so I’m not here for points or exposure or even for Saturday-night glory. I’m here because it’s fun and it feels good to win when success has been so hard to come by.
When I spot my dad in the flag stand, he has the checkered flag in one hand, ready and waiting. I check my mirror one more time, just to be sure there’s no one behind me that’s close enough to take this away, but the rest of the pack is still fighting through the last turn and I’m already near enough to the finish line that I can see a huge smile on my dad’s face. At this speed, the last hundred yards go by in an instant—at least in real time they do. For me, time slows down, although not enough to suit me. If I could, I’d spend forever in the moments just before a win. I let out a whoop, hollering as loud as I can—knowing that even if no one can hear me, we needed this.
After I cross the finish line, I slow down and exit off the track to make my way to the garage. Our track rules—most of which I wrote—dictate that no one gets out of their car on the track unless they’ve won the night’s final event. We run up to fifteen events every night, and if we let the winners celebrate on track for all of those, we’d be here until three in the morning. So even if I’m itching to enjoy this high a little bit longer, it would look pretty bad for me to break the rules I’m always harping on everyone else to follow.
When I make it to the garage, Cody is standing in the open bay door, waiting for me with his dutiful Marshmallow standing right beside him. As a dog that spends his days in a mechanic shop, Marshmallow doesn’t have to be told to get out of the way when I start to pull in. Cody gives me a quick thumbs-up—that’s his version of an enthusiastic congratulations—and then motions for me to continue inside, throwing up a closed fist when the car is where he wants it.
I cut the motor, wrestle my helmet off and toss it on the dash, then work on unbuckling my harness. Cody immediately gets the hood open and peers into the engine compartment.
“How’d she feel?” he hollers.
“A little loose in the corners,” I call out, grunting a little as I crawl out the window opening. “It’s just about perfect on the straightaways though, so don’t tighten it up too much.”
He nods, then waves me away with a flick of his hand. I should know better than to even hint at telling him what to do. I still haven’t lived down the way I acted when I started racing and thought that being a driver somehow entitled me to act like a prima donna to everyone in the garage. That lasted all of one race weekend before Dad grounded me for being a brat. But Cody still likes to make sure I know where I stand when he’s wrenching on my car. Usually that means he literally wants me to stand as far away as possible or anywhere that makes it difficult to be heard when I try to tell him what to do.
I’ve barely regained my equilibrium—adjusting from the relentless vibration of a moving stock car to solid ground can take a minute—when Becca comes running into the garage and slams into me with a bear hug. Normally her Smurf-like frame doesn’t stand a chance at throwing me off-balance, but the exertion and the adrenaline have left me a bit shaky, so I stumble a little and then start laughing like a loon.
“You won!” she screeches, squealing so loudly that I’m happy I still have my ear protection in. “It was awesome! No! Super awesome!”
More squealing. More of me laughing and stumbling like I’m high on nitrous, all while Becca holler-sings you are the champ-ion at the top of her lungs and executes her best diva-like moves, complete with fist pumps, high kicks, and hip circles.
It might not be as funny if she didn’t end up crashing backward into a frowning Cody. He grabs her around the waist so she doesn’t fall over. Becca, of course, pretends to swoon.
“Stand up, Raggedy Ann,” Cody growls.
Becca slackens even more. “I can’t. My bestie just crushed a whole bunch of dudes on the track and left them in her dust. I’m