‘Vamos, Magalinho!’ I heard Mãe cheer.
When I finished that race in first place, my debut race in America, I thought my heart would explode out of my chest. I parked my kart and struggled a bit to get my stubby legs out of the seat but, eventually, I succeeded. I ran across the dry grass, straight through the gap in the fence, till my mother’s strong arms caught me and lifted me.
‘Mãe, eu venci!’ I squealed. ‘I win!’
‘Oh,parabens, meu amor.’ She unbuckled the chin strap and removed my helmet, ruffled my curls before pressing a kiss to my forehead. ‘Seu papai tambén sabe.’
‘Papai?’ I echoed incredulously.
Mãe nodded. She smiled then, but there was a hint of something sadder there. Her eyes shone with unshed tears.
The other parents had also come down to join Mãe in the sand. As they reunited with their children, there were sharp words and brusque helmet taps from the fathers and excessive mollycoddling from the mothers. They glanced over at us with disbelief in their eyes, gaping at my mother as she hefted me upon her shoulders, held my hands, and danced in total and utter bliss.
Ryan’s dad looked on, appalled, before turning to his son. ‘I thought I told you to send that Mexican home!’
At first, I didn’t think my mother had heard anything.
But nothing ever escaped Célia Cardoso-Magalhães’s ears. She stopped singing just like that, and turned around with me still on her shoulders. Ryan’s dad regarded her with what was almost a look of disgust. He was an idiot. Everyone in our neighbourhood in Oakland loved Mãe. They said shehad the face of an angel and the work ethic of our greats: Pelé, Ronaldinho, Senna. Even the grandmas and grandpas spoiled her rotten.
‘Brazilian,’ Mãe said to Ryan’s dad.
Everyone within twenty feet turned to peer at us, as if no one had ever stood up to this man before.
‘I’m sorry, what?’ he spat.
‘We are Brazilian,monte de merda,’ she repeated. I giggled. The last part I could translate easily. ‘And for the record, my son has the trophy. It’s you who’s going home. What’s more …’ She made a flicking motion with her wrists. ‘Empty-handed.’
‘Caraca!’ I blurted.
Mãe tugged on my leg with a chuckle. ‘Let’s go, Magalinho.’
Ryan and his father and everyone else just stood there speechless as Mãe carried me to the car, laughing and joking all the way.
Maybe my mom didn’t have a lot to her name back then. Maybe we weren’t well-off enough for her to teach me how to fit the newest kart model with the best engine on the market. But she did teach me that compared to money, time is a mountain of wealth, and when you race, when youlive, time is everything. We have none to waste on hatred.
So we spend each second doing what we love, with the ones we love.
January 2024
Chapter One
Darien
The tram screeches along its cables with a shriek that rivals upset children. I chuckle as I check my phone to find at least ten messages from Mãe. I might only be in California for another handful of days, but that hasn’t stopped my mother from putting me to work in her garage.
Mind you, I suck at anything cars most of the time – regular cars. I possess only the bare-bones skills with karts and single-seaters. I can’t do much else. But I am good at drawing and painting, which translated to bodywork, making people’s rides look pretty. Painting, tints, wraps: that was what I grew up helping Mãe to do in the auto shop she founded, deep in San Francisco proper and about twenty minutes from our Oakland home. The garage was where I picked up one of life’s most important lessons: you want something done right, you’d better be willing to get your hands dirty.
I hear the garage before I see it. The boom-boom bass thump of Brazilian funk tells me the day’s already begun.
I heft my backpack further up onto my shoulder and blow a hair from my forehead. It’s not quite as hot here as everyone makes it seem, now that we’re closing in on the fall and getting ready for the winter. I’ve put on a hoodie and sweats to combat what is basically a light chill for us here in San Francisco, but I never wear anything too nice to the shop. Oil stains tend to get you in that line of work.
‘Mãe!’ I call, rounding the corner to where both of the big garage doors are open so you can see all the work going on inside. You wouldn’t think that anyone in there is cold with all the heat the cars and tools generate. This is nasty, greasy, smelly work, contrasting starkly with the pretty blue neonMagalinho’ssign over the two white doors, plastered against the brick façade.
I see her sneakered feet peeking out from beneath a Civic that’s in less-than-ideal shape, so even though she doesn’t answer, I let myself in. I drop my bag near the big black rolling tool chest. ‘Mãe!’ I repeat over the music.
‘Oi, Magalinho!’ My mom rolls herself into view on her mechanic’s creeper, a broad grin on her face as she sits up. I keep telling her she should take Manuel up on his offer to do the undercarriage repairs, but she’s just way too stubborn. Maybe I’m also extra, because Miss Célia Cardoso-Magalhães is coming up on her mid-forties and still in the best shape of her life. She’s been working on cars since she dropped out of school at thirteen and took up a job at the local garage, if you could even call it that, in Rocinha, to help her parents pay class fees for her younger siblings.
‘Hey.’ I raise an eyebrow. ‘What’d I tell you about the undercarriage?’
