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Jesse spoke into the walkie-talkie. “That was cool. I want to go again.”
Mr. Wynn reminded him, “Remember, slow it down on Pit Road. Courtesy to everyone else.”
On Pit Road, Mitchum and his father were unloading his own impressive ninety horse power rail from a two-wheeled trailer hitched to a pick-up truck.
A few friends approached them. One kid said, “I thought you weren’t driving a Junior Dragster anymore.” Mitchum frowned and said, “That’s next year. Dad won’t let me drive the Super Pro car yet. But I am getting too big for this thing.”
“Mitchum, that kid who just went beat your best reaction time.”
“Are you serious? Who?”
At the moment, Jesse was driving slowly past that area, going toward his own parking place. Mitchum and his buddies watched Jesse go by. One kid pointed and said, “Him.”
“Who is it?”
“Jesse somebody. He just cut a five forty. Forty-five.”
Mitchum’s response was a bad word.
His father said, “Watch it, son.”
• * * * *
At Jesse’s parking space, he rolled in and stopped. Mr. Wynn turned the motor off and Jesse hopped out of the ride. He asked, “How did I do?”
Mr. Wynn said, “The best reaction time I’ve seen in a long time. Especially for this old crate. A bit more tech and tune and we’ll nail the right dial-in.” Jesse asked, “We could set it for what I just ran. Right?” Mr. Wynn said, “We could. But that means you need to run the same way again to –“
“Match the same numbers. Same time.”
Mr. Wynn nodded, “Right. If you run faster than your dial, it’s called a Break-out. Drivers can lose because of that.”
Jesse took a sip of his soda and said, “I get it. This is so cool. I wish my Dad was here to watch. But I’m still afraid to tell him.”
Mr. Wynn said, “He might understand. He’s welcome to come along anytime. I’ll pay his way in.”
“Am I ready for competition?”
“Oh, you will be,” Mr. Wynn said, “Two other Junior Dragsters are here. One just pulled in. Looks like three total. With an odd number, someone always get a bye run. In fact, none of you have to race each other tonight. You can all run separately. This isn’t a competition event. We filled out a test card anyway.”
“Should I go alone next time or up against one of them?”
“A real race?”
“Yeah. What do you think, Mr. Wynn?”
The seasoned mentor emphasized, “Remember to focus your attention on your lane and the Tree. Not watch the other guy. The bulbs should be peripheral in your sight. You know what that means? Your focus is directly ahead. Forward.
“But over here to your side, whichever eye because of whichever lane you’re in, those lights can be seen peripherally. Don’t look right at them. But see them anyway. Get it?”
“Okay.”
“And then go. Go. Go.”
* * * * *
In Jesse’s room that night, he looked at his E.T. slips. He had four small paper strips with columns of ink jet printed data. A start of a collection.
Suddenly, Heather entered, closing the door behind her. She said, “You were racing? At that racetrack?”
“Uh, what do you mean?” He hid the slips.
She said, “You were driving a race car tonight at that track near here. Your name was announced on the sound system. Duh. They know your name there?”
Jesse answered, “I had to sign a tech card I filled out. It’s a rule. How do you know?”
“Mitchum told me about it.”
“Your boyfriend. Mister big mouth.”
“He’s not my boyfriend. He’s a friend. And come to find out, he races there, and he raced you?”
“He beat me.”
She smirked. “Serves you right, twerp. Why were you even there? Where did you get a race car?”
“It’s called a rail.”
“I don’t care what they call it. How did you even get inside one anyway?”
“It’s a secret.”
“Bull.”
“Don’t tell Dad. Let me tell him. Because I’ve been wanting to tell him. And have him come out there and watch me.”
Heather wadded up a sheet of notebook paper and threw it at him.
She said, “Good luck with that. You are in so much trouble that it hasn’t even fazed you yet how much trouble you’re in.”
“Maybe. Maybe not. Dad would understand.”
“Well, yeah, maybe he would. But Mom will go ballistic.”
“Don’t worry about it, Heather,” Jesse said as he picked up the wadded paper and threw it back, “Mind your own business. So what else did your lover boy Mitchum tell you?”
She replied with a grin, “He raced you. And he beat you. Ha.”
“He won’t always be able to say that.”
“What’s that mean?”
“It means I’ll beat him one of these times.”
“Twerp.” And she exit, with a door slam.
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