A crew member swept his arm in the universal release signal, and Mack’s brain simultaneously flipped into go-mode, a bolt of energy zipping up her spine as her right foot slammed the accelerator. She peeledout exactly as Janet warned her not to do, swinging the back end of the high-strung car in a wide arc and screeching the tires.Shit.The throttle was more sensitive than anything she’d ever experienced.
She caught the fishtail and steered the car off pit row and out onto the track. Cool air reduced friction between the tires and asphalt, so Mack took her time bringing the car up to speed even though her foot itched to slam down. She’d be damned if she shamed herself by slapping the wall on the first lap. She steered onto the warm-up apron, a small lane below the main racetrack that kept slower traffic safely away from at-speed cars, then out onto the main track. Above her, the empty grandstands towered over the track, casting laddered shadows on the pavement. It was eerily silent, only the sound of the engine and wind filling her ears, but she’d heard part of the magic of the Indy 500 was driving through the sensory onslaught of hundreds of thousands of people cheering in surround sound.
For a split second, she let herself feel the magnitude of what she was doing, feel the awe and honor of driving at the Indianapolis Motor Speedway, to imagine the fans on race day. And then she tucked her sense of wonder away and got to work.
She left the short chute and eased into the sharp ninety-degree bend of turn two, the most notorious of all corners at this track. She exhaled in relief as she left the turn and headed down the long, straight backstretch. IndyCars had no power steering, and her arms already ached from forcing the wheel to turn. She pushed the accelerator down the backstretch, gaining a little more speed before downshifting into turns three and four. In less than a minute, she crossed over the famous yard of bricks and completed her first lap at Indianapolis Motor Speedway.
“How’s it feel?”
Mack jumped at Jimmy’s gravelly voice, unused to radio communication while driving. She was used to being isolated in the car. “Spirited,” she said into the microphone of her helmet.
Slowly Mack built speed, and with it, confidence. This car was as different from a sprint midget as the creek near her house was to theOhio River, but cars intuitively made sense to her in a way that nothing else ever had. Traditional learning had been a frustrating slog, full of tears and book throwing. Now that she had a school-age child, Mack suspected she had some form of dyslexia, but in her teens she’d thought she was stupid. Every time Shaw asked a question—Why do we eat pigs if they’re really smart? Why does that sign say Black Lives Matter?—Mack wondered if she fumbled the answer and screwed Shaw up for life. She was an impatient, imperfect nurse to Wes, she hated housework and cooking, and she worried that Shaw would only remember her exhaustion and short temper. Even running the family dirt track confused her because she didn’t understand why she was bored doing something she should love. Everything else in her life was full of confusing contradictions.
But this,this, she knew.
From an early age, she could drive anything: raw sprints, nimble go-karts, heavy stocks, and finicky sports cars. The best drivers had a unique skill, a little something that allowed them to step above the field, and Mack’s was versatility. She could figure out a new car twice as fast as most drivers, and IndyCar was no exception. Only a few dozen laps and she was zooming into the two hundred miles per hour range. She slipped, almost spun, but even then her body hummed with euphoria as she wrestled the car around the track. Nothing in her life had ever felt as good as wind in her face and an engine at her back.
How would she walk away from this moment and ever think that anything else was enough?
From:[email protected]
Subject:Promos [May 1, 3:33 p.m.]
Let’s hold on promo materials for Mack Williams. I want to see better metrics before additional engagement.
Hollis O. Whitfield
VP of Marketing
Hartley Harvester Manufacturing, Inc.
A Fortune 500 Company
Chapter 9
3 weeks until the Indianapolis 500
Two hours later, the sun cast a golden halo behind the Pagoda as an official signed off on Mack’s rookie test, a grueling sequence of increasing stints at increasing speeds, ending with laps at over two hundred fifteen miles per hour. In the car, she’d been too focused on the work to process what she was accomplishing, but now Mack sat on the low wall of pit lane in her sweat-soaked coveralls, holding her helmet between her legs and blinking back tears.
Don’t be the girl that cries.
When she’d watched the Indy 500 on television last May, she had to turn away for a second, choked with regret that she’d never get to race at Indianapolis. She’d watched other drivers cross the start-finish line and felt a jealous pain that made her hate herself. Now, a year later and despite all improbability, she would be vying for a spot on the grid.
Indianapolis was so much more than a sports arena. It was grit and passion and endurance amplified, the spirit of hundreds of drivers who’d attempted to win the world’s biggest race. It was over one hundred years of history, each race day tradition honored and beloved by devoted fans. It was her own history too, the memory of attending races with Wes and Laurie, and the dreams she’d birthed in these very grandstands.
She was so busy keeping her own feelings in check, she’d forgotten Laurie perched next to her on the concrete wall until she heard a sniffle. Oversize sunglasses covered most of her sister’s face. Mack didn’t know much about fashion, but she knew the interlocking pearlC’s on the side of Laurie’s sunglasses meant they were worth a month of rent. Laurie laced her fingers through Mack’s and squeezed. Her nose looked suspiciously red. “I bet you wish Dad was here.”
No longer able to contain her dammed emotions, Mack dropped her head back to stop the tears from running down her face. Good god, did she wish Wes was here. She could imagine what he’d say:Stop crying and get celebrating!
“Hope you have plans to celebrate tonight, Rookie. You cooked it out there.”
Mack snapped her head up, the moisture in her eyes disappearing instantly at the sight of Leo Raisman and his perfectly imperfect smile. Was he a fucking mind reader or had she said that out loud?
“Welcome to the month of May.” Leo laughed and the sound bounced off the empty venue before the vastness of the area swallowed the noise. “Rest and hydrate tonight. Monday, we start Body Work.”
Mack blinked.
