Chapter Twelve
Shantal
My hands literally shake as I wait by the stupid doors. I can’t believe this. I’ve bickered too close to the sun this time. Even Sonia would never have taken part in something so dangerous. I wonder if she’d endorse my actions right now. At the very least, I’m sure she’d appreciate my wardrobe, most of which are pieces I bought with her years ago and chucked into my suitcase without thinking. I’ve put on a pair of obnoxiously tiny, ripped denim shorts, and a white tank top with an unbuttoned baby blue linen shirt over it, complete with my trusty Converse. It’s not the comfiest but will blend in decently anywhere in Rio.
Darien turns up soon enough, dressed as he usually is – as he was when I first met him-slash-André – in football shorts and an old GP2 shirt.
‘All right.’ A quick, if not sheepish, flick of his eyes in my direction doesn’t escape my notice. I feel my neck start to heat up and, even though I’m darker-skinned, I’m praying it isn’t a reaction he can see. ‘I’ve brought the car.’
‘The AMG?’
He shakes his head with a smile. ‘We can’t use that. But we very much can and will usethis.’
With the click of a button on the keys in his hand, a vehicle in the dimly lit lot chirps, and its headlights flash. It’s a Chevrolet Corvette: canary yellow, accented with dark blue stripes. The colour combination makes for a violent war waged on the optic nerves. The rear of the car sports an understated spoiler; the interior glints with subtle barring, indicative of some kind of reinforcement.
‘This was my dad’s,’ says Darien, with notes of both admiration and melancholy in his voice.
‘Did he let you bring it out here?’
‘Nah.’ We cross towards the lot, and when we reach the car, he opens the passenger door for me. I catch sight of an unusual look on Darien’s face. He looks almost confused, as if there’s something he wants to remember but can’t. ‘He passed away when I was younger. Accident with a truck. But even after I got my kart, I learned all my strategy in here. First sitting where you are, watching my dad, and then driving with my uncle. Racing.’
I’m not sure what to say, given that I’m now in the very place where Darien Cardoso-Magalhães’s motorsport career was born. I let out a deep breath before speaking. ‘I’m sorry to hear that. Though this must be a strong car, if it’s lasted all those things.’
‘Oh, only somewhat. My mom and I have done our fair share of repairs,’ he says with a laugh. He starts up the engine, and it purrs loudly, greedily even, as he pulls out of the lot. ‘Like, after the first time my uncle let me race for the car. I won, but the Corvette took a good beating. Mãe waspissed.’
I manage a laugh, but it comes out strangled.
Darien briefly glances from the road to me. ‘What?’
I don’t know. It just shakes me that he could do that to what sounds like a family heirloom. ‘How could you just … put your father’s car, the car you became a racer in, on the line so easily? What if you damage it so badly you lose it for ever?’
Darien just cracks a grin. ‘That’s the thing, Shantal. This car is a beast. You think my dad would want me keeping it chained up in the garage all day?’
‘I think maybe that’s what I’d want to do.’
‘Interesting.’ His smirk is amused but not condescending, judging from that crinkling of his eyes that betrays his genuine reaction. ‘You do know what happens to a car you keep in the garage, never drive?’
‘Well, it stays in good shape,’ I answer slowly, though I’m wary this may not be the reply he wants.
‘Nope. It stops working. It … forgets how.’
My expression has got to be vacant, because he lets out a chuckle. ‘Cars were made to be driven, you know.’
Darien drives us well into the city, to the beach where we’d come on that first day earlier in the week. Ipanema – I can tell from the patterns on the sidewalk. In the distance, I see that same hill stacked with colourful houses illuminated by blinding streetlights. Cantagalo, Darien called it. It’s even more beautiful at night, something you could only find on a canvas. But then I notice little things that strip away at the façade. Things like the narrowness of the streets, or a particularly unstable building.
‘Little gift just for you,’ says Darien once he parks. He produces a helmet from the space at his feet. It’s emblazoned with the number sixty-seven andNicoin glittering silver on the back, with a picture of two blue macaws forming a heart with their beaks on the top. The Brazilian flag is encapsulated withinthe shape of the heart. It’s absolutely adorable. ‘My race helmet. You can put this on.’
‘I can … but this is yours …’ I trail off in disbelief. Darien nods his permission.Go ahead.
I gingerly take the helmet. Our hands brush just slightly, but it’s the kind of touch that is both too much and not enough for me to handle when he passes it to me. It’s heavier than I’d expected, and it hits me abruptly that I will wear the same helmet a Formula 1 driver uses in races. I just look at it with an air of shock for a moment.
‘You put it on.’ Darien’s tone conceals humour as he helps me slide it over my head. His fingers skim my neck as he concentrates on fastening the belt beneath my chin. I feel like I’m sharing something incredibly intimate with him, which is ironic given we’ve not even been able to stand in the same room without bickering for the past few days. The helmet smells like him: his sandalwood cologne, a hint of cardamom, and then the minty scent of gum. I’m glad he can’t see how flustered I am. I’ve got no words left to argue with.
‘I’m technically not supposed to be out around Rio at night without some kind of chaperone or whatever, because people can get out of control, but it’s worth the hassle for these things,’ he explains as he flips down my visor. It’s like everything gets a shade darker, unhelpful in the pre-existing dark. He tugs at the seatbelt that mimics where backpack straps would normally sit, on either side of my chest, checking to make sure it’s secure. ‘Like I said, these are my summers, my childhood.’
I’m shaking in my Converse as Darien changes gears, and we begin to drive towards the hill. Okay. We’re just going to go up. It could be worse. I distract myself by taking my GoPro camera out from my backpack and securing it to the dashboard, where it’ll video the view out in front so I can refer to it inprogramming the sims later on. I repeat a little mantra in my head.We need this to win. We need this to win.
‘You can take a deep breath, we’re gonna make it through this alive,’ jokes Darien, but I think he finds it more of a joke than I do.
