21
Champion of the World
I haven’t been on social media since the crash. I don’t want to know how the F2 championship is going without me. I don’t want to hear all the new deals my friends are signing, I don’t want to find out who my old F2 team, Porteo, has put in my place. It’s probably Estefan Ribiero, this seventeen-year-old wunderkind who won F3 last year, but if it is, I don’t want to know. I already know I’m never making it back to F2. I don’t need it rubbed in my face.
Some of my friends from F2 tried to keep in touch with me at first, but after months of no response, even the most determined of them gave up. Then, in early December, my parents suggested I get a US phone number and join their family plan. Now, no one from my past life has my number, and that suits me just fine.
F1 isn’t as big in the US as it is in Europe, so it’s not too hard to avoid it, but sometimes I hear snippets when my dad is flipping through sports channels on TV. I walk away every time that happens. I don’t want to hear. I don’t want to know. I don’t care, I don’t care, I don’t care.
If I keep repeating it, I’m pretty sure it’ll become true.
Two weeks before Christmas, I’m sitting in the kitchen with my mother, helping chop vegetables for dinner, when Paul arrives.
“Jakey,” he says, thumping me hard on the shoulder. “How’s it hanging, little bro?”
I sort of grunt in response, which is better than I usually manage. He kisses our mother on the cheek.
“Smells good, Ma.” He pulls open the fridge. “Want a beer?” he asks me.
My mother titters. “You know he can’t drink, Paul.”
“That’s not true,” I say through my teeth.
“It’s not recommended,” she says. “Your doctor says—”
“I know what they said,” I snap.
She and Paul exchange a look, like they think I can’t see them.
“Of course, darling,” my mother says, in placating tones. “It’s the holidays, I suppose one beer can’t hurt—”
“I don’t want one,” I say, because I really can’t stop being an asshole.
She and Paul look at each other again, then Paul clears his throat.
“Candace’s sister is staying with us for the holidays,” he tells me. “She’s about your age. I’m going to bring her for Christmas dinner. You two can sit next to each other, chat a bit—”
“Paul,” my mother says with a nervous laugh. “I hardly think he should be thinking about girls right now.”
“That’s exactly what he should be thinking about. He needs a distraction. Right?”
“Right,” I mutter. Paul grins. He’s never been able to pick up on sarcasm. Or maybe he just ignores it, I don’t know.
“You’ll like her, Ma,” he says. “She’s a teacher in Highland Meadows, that fancy Catholic school.”
“What does she teach?” my mother asks, interest slipping into her tone.
I get up and walk into the living room, just to get away from them. This is about the fiftieth time Paul’s tried to set me up with someone. He and my parents have been dealing with the whole Travis situation by pretending it never happened. They’re so good at it, sometimes I actually wonder if they’ve forgotten.
Lily asked me about it once, after I was transferred to the hospital here. We were alone in my hospital room, and she turned to me abruptly and said, “You and that F1 guy... you weren’t, like, actuallywithhim, were you?”
It was so obvious she wanted me to say no. I sort of shrugged, and her expression went all sour, and she never brought it up again. Looking at her, you’d think Lily would be more progressive, with her long curly hair and hipster jewelry, but she went to a Catholic high school, and her awful group of friends really leaned into the idea that being classy meant being ultra-conservative. Now she’s dating this Christian block of wood with zero personality and a two-million-dollar trust fund, and she’s always harping on about how there’s nothing wrong with being traditional, and that a true feminist knows that the greatest joy of being a woman is caring for a good man and bearing his children.
It’s always sounded like a lot of horseshit to me, but it used to be easier to ignore. She’s five years older than me, and since I traveled so much for karting and racing, I never really spent that much time with her growing up. And although she used to call me every month, it always felt like something she was marking off her checklist: be a good Christian, call your brother once a month.
I sit down heavily on the couch. She and her wooden boyfriend will be here in a week, and I just know they’re going to drag us all to church a hundred times and pray before every meal. I know I shouldn’t resent her for it—I know she’s not trying to ruin my favorite holiday—but I do. And she is.
Not like it was ever going to be good this year, anyway.
