It’s six a.m. in London. I landed about an hour ago and immediately dragged Kelsie out of bed to give her a word-for-word recap of what happened.
“Yep.” My voice comes out a little shaky. I’ve been oscillating rapidly between “totally proud of myself and high on adrenaline” and “one wrong move away from a total breakdown.” “It was insane.”
“I’m so proud of you.” Kelsie reaches across the table to grab my hand. “Seriously.”
“Yeah.” I look at my hands for a moment.
“Hey.” Kelsie squeezes my fingers. “It’s going to be okay.”
I nod once, then again. There’s a painful lump in the back of my throat. “I’m going to be fucked if I can’t get a job.”
“Jacob.”
A thin panic rises in my chest. “I can only stay here six months without some kind of visa.”
“That’s plenty of time. If things don’t work out with Crosswire, we’ll find something else. And if that doesn’t work, we’ll just arrange a sham marriage.”
I manage a laugh. “Right.”
We smile at each other for a second, then she kicks me under the table. “Come on. You wake me up this early, I demand you take me out for breakfast.”
“Yeah, alright.” I rise to my feet. “Hey—thanks, yeah? For letting me stay and everything.”
She shrugs. “I’m not doing it to be nice. I’m doing it so that you’ll buy me a bunch of fancy shit when you become a millionaire F1 star. Obviously.”
My lips twist into a smile. “Obviously.”
On Tuesday morning, twenty-two minutes after eight, I walk into Crosswire Racing’s factory, thirty minutes outside of London. I rented a car for the day to get here, and I was so nervous about getting lost or delayed that I got here twenty minutes early. After agonizing about it for a while, I decided that showing up eight minutes early shows initiative and courtesy. I was originally going to do twelve minutes early, but that seemed a bittooearly, almost rude.
I’ve overthought this way too much, obviously.
The Crosswire factory is scary impressive. Even the parking lot is amazing. There are these two crazy metal statues of F1 cars when you turn in, and every parking spot is marked with a glossy wooden sign. There are five labeled “Guest” and twenty labeled “Visitor,” and I agonized about that choice for about five minutes before I decided on Visitor.
I smooth down my T-shirt as I walk toward the building. I decided on casual clothes, a dark gray jacket, black shirt, and dark jeans, and I’ve got a black messenger bag that I bought yesterday over my shoulder, with my race stats and stuff printed out in a folder.
I pull open the frosted glass door and step into the lobby. The ceiling is so high it feels like a church and the walls are covered in really huge, artsy black-and-white photos of historic F1 cars and drivers. Farther ahead, to the left, there’s a vast marble-floored room with a long line of old Crosswire cars. I gape at them for a moment, feeling like a little kid visiting a cool museum.
The sudden clicking of heels makes me jump. “Can I help you?” asks a pleasant voice.
The speaker is a woman about my age with a friendly smile.
“I’m here to meet Tom Kellen,” I say nervously. “I’m—”
“Jacob Nichols, of course. Mr. Kellen is expecting you. Right this way.”
She leads me past the incredible row of cars and up a flight of stairs to a hallway lined with doors. The door labeled “TOM KELLEN” is already open. I swallow hard. Tom was the team principal of Crosswire for about ten years. He took over when Crosswire was a crap team and turned it into three-time championship winner. He trained his replacement for a few years, a woman named Sofia Conyers, and then he bought out the previous team owners and took over the whole team. On TV he always seems friendly enough, but you can tell he’s one of those people who’s scary smart and expects everyone else to keep up with them.
Naturally, I’m terrified of him. But Amanda suggested what she calls a “foolproof” interview strategy. No matter what they ask, she said, be completely honest. That way, if you get the job, you know it’s because they really want you. And if you don’t, you can find a little comfort knowing you wouldn’t want to work with someone who doesn’t want you for your true self.
It seems kind of basic, but at the same time, it does make me feel a bit calmer. I don’t have to try to think of fancy, impressive answers. I’m just going to tell the truth.
“Ah, Jacob.” Tom rises and shakes my hand, firm and brisk. He’s a tall, thin white man with pale hair and glasses. “Thanks for coming in.”
“Of course.” My voice is thin and nervous. “Thanks for having me.”
“Have a seat, please.” The woman melts away, shutting the door behind her, and I sit in the chair Tom points me to, on one side of a glossy wooden desk. He sits in the chair opposite me. The window behind him overlooks the parking lot with the two car statues. “Did you find the place okay?”
“Yes, sir.”
