Checkered Flag (3 page)

JAMIE WAITED
for her dad at the hauler, not wanting to intrude on the interviews and the clamor for his answers. The people around her congratulated her as they passed. It was clear that some fans of Butch Devalon weren’t too happy, but they at least tipped their caps to her.

“Well, I owe this one to my daughter, who put me in a good position,” her dad said as she watched in the hauler. He also recognized the #17 and #33 teams. “They put up a real good fight, and I know they’ll be right in the thick of things the rest of the season and into next year.”

Just like her dad, she thought. Always complimenting others and actually meaning it, unlike most of the guys who gave backhanded compliments like, “We just beat ourselves out there.”

Her dad returned to the hauler with a
few autograph hounds hanging on. Jamie came out to meet him, and a crowd gathered around both of them.

“Is this the little lady who set the track record?” a bushy-haired man said. He wore a #33 hat and a #17 jacket. “You’ve got a good one here, Maxwell.”

“Don’t I know it,” her dad said, chuckling. “Now if you’ll excuse us, we have some celebrating to do.”

“Hold up there, Maxwell,” someone said in a gruff voice.

Jamie turned and spotted the familiar black hat of Butch Devalon. He pushed past the others, banging shoulders with some, and walked straight to her dad. His teeth were on edge, and she could see a vein in the guy’s forehead pulsing.

“What goes around comes around, Maxwell,” Devalon said. “You’ll find yourself left hanging out to dry pretty soon if you’re not careful.”

“Butch,” her dad said in a friendly voice, “nice of you to come over and congratulate me.” He put his arm around Devalon and faced the crowd. “Butch and I go way back, folks. Back further than either of us wants to admit. It’s going to be a great chase down the stretch—”

Devalon moved away from him and faced Jamie, pointing a finger at her. “You may think you pulled a fast one, missy. But you just got in more trouble than you know what to do with.”

Her dad straightened and stepped between them.

Jamie moved past her dad and stood toe to toe with Devalon. “Don’t threaten me or my dad. You’ve bullied your way around these tracks long enough. Time for somebody else to be top dog.”

He wagged a finger at her again, but before he could say anything, the curly-haired guy spoke. “What’s the matter, Butch? You afraid this girl’s gonna beat you someday?”

“Yeah, Devalon’s mad because a high schooler showed him up,” someone else said, and the crowd laughed.

Devalon looked around like he was an animal in the wrong cage. He turned back to Jamie, and with more of a growl than a human voice he said, “You’ll pay for your insolence, young lady. And it might be your daddy who pays the most.”

Before Jamie could say anything else, her dad had an arm around her and was guiding her toward the hauler. “Thank ya’ll for coming—we have to get inside out of the hot air.”

Inside, her dad shut the door. T.J., the crew chief, was there, going over the race.

“Top dog?” her dad said. “What’s that kind of talk? We’re lucky there weren’t cameras around.”

“That’s the only reason he said that stuff,” Jamie said. “He knew there wouldn’t be cameras.”

Her dad and T.J. laughed. It was the best sound in the world to hear those guys laughing and not stressed out because of the race.

“Hey, Dad,” Jamie said, leaning forward and whispering. “You’re in the Chase. You old dog, you’re in the Chase, and you’re gonna be top dog before you’re through.”

“Keep talking like that, missy,” her dad said, imitating Devalon, “and you’re gonna be up there on the podium with me accepting the cup.”

JAMIE COULDN’T RESIST
looking at the chat rooms of different racing sites. She couldn’t believe how mean some of the people on one of the most popular sites could be.

You really need to face the fact that Dale Maxwell is just a used-up old guy with no prayer of winning the cup. It’s a shame the officials let his daughter’s time stand and he got the pole at Denver. I don’t think he would have done as well at New Hampshire on Sunday if that hadn’t happened. Now we have to suffer through the last nine races with a guy whose last wins came 10 years ago. His only claim to fame is that he killed a gasman at Talladega. The only way Maxwell is going to win is if his daughter gets behind the wheel and shows him how to drive again.

That’s just plain cruel. Dale earned his spot in the Chase, and he’s already moved up a spot. When he’s in the winner’s circle at Homestead-Miami, maybe you’ll believe. Even if he doesn’t make it, he has more class in his little finger than any driver you support.

You tell them, Chatrbox. Maxwell was racing dirty in New Hampshire, and if Butch had a little help from his teammate or a friend, he would have caught him. I hate these whiny Christians who think they have some God-given right to win so they can talk about Jesus in the winner’s circle.

I think it’s time we get a serious female contender on the track, and it looks like Jamie Maxwell is just the ticket. I know she’s young and she’ll need to prove herself, but I hope she gets a legitimate shot at it.

She’d probably be doing her hair in the rearview. No female will ever make it in NASCAR
because it takes too much strength and brains. That girl may have some brains, but in the heat of the race there’s no way she can stand up to the other drivers. And I’m not some woman hater—that’s just the truth!

No, you’re not a woman hater. You’re just stupid. If that girl can win the pole at Denver, one of the toughest venues in all of racing, and win a license as one of the top drivers in that experimental school she attended, I think she’s only a couple of years away from being right up there.

Some posts were so ugly that Jamie didn’t want to read them, but she couldn’t stop. One message made her laugh. The next made her so mad that she’d get halfway through typing a response and stop. If she ever told them who she really was, they’d never believe it and probably give her a hard time.

Her dad always had a rule about defending himself to people in chat rooms or to columnists in the newspaper or even to other drivers. He said everybody was entitled to their own opinions, no matter how wrong they were. “I’ll do my defending on the track where it counts, not with a flurry of words going back and forth through the paper or the Internet or behind the garage.”

Still, Jamie had a hard time not saying something
to these people. Then she noticed someone new who had logged on to the conversation.

I know both Jamie and her dad, and they’re not whiners. They prove what they can do on the track. Period. And as for Christians talking in the winner’s circle, I think it’s refreshing to hear someone giving the glory to God rather than some beer company. Don’t knock it until you’ve tried it. :)

Jamie laughed, especially at the response of TalladegaAl33, who told CassieMaxfan to keep her religion to herself and he’d keep his Budweiser in his refrigerator—though he misspelled
refrigerator
badly.

She dialed her friend Cassie, who confirmed that it was her online. The two talked half the night about the boys they knew—Chad Devalon in particular—the kids in the youth group, teachers they liked and didn’t, people Cassie was praying for (it was almost easier to list the people she
wasn’t
praying for), and the upcoming races.

“I really think your dad has a good chance,” Cassie said.

“He keeps saying, ‘All you can do is all you can do.’ I wish I could have that attitude. Seems like inside he’s
at peace with the whole thing. Whatever happens is okay with him.”

“Doesn’t surprise me,” Cassie said. “Some drivers seem like they hang on until they get shoved out of the car. I think it could all end tomorrow for him, and he’d be okay with it.”

The thought hit Jamie in the stomach. She’d thought of her dad as invincible—always young and driving into the sunset. But his hair was gray on the sides, and when he grew his beard out, it was silver as well. The fact was that her dad’s days on the track were numbered, and as she got older and better behind the wheel, he would lose a step. She wondered if there’d ever be a day when they would both be on the track in a race together.

“What about you?” Cassie said. “What’s new with the Tigress?”

Jamie laughed at the nickname and growled. “Dad got me into a Legends race at Hickory.”

“But you sold your car, didn’t you?”

“Yeah, but Scotty, our spotter, has one he’s willing to loan us for a weekend or two, so we’re going to Hickory. With Dad in the Chase, I don’t want to do too much, but I think it’ll be fun. It’ll keep me on the track.”

“Birthplace of the NASCAR stars,” Cassie said. “Who knows? Next year you might be moving up—don’t you think?”

“One step at a time; that’s what Dad says. But I’ve got a good start, and with what happened in Denver, we’ve gotten a couple of calls from possible sponsors.”

“That’s excellent!” Cassie said.

“And that guy from the newspaper wants to do an in-depth.”

“Calvin Shoverton? You’re kidding! His column is syndicated all around the country. You’re going to be famous before you know it.”

“Don’t make me more nervous than I already am. He wants to follow our family around for a few days, and I’m trying to bribe Kellen.”

“Bribe him for what?”

“So he won’t be a little doofus and say something embarrassing.”

“Good luck.”

TIM STAYED OUT
of the way of the writer guy. He couldn’t believe anybody made a living sitting at some desk typing words on a screen. He couldn’t think of anything more boring to do all day, except for maybe picking up trash, but at least doing that you got exercise.

Calvin Shoverton came to the Maxwells’ house and watched them eat breakfast and get ready for school and did everything but follow them to the bathroom. (And he probably would have gone in there if they had left the door unlocked.) Tim overheard Kellen telling the writer that Jamie wasn’t that bad of a big sister except when they traded licks, punching each other on the shoulder.

“I used to be able to hang in there for five or six rounds, but now it hurts too much,” Kellen said. “She’s gotten a lot stronger.”

“She ever get full of herself?” Calvin said. “You know, pushy about how talented she is?”

Kellen laughed. “Jamie knows she’s good, and she can handle herself on the track, but you’d never know by talking to her.”

The writer guy nodded and wrote something down. Then he asked if he could ride with Jamie to school and talk. Jamie agreed, and Tim climbed into the backseat of her car. They spent most of the time talking about the old Mustang and how she’d rebuilt the engine from scratch. Tim thought the talk about the engine was the most interesting.

Calvin got out at school and took some pictures of Jamie near her car. He turned to Tim. “How about lunch?”

“It’s a little early for that, isn’t it?” Tim said.

Calvin chuckled. “No, I mean, why don’t we have lunch together? My treat. We can grab a sub sandwich if you want. Mrs. Maxwell said that was your favorite. She gave her blessing.”

“Okay.” Tim shrugged.

Tim drifted through his morning classes, his stomach growling because he’d skipped breakfast. By lunch he was ravenous and would have eaten a horse-and-goat sub without any ketchup.

Calvin drove back to the school to pick up Tim.

“How’d you get your car?” Tim said.

“I had Dale pick me up after I interviewed a couple of teachers this morning.”

“Teachers?” Tim said.

“Yeah, I wanted to hear what kind of student Jamie is. See if all the hype is worth it.”

“What did you find out?”

“She seems like the real deal. Even went over to the church and talked with the youth pastor there. He said Jamie’s gotten religious lately. Have you noticed that?”

“Yeah. She seems serious about it. But it’s not like she wears burlap and eats locusts or anything. She’s pretty normal.”

“What about you?” Calvin said.

“What do you mean?”

“You believe the same way as the Maxwells? That God is good and we ought to follow him with our lives?”

Tim looked out the window. “This article’s about Jamie, right? You don’t want to know about me.”

They stopped at the sub shop, and Tim ordered a foot-long with everything. They spread their sandwiches out at a picnic table near the strip mall.

Tim nearly choked on some lettuce and a hot pepper when Calvin said, “Must be quite a change living with the Maxwells instead of sleeping in Charlie Hale’s hauler.”

“How do you know about that?” was all Tim could think to say.

“This is my job. I ferret out information, write about it, and let people know what goes on inside the NASCAR world. I wrote a small piece about your dad, but there wasn’t that much information about him and I didn’t want to bother you so soon after his death. The team didn’t even know where you’d been shipped off to.”

“Did you find out?”

“Nice little trailer park in Florida. With Vera and Tyson, as I recall.”

Tim’s mouth dropped open. Then he closed it because he hadn’t chewed.

“I felt like when the time was right, we could do a memorial article for him. Nothing fancy.”

“I guess Dad wouldn’t have wanted a big fuss, but something at the anniversary of the accident would be nice.”

“Why’d the Maxwells take you in?”

Tim shrugged. “I think Dale felt bad about my dad. I don’t think there’s anything in it for them. My dad didn’t have much money, so it wasn’t about an inheritance.”

Calvin smiled and munched on his sandwich. “Maxwell has a squeaky-clean image. Everybody knows where he stands on moral stuff. You ever see anything that’s at odds with that?”

“You mean is he a hypocrite?”

Calvin nodded.

“He drives a big truck that guzzles gas.” Tim leaned forward and whispered, “And I don’t know if I should say this, but sometimes he eats leftover pizza for breakfast.”

Calvin raised his eyebrows. “That’s shocking.”

“I know. I hope that doesn’t get out ’cause it could ruin him.”

Calvin shook his head and laughed. It seemed to Tim like he wasn’t trying to write a story anymore. He was just enjoying his sandwich. That made Tim relax.

“So you’re saying the stuff we see on the track and in front of the camera is basically what you see at home?”

Tim nodded. “They get into arguments and stuff like that. I mean, they’re not perfect. Dale sometimes drives too fast, and Mrs. Maxwell tells him to slow down.” He took a swig of soda. “So you just sit in front of a computer all day and type away on those little keys until you’re done, huh?”

“A lot of my day is spent on the phone or traveling. I go to all the races. I listen to radio shows, watch TV. I get ideas from people who e-mail or call me. By the time I sit down at the computer, I’ve pretty much got the story written in my head.”

Tim couldn’t imagine all those words staying in a guy’s head. Then he got an idea. “You say you’re good at tracking people down. How good?”

“Depends on who the person is. Who are you looking for?”

Tim squinted at Calvin, wondering if he could trust him, and pulled a crumpled piece of paper out of his shirt pocket. “This is . . . what do you call it? You know, when you don’t want somebody to write about something?”

“Off the record?”

“Yeah, that’s it. Can this be off the record?”

Calvin held out a hand. “Let me see what you’ve got.”