Children in brightly-painted cars zip by. A few wave at their parents from across the track while others hold the steering wheel for dear life.
As I’m passing the less-crowded area of the track, I notice a woman kneeling next to a go-cart. She’s wearing a tank top and jeans and her thick, auburn ponytail slides down her shoulder as she reaches for a tool in her tool box. A flashlight is clutched between her teeth, pointing at the go-cart frame and she fiddles with something on the large engine.
The way she interacts with the cart arrests my attention. I’ve heard this town is full of female mechanics—Rebel and April being two of them, but it’s my first time seeing a female mechanic in action.
“And what’s this?” A little boy about ten years old asks, pointing to the long, silver tool in her hands.
“It’s a spanner,” she grumbles around the flashlight stuck in her mouth. It could just be me, but I get the sense she’s not loving all the questions.
“And what’s this?” This time, he picks up something from her tool box.
The woman spits the flashlight out in horror. “Don’t touch that.”
It’s dark around this area of the track, but I can see the mischief in his eyes from a mile away. “Why not?”
“Give it back,” the woman says sternly as she climbs to her feet. “That tool is dangerous.”
My eyes widen when I see her face.
It’s the woman who keeps staring at me.
“Catch me if you can!” The little boy teases and then he takes off.
“Hey!” The woman launches at him but misses his shirt by a mile.
On instinct, I sprint after the mischievous kid. He’s fast, but he’s small and it doesn’t take me long to grab him. I wrap a hand around his arm before he can scamper into the crowd and disappear.
“Let me go!” The boy protests, squirming and twisting to get away from me. “Get off!”
“Is that yours, kid?” I point to the tool.
“What’s it to you?”
“Stealing is not cool, bro. You and I are going to take it back.”
“I wasn’t stealing. I was just playing around,” he mutters.
“It’s only fun if the other person is laughing and it didn’t seem like she was laughing to me.”
“It’s none of your business, mister.”
“It is now. Take it back to the lady and apologize.”
The kid looks like he’d rather throw himself on the track and take his chances with the go-carts, but I’ve got a good grip on him and there’s no escaping me.
Together we march—well, technically, I march and he’s dragged behind me like a carcass—to the woman with the toolbox.
By this time, the go-cart’s engine is rumbling and someone is helping her heft it on the track. A little girl in a helmet who was standing on the sidelines shrieks happily and hops into the driver’s side. The young driver takes off around a curve, nearly crashing into a hay bale and laughing her head off the entire way.
“Ma’am,” I say, calling the auburn-haired woman’s attention.
The woman spins.
Brown eyes latch on me. And then widen.
I imagine that if I looked up the phrase ‘deer in headlights’ online, I’d get this very picture.
Her entire body tightens like a spring and panic fills her green eyes. There might as well be a running neon sign on her forehead, blaring one word.
