MUST HAVE A BIG D
FRANKIE (Ten yearslater)
It started out in chaos, and I guess it’s going to end that way too. The good news is we have one drivernotsmack dab in the middle of the shit show. Antonio De Luca, one of the two drivers for the Mirabella Racing, was on pole for the start of the Vancouver Grand Prix. It’s a city course, not his strong suit, so the fact that he somehow managed to snag the top spot in qualifying was miraculous, and I told my father on the phone last night Antonio would need another miracle to hold the position. I wasn’t wrong.
On the second lap, he lost position to Sterling Samuels, the young hotshot who was world champion last year and the year before and is favored to three-peat. But then, that second miracle came early when, on the third lap, Antonio overtook Sterling. He managed to hold Sterling off until the eighteenth lap when, while gunning for an overtake, Samuels hit the DRS on a notoriously dangerous corner. Not one butthreedrivers had crashes on that corner in qualifying. Our team’s other driver, Billy James, was one of them. Luckily for Billy, it was a spin-out more than a crash, and he was able to continue on. He qualified sixth overall.
“It’s too tight,” I tell the live feed I’m watching on my phone. “What the hell are you doing, Samuels? De Luca has position, back the fuck off!”
A second later I’m gripping my phone so hard my knuckles are white. “Antonio stop pinching him you’re going to… fuck!”
De Luca’s back right wheel and Samuels’s front left wheel connect. De Luca goes spinning off the course into the gravel and into the barrier hard and fast – so fast that the barrier breaks into pieces flying all over the place. But there’s no fire. No smoke. And when the safety team reach the car, Antonio is already pulling himself out of it. I exhale a breath I didn’t realize I was holding.
There’s a sharp rap on my bathroom stall door. “Frankie they’re paying you to be here. And by here I mean in the club, shaking your ass to the DJ in that thousand dollar dress and holding a glass of the liquor that’s sponsoring this party. Hello? Are you listening to me?”
“Yeah. Yeah. I’m coming,” I call back, turning and flushing the empty toilet for effect. In that chaos caused by the over eager, testosterone fueled egos of Samuels and DeLuca, someone manages to drive their car straight through the dust and debris from Deluca’s crash. He even drives straight past Samuels, who didn’t spin out but slowed pace immensely as he struggled to stay on track. That driver was the current number four in the world, who started in sixth spot. Billy James. The other Mirabella Racing driver. And now, thanks to his steady driving and checked ego, my race… I mean myfather’srace team is still leading the race!
“Frankie!” My manager, and best friend, Jennie pounds the door again.
“Yes!” I begrudgingly turn off the feed and fling open the stall door. She’s standing there, eyebrow arched, arms crossed.
“That time of the month,” I mutter and give her remorseful smile.
“Yeah you mean that time of the race weekend,” Jennie replies.
Busted. “In my defense we haven’t had a driver on pole yet this season.”
“It’s only a few races in,” Jennie says. I just nod and focus on reapplying my lipstick. No point in explaining we’re actually halfway through the season and every race is important. It would be like explaining the patterns of Canadian geese migration to an octopus. She, like the octopus, would give exactly zero shits. Jennie isn’t into F1, she’s into me and the other influencers and brands she works with as a manager and social media strategist.
I do a once over as Jennie grabs my arm and starts tugging me out of the restroom. I look good. The dress is still pristine despite the twenty minutes I just spent sitting hunched over in a bathroom stall. It will look great, and the designer won’t have any issue paying me once they see the photos splashed all over the internet. Jennie was right in advising me to wear it with my hair up because it shows off the intricate lace on the back perfectly.
Outside the restroom, the music is deafening. Nick, my bodyguard, is standing there in his usual black everything from shirt to shoes to probably undies, although I have no urge to find out. He hands me the martini glass with the rock candy stir stick he’s been guarding. Both are supposed to be made with Midori, the sponsor alcohol, but mine is concocted with food coloring. I don’t drink in public. Not since I was eighteen.
I plaster a smile on my face, raise the candy to my perfectly painted lips, and head back out to do my job. After forty minutes of dancing and chatting happily and posing for a billion pictures with whoever wants them, I slip into the VIP area. That’s allowed, as per the contract. I stop to chat and do more pics with whoever was stupid enough to pay four hundred bucks a table for the access. The whole time, I feel my phone buzzing through my purse, which is also something I’m being paid to tote around. Finally, I have a moment to slip into a Barcelona chair in a dark corner and check my alerts.
The first message is from my sister:Men drive with their dicks. That was a sword fight out there between A and S.
I smile and type back:Luckily James doesn’t get into pissing matches.
Lucia responds a second later:Must have a big d. Doesn’t get intimidated.
I bite my bottom lip. I have no idea, but I almost found out once. And I’d be lying if I said that ‘what if’ doesn’t haunt me. Then I notice my dad texted me too and flip to his message.
You were right about A. Do you think B needs a miracle too?
I type back immediately, despite the fact that I can see Jennie walking towards me with a small group in tow. It will look bad to anyone who matters if I’m holed up in a corner with my face in my phone.If the car holds, he’s on the podium. Skip the second pit to maintain position. Billy can handle old tires in these conditions.
Three seconds after I’ve hit send, my father replies.You’ve read my mind.
“There you are!” Jennie is smiling, but her eyes are glaring. She’s great at doing that, I’ve discovered. Yelling at me with her eyes while smiling at me with her mouth. “This is Mike, Andrew, Amy, and Maritzia. They’re fromBuzzFeed,Sports Illustrated, Betsey Johnson, and Midori, respectively.”
“Hi everyone. Fun night, isn’t it?” I grin and lift my fake martini up toward them.
“You looked a little intense there, staring at your phone,” the one Jennie said was Amy, who works with the dress company who hired me to wear this tonight, says with a lighthearted grin. But I don’t miss the pointed tone.
“Me? Intense? Never,” I smile back, ignoring Jennie who is screaming ‘I told you so!’ with her eyes.
I chat with all of them and take more pictures when asked. I understand why real celebrities hate this. Andrew fromSports Illustratedtalks about me doing their swimsuit issue again, and I play it cool with a ‘sure if the schedule allows,’ but of course I’ll do it. They asked me to model for the issue last year, and I was just happy to be included because it boosted my brand, but now I have goals. There’s never been a social media influencer who has gotten the cover, and I want to be the first.
