Mom used to say there was a bit of an adrenaline junkie in me. I slept in until ten in the morning, and when I finally stumbled out of my room, my bleary eyes slid over the door and noticed it was ajar. There wasn’t much to steal from me, of course—everything valuable I kept at Lucas’s garage, except for one thing: a stack of notes I’d taken after that whole mess with the illegal arms trade. The official documentation had all been destroyed, but my personal records stayed with me.
After chugging two cups of coffee, I dashed into the shower and changed clothes. A dumb sense of relief washed over me as I slipped into a light tank top and shorts. But I’d have to change again later in the evening. Tata would gouge my eyes out if I showed up to the showdown opening looking like this.
Then I rolled into Lucas’s garage just as he was arguing with Tata so heatedly that my ears practically curled up. They didn’t even notice me until I coughed and waved a hand.
— Hey, amigos. I… I’ll just go work on Millie. I heard some weird noises, so, uh, maybe I should check… sorry for interrupting. Pretend I’m not here.
I grabbed a toolbox and shuffled over to the black Chevy—the infamous Millie (short for Malfred, though no one but Lucas knew that). Besides calling me an adrenaline junkie, Mom also labeled me a pathological mess. That was only half true, though: I loved keeping my place clean, but getting myself dirty came easy. When your hands are already grimy, you don’t worry about smudging your cheeks or accidentally brushing a knee. I often did it without thinking, like I was shedding caution and squeamishness. Physical work was also a kind of trance or sleep, where your thoughts sink to depths so dark they’re like an ocean inhabited only by anglerfish. But as time ticked on, my insides twisted with fear and anxiety: What if I flop at the showdown this time? What if I don’t even make it past the first round? Sure, I’m way better prepared this year than I was two years ago, when I hopped into a Chevy stolen from the garage—license plates removed—with nothing but blind confidence that I could handle a car decently for someone who didn’t drive as often as they’d like, and only for short trips to haul, drop off, or nudge a vehicle into place. Back then, I was gnawed by plain old doubts about whether a regular suburban girl like me could compete with pro street racers. Turns out, when you’re a real tough cookie and a stubborn mule to boot, yeah, you absolutely can.
A hand touched my shoulder—Lucas’s—and I flinched in surprise, nearly dropping the rag I was using to wipe down the bottom of the door.
— Come grab a bite.
I tossed the rag aside and glanced at the clock above the stairs, then back at my hands, as if they might magically turn clean in a split second. Even water and half a bottle of liquid soap didn’t help. Lucas handed me a towel, then a sandwich.
— Thanks.
For some reason, I felt awkward. Every time before a showdown, Lucas acted so calm and sympathetic, like he was already sending me off to a deadly plunge into shark-infested waters. I looked around: Tata had left, and I hadn’t even noticed.
— What time does it start?
— Seven, down by High Beach. Same as always.
He nodded thoughtfully, slowly chewing his sandwich. That’s probably all there ever was to eat in his garage. Sometimes there’d be pizza. Then Lucas made me two more sandwiches and poured some iced tea.
— Trying to fatten me up so one day I won’t fit in the car and I’ll be stuck tinkering under the hood forever?
Lucas snorted and reached over to ruffle my hair.
— Helmet and gloves are in the corner; I moved them. Grab ‘em just in case. As usual, I’m betting your hard-earned five bucks for today on you.
— They’d be just as useful in my pocket.
After that, we did a full inspection of the car—checked the tires, pressure, brake fluid levels, and brake pads. I went to check the engine oil while Lucas fiddled with the electronics. Thanks to Lucas’s magic hands and the parts he somehow managed to score, my Chevy had turned into a real road monster. We’d stripped Millie down to minimize weight and maxed out the engine power. The racing tires gripped the road like a dream, transferring power beautifully, and the suspension Lucas tuned kept me steady even on the sharpest turns.
— Gotta check the steering too, — I huffed, — make sure there’s no major play. And the diffuser.
— Don’t forget to comb your hair and pet the cat, — Lucas muttered back, and I absentmindedly straightened up, blinking a few times. It took a couple of seconds for it to click: Lucas had cracked a joke.
— You could come out just once, — I tossed out, pretending to be offended, — cheer me on, clap your hands, tell me what a great job Vivi’s doing and how she’s definitely gonna be world champ.
— You already know that without me, Vivi.
— I was kidding about the world champ thing. And about being great, — I clarified, just in case, twirling a small wrench between my fingers. It kept trying to slip from my sweaty palms.
— You’re great, Vivi. Even if you don’t admit it yourself.
— It’s just… every time, I feel like things could’ve been different if I’d tried a little harder. I don’t know… on one hand, I get that even if I’d kept working as a journalist or stolen a car from your garage and sold it on the black market, it probably wouldn’t have helped Mom at that last stage. But on the other hand… I guess it’s just this dumb guilt.
— Yeah, — Lucas replied just as quietly. — Probably is.
Completely smeared with grime, I decided not to climb into Millie like a total slob and instead headed home on the subway. There, I let myself soak in the shower for a full half-hour, though I didn’t even bother drying my hair—it’d dry on its own. Another half-hour was spent sitting in front of my laptop, munching on crackers and studying the route we’d all be racing on. Five kilometers—piece of cake. The road was twisty, though. If everyone bunched up, the outside drivers would struggle on the turns and slide off the track, and the tight pack wouldn’t let anyone break ahead.
So I’d need to make my move at the start. I had to hold my ground.