Marcie is waiting for me with a smile and a recorder, and she leads me to a middle-aged guy with glasses accompanied by a massive TV camera. As I step up to his mic, I see my own face pop up on the nearest track screen, so I guess that I’m live, and that everyone watching F1 right now can see and hear me.
“Jacob,” the guy says. “Welcome.”
He’s smiling cheerfully, and I force my lips up in return. “Thanks.”
“I bet you weren’t expecting to be talking to me today.”
I give a weak laugh. “No.”
“How does it feel, being thrown into all of this last minute? Do you feel ready to hop in the car? And are you nervous about driving your first F1 race at such a physically demanding track?”
“Um.” I glance at Marcie, who nods encouragingly. “I’m feeling good,” I say awkwardly. “I mean, I’m ready, yeah. And—sorry, what was your other question?”
“This track,” the guy says. “It’s one of the toughest ones on the calendar. The heat, the humidity, the fact that it’s a night race. Even the seasoned drivers struggle at Singapore, and here you are, being asked to jump in without any testing, only a year after such a massive, devastating crash—how do you feel about all of that?”
How do I feel about all of what? I’ve literally forgotten his entire question.
“Um.” I glance at Marcie again. “Singapore is—tricky, yeah.”
“I’ve heard drivers can lose up to four kilos of weight during the race,” he says. “How do you prepare for a physical challenge like that, especially after everything you’ve been through?”
“Well—” I lick my lips. “I’m not, like—I mean, it’s definitely going to be challenging?—”
“Do you feel any extra pressure in light of the rumors that Clayton is retiring at the end of this season?”
“Um—I mean, sort of, yeah—” I stammer stupidly.
And that’s basically how the rest of the interviews go.
I never understood the concept of media training, but now I really wish I’d had time to do some. It’s not like I haven’t been interviewed before—I did it in F2, and I used to be pretty good at it—but that was a long time ago, and it wasn’t half as intense as this. There are too many cameras, too many microphones, too many media rules sloshing around in my muddled brain. Three times, Marcie has to pinch my arm when a reporter tries to lead me into talking about something I’m not supposed to, and to cap it off, the very last interviewer cheerfully asks me if my parents are here to watch the race.
“No,” I say haltingly.
“I’m sure they’ll be watching from home, though,” the interviewer says. “They must be so proud of you!”
I stare at her helplessly. I should just say “Yeah” and be done with it, but the word sticks in my throat like a gross piece of phlegm.
“I’m really excited to race,” I say instead. The interviewer gives me an odd sort of look, then Marcie steps in and leads me away.
“All done,” she says brightly. “It’s overwhelming the first time,” she adds, with a sympathetic smile that makes it clear things went as badly as I thought they did.
She takes me back to the garage, where a bright red clock ticks down the last hour before FP3. Clayton’s car looks sleek and shiny under the garage lights, and I don’t feel excited to see it like I did last night. I feel nauseous, and shaky, and hot.
Cory beckons me to his side and pulls up data on his computer screen, telling me important things about brake balance and tire temperature. About half of my mind is paying attention, while the other half is going through a complete and total meltdown. At some point, a mechanic pulls Cory away, and I’m left standing alone in a borrowed race suit and poorly fitting shoes, while everyone else in the garage moves briskly from one important task to the next.
I dig my phone out of my pocket, just to have something to do with my hands. As I swipe it open, a text pops up from Travis.
[5:38] Travis: Can you come to my room right now?
My pulse thuds in panic. Is he serious? FP3 starts in twenty-two minutes. And I’m probably supposed to be doing something right now, looking at data or talking to the mechanics or something.
My phone dings again.
[5:39] Travis: It’s important.
Fuck.
“I’m just going to run to the bathroom,” I tell the engineer standing nearest me. He gives me a bemused look, probably because I’m not a kindergartener who needs to ask permission to pee.
