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  Race managed to keep his position, coming in third behind Denny and Jim. Then, just after he crossed the finish line and headed into turn one, a loud bang made me jump damn near into the next county. The Dart spun toward the top of the track. Addamsen and the white Camaro swerved under it, but the guy behind them plowed into the right front fender.

  “Ouch!” cried the announcer, “doesn’t look like that’ll buff out, folks. Let’s hope Morgan can get that car back in shape for the main. He’s dead even with Jerry Addamsen, now. If Morgan can finish ahead of him tonight, it’ll be the first time anyone’s taken the point lead from Addamsen in three years.”

  The Dart limped back into the pits, its front fender digging into the tire and shaving off rubber with every revolution. Since the wheels didn’t seem to want to turn properly, Race had to bully the 8 car into its parking spot.

  Almost before the Dart stopped, Kasey was inspecting the damage.

  “How bad is it?” asked Race as he fumbled with the window net.

  “I’m not sure yet.” Kasey rolled the jack under the front end, lifting the Dart off the ground before Race even had a chance to climb out. Then Jim and Denny appeared. Finishing ahead of Race, they’d missed all the action.

  “What happened?” asked Jim.

  “Blowout. Carter nailed me when I spun.”

  “It’s amazing it didn’t happen sooner,” Kasey said. “That tire was a ticking time bomb. You should have brought her in.”

  “Hell, Kasey,” Jim said. “You oughta know by now that Race isn’t gonna bring a car in off the track as long as it can make another lap.”

  “I wouldn’t be surprised to see him push one across the finish line,” Denny added.

  “Well, one of these days he’s going to break something I can’t fix.”

  Race laughed. “You always say that, but it’ll never happen. I have complete faith in your automotive genius.”

  “Can you fix it this time?” I asked.

  “Fortunately, yes. I’ll just have to replace the two tires and an outer tie rod end.”

  While Kasey and Race got to work putting the Dart back together, I wandered down to the north end of the track where the tow trucks and ambulance were parked. Creepy as the hearse was, it was pretty cool. One of the paramedics was kicking back beside it in a lawn chair, eating a cheeseburger while his partner rooted around in the Cadillac’s back end.

  “Can you guys get the poltergeists out of my attic?” I asked.

  “’Fraid not,” said the guy with the cheeseburger. “All my training is with the living.”

  “Where’d they get this car?”

  “Dunno. It’s been here as long as I have.”

  I circled the Cadillac. How awesome would it be to drive this thing around town?

  “Your dad one of the drivers?” the guy asked. I noticed that his name, Alex, was stitched on the front of his uniform.

  “No, my uncle. Race Morgan.” I checked out the enormous chrome grill.

  “Ah. You’re practically royalty.”

  “I guess. Is this a pretty exciting job? You see a lot of blood and guts?”

  “Not here. There’s plenty of that on the highway, but racing’s pretty safe. I don’t think I’ve seen a serious accident in the five years I’ve worked this gig.”

  “There was Greg Shackleford last year,” said the second paramedic, slamming the back door of the ambulance and coming around to join us. He was a heavy dude, and his nametag read Steve.

  “The guy busted his leg,” countered Alex. “I’d hardly call that life-threatening.”

  I hung out with the paramedics for most of the Street Stock main, trying to weasel gory details out of them about their work. Steve indulged me a little, but Alex said it was serious business, not a source of entertainment for the bloodthirsty.

  When I saw the Sportsmen lining up for their main, I jogged back over to Race’s pit. Kasey was finishing some kind of adjustment under the front of the car.

  “Okay. That should do it,” she said.

  “You wanna check the toe again?” Race asked.

  “There’s no time. Get in the car.”

  “Let’s move it, Sportsmen!” hollered Ted Greene, making his way down the row. Race scrambled through the window.

  “Did you get it fixed?” I asked Kasey.

  “Yes. Of course it’s always a little unsettling, sending a car out without a few test laps, but that can’t be helped.”

  Hearing Kasey sound doubtful was what unsettled me. In just a week I’d come to admire her assertive, businesslike attitude. She wasn’t the type to stew over something without good reason. I realized what I was thinking and almost laughed. How could I be nervous about a stock car race?

  “Why’s Race so popular, anyway?” I asked as I watched the cars pull out onto the backstretch. “Doesn’t Addamsen win more?”

  “It’s not just about winning. Jerry Addamsen may be a successful driver, but he’s a mean-spirited bully. Your uncle, on the other hand, is the most kindhearted person I know. And he’s got a sense of humor. Fans like a driver who’s willing to laugh at himself. It shows humility. That’s something Jerry doesn’t even know the meaning of.”

  I felt like asking her why she wanted to keep their relationship all business if Race was such a great guy, but I kept my mouth shut. I had no doubt that Kasey would verbally flatten me if I gave her any crap. Besides, I wasn’t gonna go around playing matchmaker like some twelve-year-old girl.

  “The thing you have to realize, Cody, is that in spite of Jerry’s talent, he has a lot of enemies at this track. Most people don’t like a rough driver. Personally, I find the way he treats women distasteful. I’ve seen him with one arm around his wife and the other hand goosing the trophy girl.”

  The word that popped immediately into my head was ‘ambidextrous,’ but I didn’t share the thought.

  In spite of Kasey’s doubts, the Dart performed flawlessly in the main. Race drove it like he’d just committed a double homicide and had the cops from four counties after him. Even so, Addamsen got a better start and zipped ahead. For eight laps, Race fought to pass him, but the slower guys kept getting in the way.

  Halfway through their ninth time around, Addamsen ducked by the lead car. Race followed, zeroing in on his bumper. For six more laps Race nagged the Camaro through the turns and pulled even with it on the straightaways.

  “Can you see the line Jerry’s taking through the corners?” Kasey asked. “It’s just high enough that Race can’t get around him on the outside, but not so high that he can slip underneath. Race’s only option is to sit back and wait for Jerry to make a mistake.”

  Race seemed to have a different opinion about his options. Instead of backing off and dropping down behind Addamsen the next time they went into a corner, he kept his foot in it. The black Camaro drifted up into the side of the Dart, and I thought sure Race was gonna lose it and skid off the top of the track. Worse, the Dart looked lined up to smack head-on into the leading edge of the wall. But somehow Race squeaked through the dwindling gap between Addamsen and the concrete barrier. The Dart roared onto the front stretch only a fender length behind the Camaro. Kasey let out a breath and shook her head, muttering about dumb luck and a lack of good sense.

  Edging ahead of Addamsen on the straightaway, Race dove into the first turn to claim the lead. The grandstands exploded with shrieks and applause. But Addamsen wasn’t giving up that easy. He hounded Race down the backstretch and played woodpecker with the Dart’s back bumper as the cars plowed through the corner at the north end of the track.

  “He’s gonna spin him out!”

  “No, he won’t,” Kasey said. “Jerry has better sense than that.”

  I shot her a skeptical look. “You didn’t hear what he said last Saturday.”

  “Cody, Jerry’s been racing for a long time. He knows how much he can get away with without being black-flagged. What he’s doing now is known as intimidation. It’s a very effective tactic with nervous
or inexperienced drivers, but it won’t faze your uncle in the least.”

  “But—”

  “Trust me,” Kasey said.

  Addamsen went right on with his intimidation routine, but as Kasey had predicted, he didn’t spin Race. Five laps later, the two cars tore out of turn four neck-in-neck. Race beat Addamsen to the checkered flag by a bumper.

  The Dart circled the track and parked on the start-finish line. I didn’t think the crowd could get any rowdier, but when Race climbed out of the car the noise level jumped a good twenty decibels.

  “And here he is,” the loudspeaker blared. “From YOU-gene, Oregon, sponsored by Eugene Custom Classics, Rick’s University Video, and Willamette Electrical Supply, your new points leader, RACE—MORGAN!”

  Race shook both fists in the air and the crowd cranked it up another five decibels. It was a good minute before the announcer could get on with details about the Dart and Race’s one-woman pit crew.

  As the photographer tried to usher my uncle and the trophy girl into position for a picture, Race turned and gestured to Kasey and me.

  “What’s he want?”

  “It’s customary for a driver to have his family and crew join him for the photo.”

  Race thought of me as family? I mean, I knew I was, but I didn’t expect him to act like it meant something.

  Kasey gave me a gentle shove toward the wall and I balked. “I can’t go out there!”

  “Yes, you can.” Kasey latched onto my wrist as she climbed over the concrete barrier, dragging me with her.

  I felt like a dope walking out onto the track. But as I stood with her and Race, listening to the fans whoop and holler, my embarrassment began to fade. I couldn’t help wondering—what would it be like to have all those people cheering for me?

  Chapter 8

  I couldn’t let Race think I was getting completely soft, so the next morning I woke him up by shooting a bottle rocket down the hallway. It was sort of a ritual I’d created, finding new and creative ways to get him off the couch before 9 a.m. For sheer reaction, the bottle rocket was the best thing I’d thought of yet. But it lacked the finesse of my prank a few days earlier, when I’d set the clock ahead two hours. Race was up, dressed, and on his way out the door before it occurred to him that at nine-thirty, I should be at school.

  Over the next couple of weeks, as I waited impatiently for my karate class to begin, I settled into life in Eugene. I was even sorta starting to like the place, especially the university area, which was always a whirl of people and activity. Downtown was cool, too. In one part, the streets were paved with brick and closed to traffic. I liked to take the bus down there to explore quirky shops, listen to street musicians, and watch kids play hacky sack. The town had a whole different energy than Portland—beatnik and artsy and way more close-knit, with the college acting as a rallying point. It seemed like every business had “Go Ducks!” painted in a window.

  As time went by, Race and I managed to find our groove. He quizzed me on the Driver’s Manual we’d picked up, and I learned to sleep through the trains that rocked the trailer at all hours of the night. I tried to keep in touch with my friends back home, but Tim’s parents wouldn’t let me talk to him, and Mike always sounded like he was trying to find an excuse to hang up. A couple of times my dad called, but I let Race do the talking.

  At school, the work wasn’t much different than it had been back home, but somehow it seemed easier. Maybe because I didn’t have any friends yet, so there wasn’t much to do in class but pay attention. While the friendlessness got to me, I lacked the energy and nerve to do anything about it. I’d spent my entire life in the same house, going to school with the same kids, and now everything was different. With all that change, I couldn’t deal with trying to get to know people, too. Besides, school would be out in a few weeks.

  The third Wednesday in May, Race dragged me out to the speedway for practice—something infinitely more boring than a regular race. The next morning it started to rain. The drizzle continued Thursday, Friday, and Saturday. My uncle, a guy who could shrug off mouthy drunkenness, shuriken embedded in his closet, and an unscheduled trip to Medford, got grumpy when it came to being rained out.

  “If missing one race makes you this miserable, what do you do in the winter?” I asked when I got sick of hearing him grumble about the weather.

  “Suffer.”

  “Jeez, just drink a beer or something. Or better yet, take me out for a driving lesson.”

  “It’s raining,” Race protested.

  “No shit. This is Oregon. If you expect me to wait for the roads to dry out, I’ll be old enough to vote before I have a license.”

  “All right,” Race sighed. He took me to Lane Community College, where the upper parking lots were practically deserted because it was a weekend.

  “Okay,” Race said when I was belted in behind the wheel. “First of all, put your left foot on the clutch and your right foot on the brake.”

  “Which pedal’s the clutch?”

  “The one on the left.”

  “So the brake’s in the middle?”

  “Yeah.”

  I pressed down the two pedals. “Okay, now what?”

  “Crank her over.”

  I turned the key. The engine rattled to life.

  “Good,” Race said. “Now, take your foot off the brake and very slowly let out the clutch.”

  The van lurched forward and died.

  “I said slowly.”

  “That was slow!”

  “Well try slower.”

  For the next twenty minutes he made me practice again and again until I got it right and could motor around the parking lot in first gear.

  “Now, let’s try shifting. This van is what you call a three on the tree. You’ve got three forward gears, plus reverse, and the shift pattern forms sort of an ‘H’.”

  “What’s a shift pattern?”

  Race looked at me like I’d asked what the alphabet was. After he’d explained the concept, detailing where the gears were, he told me to try shifting from first to second. When I did, I jammed the linkage so bad Race had to get out, crawl under the van, and work it loose by hand.

  “Okay, this is important,” he said as he slid back into the passenger seat. “All the bushings on the linkage are wasted, so you have to be very precise when you shift. Pretend you’re back in first grade, drawing a nice, square ‘H’ when you work the lever. Last time you rounded it off, like an ‘S’. That’s why it got stuck.”

  “Well, why didn’t you tell me that to begin with?” Crap, did he expect me to be born knowing all this?

  “Sorry. I never tried to teach anyone to drive before.”

  Another half hour passed. I jammed the linkage, lugged the engine, and then over-revved it. Finally I blew up. “This is impossible! You expect me to just know this stuff! I’m not a freakin’ race car driver!” I slammed my fist against the steering wheel.

  “Hey, calm down. It’s no big deal. You’ll get it.” Race’s words were patient, even sympathetic, but he clutched the door handle in a death grip.

  “Don’t you ever get pissed?” I demanded, glaring at him.

  “Not usually.”

  “Shit.” I rubbed my sore hand.

  “Losing your temper doesn’t do anybody any good, Cody.”

  “That’s easy for you to say.”

  “Maybe so,” Race agreed. “Now give it another try.”

  We spent the rest of the afternoon practicing. I must’ve killed the engine a million times, but Race never lost patience or suggested we quit. By the time we headed back to the trailer he was soaked from crawling under the van to free the linkage, but I could shift through the gears flawlessly.

  “Good job, kid,” he said. “I’m buying you a pizza.”

  I felt like I’d won a Nobel prize.

  * * *

  The cool thing about Race was that he didn’t act like a parent—more like a brother, or an older friend. He never gave me grief about the pet
ty stuff Mom had obsessed over. That’s why it irked me when he got on my case about stealing the street sign.

  It had tempted me every time we went into Springfield for groceries. Located at 4th and Main it said simply, “Police.” An arrow indicated the direction to the station a mere two blocks away. Who could resist a challenge like that?

  Rationalizing that in the middle of the week there’d be less traffic, I waited until Tuesday night. I borrowed some tools from the box Race kept in the van then hoofed it across the bridge at about 2 a.m. The heist was easy. I shinnied up the pole, busted the sign loose, and hightailed it. Not a single car interrupted me.

  It wasn’t until I got home that I had trouble. When I turned the handle of the trailer’s back door, I realized I’d locked myself out. No big deal. Race kept a spare key under a brake drum near the carport. I retrieved it and stuck it in the knob, but it wouldn’t turn. The front door must have a different lock. Okay, I could deal with that. Race slept like a zombie. A parade of hippopotami could sneak by him.

  Maybe if I’d been a hippopotamus, I’d have had better luck.

  “Cody?” Race mumbled as I pulled the door to a quiet click behind me. I froze.

  “Where’ve you been? What is that?”

  Too late I realized the lights that illuminated the trailer park were shining through the windows, glinting off the reflective paint on the sign.

  “You’re dreamin’, dude,” I said softly. “Go back to sleep.”

  Race didn’t buy it. He sat up, pawed for the lamp on the end table, and knocked it to the floor.

  “Let me see that.”

  I kept moving.

  “Cody!”

  I stopped.

  “Kid, what do you think you’re doing? You wanna wind up in juvie?”

  “It’s just a street sign.”

  “Yeah, and it’s against the law to take ’em home with you.”

  “Oh, I suppose that’s something you’d never do, huh?” I stared pointedly at the wall above the TV where an East 8th Avenue sign hung. It had taken me a while to make the connection. Eight was his car number.

  “I was in college when I got that.”

  “So you’re saying I’m too young to steal a street sign?” Hell. I got that crap from everyone. I was too young to smoke, too young to drink, too young to understand. Did everyone over the age of twenty-one think teenagers were complete morons?