shouldn’t when it comes to Sage.
I shake my head a little to regroup, then watch as the latest pack of drivers races off from the starting line. And even though this version of racing is a lot like watching someone pour molasses out of a jar, Sage still hoots and hollers. When I’m finally able to drag my eyes away from her, I fix my attention on the go-karts, watching as they head toward the backstretch. One of the karts slows way down as it enters the turn, eventually puttering to a stop in the middle of the track. The driver twists their head frantically from side to side, clearly looking for some help—or at the very least someone who’s taller and older than they are.
Cody and Sage both have their backs turned, already working to outfit the next group of kids for their turn behind the wheel. Until one of them catches sight of what’s going on, that kid is going to sit there stranded, and the last thing we want is for them to unbuckle the harness and crawl out of the kart in the middle of the track. Someone needs to get out there before that kid gets too impatient, and since I know a little something about motors, there’s no reason that someone can’t be me.
What I know about engines is thanks to my grandfather Rossi. Despite my mother’s contentious relationship with her father, we were never estranged from her family and spent lots of summers in Italy with them. From what I saw earlier, these go-karts run on rudimentary two-stroke engines, the same kind my grandfather Rossi put in the kart he had built for Marissa and me to use on his sprawling country estate’s paved roads. Granted, our kart was custom-made in the same building as his F1 team’s cars, so it wasn’t as ragtag as these units, but that doesn’t fundamentally change the engine design. Pappi Rossi expected that we know something about fiddling with motors if we were going to use the kart, so there’s a good chance I can get that kid running again. There aren’t all that many parts involved in a two-stroke motor, regardless of whether it was built in Italy or Colorado. Worst case, I can push the kart back to the start/finish so Sage or Cody can fix it.
I planned for a long day outside and dressed casually in a T-shirt, shorts, and sneakers, making it easy to jog over to the broken-down driver. When I get over to the kart, the girl behind the wheel is attempting to get the kart moving by lurching forward and backward in the seat impatiently, as if sheer force of will might fix the problem.
“Hey there,” I call out with a grin. “Looks like you need some roadside service, huh?”
“It’s broken! We have to make it go!” she shouts with the flair for melodrama that little kids are so adept at. Her bright blue eyes flash from inside her helmet, furious and frantic at the same time. It’s a look I’ve seen before—recently.
While the last pair of eyes I saw with that look in them happened to be green in color and the female in question was about twenty years older than this girl is, I still feel like I’m about to get my ass handed to me if I don’t do as I’m told. In fact, before I even have a chance to reassure her that I’ve got this, she lets out a frustrated little yelp and orders me to hurry up.
Holy hell. Does Sage have kids? Because from the way this kid is hell-bent on telling me how things are going to be, it’s like I’m face-to-face with Sage’s mini-me. Either that or the past few days have worn me down to the point that I don’t have the fortitude to keep up with a fucking grade-schooler.
But since I know what’s good for me, I don’t argue—I get to work. Lucky for me, it only takes a moment to spot the problem. A spark plug wire came loose, killing the power when it did. I get it hooked up again and then politely ask the driver to put her foot on the brake so I can hit the power switch. The kart fires up, and without even a wave goodbye or a thank-you, she puts her foot on the gas and putters away.
The original-issue Sage appears at my side just as her miniature doppelganger takes off. She lifts