation into a possible homicide. Did those issues cause you any concern over her selection to this group of admirable women?”

  My breath caught. He’d voiced my biggest fear. I concentrated on not letting tension show in my face and hearing a response over the roaring in my ears.

  The executive director of BCRF made way for the CEO of Beauté, Lindsay Eastwood, who stepped forward to the microphone. I’d met her the previous day and decided I wanted to be her when I grew up—though I’d never achieve her degree of poise and polish. She was tall and slender with thick, graying hair cut in a stylish bob, perfect pink lipstick three shades darker than our shirts, and killer red heels.

  Better than her style was that she smiled at me, stepped forward, and smacked an answer out of the ballpark. “The reason we’re here is to support women, and men, who face a tremendous challenge in life. A challenge that, frankly, makes the variety of other troubles in our lives seem insignificant. Based on the fact Kate is with us today, it’s clear she recognizes what’s important. As do we. We love Kate, we respect the hell out of her ability to drive a racecar, and we admire her character. So when there’s mud being slung around? We’re not afraid of getting a little dirty at her side.”

  I wondered if she’d adopt me.

  One more press question, benign this time, and the event was over. I made a beeline to Lindsay to thank her. As she hugged me, she whispered, “We checked you out, Kate. We’re not worried.”

  I felt lightheaded with relief. “I can’t thank you enough.”

  “Feel free to quote me.” She winked before turning to greet others.

  I reached Holly at the foot of the stage, still shaking my head over my luck, but before I could speak to her, a fan walked up wearing a Sandham Swift t-shirt. He was taller than me, skinny, pale skinned, dark-blond-hair. Average looking, but familiar.

  “Hi, Kate? Would you sign these for me?” He held out a copy of the Beauté and BCRF press release and a photo of me driving through the Corkscrew at Monterey’s Laguna Seca track.

  “Sure. It’s great of you to come out today. Do you live here in Atlanta?” I took his pen and signed.

  “I do. And I’ll see you at the track next weekend.”

  I looked at him again. Prominent Adam’s apple, hair brushed forward, early-thirties. “Did I see you in Wisconsin last weekend?”

  “Yeah, I’m George. George Ryan.” He introduced himself to Holly and apologized for interrupting us.

  I remembered him. “Outside the Tavern, with the piece of my car.”

  “I’m sorry about the timing and your friend. At least you got to connect with her again, briefly. I used to follow all three of you.”

  “You did?”

  “For sure. It’s cool to watch young drivers develop their talent and say I knew you when—I mean, knew of you. I didn’t know you, obviously.”

  “How did you end up a fan of racing?” Holly asked. “Do you race?”

  “No, but it’s really exciting to watch. My first job was for Cooper Tires, so I found out about racing at lower levels, then I was hooked. I used to go to as many races as I could in the Midwest. It’s funny how many of you who I watched racing eight or ten years ago are now in the ALMS—or broadcasting it.”

  Holly nodded. “You never know where people will end up, do you?”

  “That’s part of the fun,” George said. “Trying to guess where young racers might go and tracking their progress to see if I’m right.”

  “How’s your batting average?” I asked.

  “Pretty good, but some still surprise me. I knew Kate would stay behind the wheel and thought Ellie Grayson wouldn’t. But I was sure Juliana Parker would be driving—though she’s back now in a way. Some people you can just tell will end up in broadcasting, you know?”

  Holly raised an eyebrow. “Like who?”

  “Zeke Andrews. Felix Simon. Hailey Leamon, over in IndyCar. I messed up on Scott Brooklyn though. I pegged him for all or nothing, racing or leaving, but not broadcasting. What makes it hard is how different a driver’s personality is behind the wheel and in the paddock, though I always think if you’re a jerk on the track, at some point you’re going to be a jerk in the rest of life, too.”

  I was impressed by his insight. “What do you do for a living, George?”

  “Sorry, I’m running off at the mouth.” He blushed. “I’m in human resources, corporate recruiting, specifically.”

  “You’d have to be good at analyzing character for that job.”

  “I’d like to think so. But for racing, it’s only a fun game to play.”

  Lindsay Eastwood passed, nodding at Holly and George and patting my shoulder.

  “Anyway, thanks again for signing these.” George held up the event materials. “And for chatting.”

  We shook hands again and he left.

  “A little nervous, but a nice guy,” Holly said, after he was well out of earshot. “And how about that gift the CEO gave you? What a response.”

  “No kidding. I’ve got to tell Matt and Lily.”

>   “How does she look so good? I checked. She’s sixty and could pass for forty.”

  “Maybe it’s time to start using these beauty products after all.”

  The CEO’s ringing endorsement made the press event the high point of my day. My spirits deflated when Holly and I discovered how far the influence of the Racing’s Ringer blog had spread. In addition to three more stories about “Kate Violent living up to her name” on the blog, there were a number of stories in the regular media about the Ringer’s posts—not reporting my past behavior as fact, but mentioning the accusations as part of a discussion about the power of blogs over cultural consciousness.

  I hated being the prime example.

  Matt and Lily were encouraging when I called them, telling me to trust them. They set to work getting copies of the Beauté press release and Lindsay’s statement to every media outlet they could think of. Certainly the three reporters I spoke to by phone that afternoon—one from the Associated Press, one from CNN, and one of my old friends at Racer magazine—all had the information. I hoped the tide was turning.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Juliana was also prepped with the details of the press event, and she congratulated me when Holly and I arrived at her hotel. We sat at the lobby bar over cups of coffee and quickly mapped out what we’d talk about on-camera, including how I knew Juliana and Ellie back in the day, how we’d reconnected just prior to Ellie’s death, and a bare-bones description of finding Ellie’s body.

  I sipped my coffee as Juliana made notes in a notebook.

  “I spoke with the Elkhart Lake PD today,” she said, breaking off a piece of the biscotti we’d gotten with the coffee. “They gave me some information I’ll use as part of the special report with your interview.”

  “What did they tell you?” Holly leaned forward.

  Juliana glanced at me. “They said Ellie was poisoned—wouldn’t say what with—but she may not have been the intended victim. Do you know anything, Kate?”

  I nodded slowly. “But you can’t use it. I’m not supposed to say anything.”