Checkered Flag Page 2

  “She holds a valid license,” one official had said. “We could have kept her off the track, but we agreed the license trumped her age.”

  That was the end of it, though she could have bottled Butch Devalon’s stare at her during the drivers’ meeting before the race. The guy had a toothpick in his mouth, and he cracked it in two while looking at her. She wanted to make a face and hold up a sign that said, “Get Over It—You’ve Been Clawed by the Tigress,” but she didn’t. She did smirk a bit, however.

  Standing in the pits behind the war wagon was an experience in Denver. Because the stands were built in much the same way as Bristol’s, you got the feeling of being enclosed, like at a coliseum. A canopy stretched over the stands to block the beating sun—the same kind of look as the Denver airport.

  On her first trip here, Jamie had sat with her mom and Kellen in the expensive seats. Video screens were installed on the back of each seat, and you could watch a virtual dashboard of your favorite driver, listen to radio communication, and see in-car video. Whether a fan sat there or in the cheaper seats, it was one of the best places in the country to watch a race. The stands felt right on top of the track, and the infield was sunken so all the RVs and TV trucks didn’t block the view.

  The lighter air in Denver affected the cars in lots of ways. There was a special setup for the carburetor so it wouldn’t bog down at the 5,280-foot elevation. Jamie’s dad said those high-altitude directions for baking were just as important for racing.

  There was a moment of silence for some victims of a flash flood in a Colorado canyon and then a flyover from Peterson Air Force Base in Colorado Springs. The wind picked up, and all the drivers seemed concerned about the crosswinds that were gusting up to 20 mph.

  Her dad took the green flag and shot ahead with a vengeance. The announcers, writers, and fans were talking about the change in her dad’s racing, and Jamie could sense his confidence rising. It seemed like old times when she was little and he was in his heyday with one of the big teams. He was consistently in the top 10 in every race back then, dueling with the big guns and making the Chase. She was in elementary school and always took autographed pictures of her dad for friends. When he went out on his own, a lot of her classmates didn’t want his autograph anymore.

  On lap 19, two cars tapped and spun, leading to a several-car crash in the middle of the pack, many of them the top contenders. Jamie wasn’t as concerned with them. The real race was between her dad and the #17 and #33 cars. The #17 car was 12th in points, with a slim margin over #33 in 13th place. Her dad was 14th and needed to move up two spots to make the Chase.

  “Looking good out there, Dale,” Scotty said over the radio. “Stay low and get ready for a pit stop on the next pass.”

  “Where’s the competition?” her dad said.

  “Just stay in front. We’ve got a long way to go,” Scotty said.

  Her dad got four tires and fuel, but it wasn’t the crew’s best pit stop. He made it back to the track in fourth place. The #17 car was right behind him in fifth, and #33 was running in 11th place.

  “Looks like #17’s going to push you a little bit,” Scotty said.

  “Us old guys need a push every now and then,” her dad said.

  Jamie had gone over the standings with her dad the night before. If he won the race and the two drivers ahead of him finished sixth or lower, he was in the Chase. If he came in anywhere else, it would just depend on their point totals at the end of the race.

  Jamie knew other drivers were racing conservatively, not going for the win but trying to finish high. That wasn’t her dad’s approach, especially in this race.

  Her dad attempted to get back in the lead on the outside, but he couldn’t get around a faster car. That put him behind #17 with #33 only a few cars back in the pack. When #17 moved left and took a position on the inside, her dad was left alone and fell to 15th. But as her dad had said a billion times, sometimes bad things led to good things. The race leaders bunched up, and when a tire blew on one, six cars were taken out in a plume of smoke and debris.

  “Go low. Go low,” Scotty said. “Watch for #22 coming down the track toward you. Come on. Come on. . . . Okay, good. Clear.”

  Her dad made it through the wreckage and pitted again, picking up 10 spots, but he was unable to shake the #17 and #33 cars.

  “More trouble coming behind,” Scotty said when the green flag flew again. “You got #13 breathing down your neck.”

  “I figured we’d meet up at some point,” her dad said.

  Jamie shook her head and turned, spotting someone in a dark jacket behind her. It was Chad Devalon.

  Chapter 4

  Boiling

  TIM’S BLOOD BOILED as he watched Butch Devalon bump Dale going into a turn. The #14 car’s rear end slid to the right, and Dale tried to correct.

  “Hang on to it. Hang on!” Kellen shouted.

  “Whoa!” the announcers said.

  “I can’t believe what I just saw,” one of them said.

  “Well, that’s how a veteran driver will hang on to it,” another said. “And you won’t see a better piece of driving. To hang on at these speeds is amazing.”

  “No yellow flag,” Tim said.

  “I hope his tires hold up,” Kellen said.

  “I hope he lets 13 by him and spins him out,” Tim said.

  Kellen laughed.

  Ever since Tim had seen the DVD someone had left at the garage for him—the one showing that Butch Devalon had caused his dad’s death—he had been trying to come up with a way to get back at the man. He’d been banned from the tracks because of a stink Devalon had made about Tim at Brickyard, so he knew he’d have to do something off the track. But what?

  While Tim mulled over his options, Dale made his way to the back of Devalon and was drafting him. The #13 and #14 cars were in tandem with several other cars lining up behind them, pushing them faster and faster around the track.

  It was lap 148—only 50 left—when Dale got to the inside of #13 on turn three and the cars behind followed him. Devalon tried to move low and get in line, but he bumped the #33 car and spun him into the infield.

  The yellow flag came out, and when the smoke cleared, Devalon and #33 (as well as three other cars) were out of the race.

  Tim gave a whoop, and Kellen pumped his fist in the air. Mrs. Maxwell walked into the garage rubbing her hands. People from their church had joined them, watching the race in the living room, but Tim couldn’t concentrate with all those people, the food, and the small talk.

  Kellen told her what had happened, and she stared at the TV. “Where’s the #17 car?”

  Tim studied the ticker at the top of the screen. “He’s dropped back to 23rd.”

  Mrs. Maxwell looked like she was computing some big math problem in her head. “He’s close to the Chase. If he can stay here and keep this position . . .”

  With 10 laps to go, Dale was in third but the #17 car was moving up fast.

  “Smoke!” Kellen said.

  “There’s smoke coming out of the #17 car,” the announcer said. “It’s not clear whether that’s from a tire or—”

  “It’s the engine,” another announcer said. “This close to the Chase and the engine goes. I guess that’s racing, but it’s a real shame.”

  Tim and Kellen danced around the garage like monkeys who had found fresh bananas.

  Dale pushed his car to the end and wound up in fourth place.

  “And Dale Maxwell does the improbable here today—only a month ago no one would have given him a chance at the Chase, but now he’s in the 12th spot,” the announcer said.

  “You can bet those leaders are starting to look over their shoulders,” a commentator said. “With the right car, this guy can outrace anybody on the track, and he’s finally driving like we all know he can.”

  Tim smiled and watched the remainder of the coverage. When Kellen left, he packed up the equipment he’d been cleaning (which he did on Sunday afternoons because there was nothing else
to do while he watched) and picked up a can of fuel in a red container. He sloshed the liquid a bit and set it down, opening a phone book and running his finger past the different shops until he came to “Butch Devalon Racing.”

  He stared at the address and tapped his finger, finally taking the can of fuel and putting it in his locker.

  Chapter 5

  Chase Talk

  JAMIE WAITED for her dad at the hauler, not wanting to intrude on the interviews and the clamor for his answers. The people around her congratulated her as they passed. It was clear that some fans of Butch Devalon weren’t too happy, but they at least tipped their caps to her.

  “Well, I owe this one to my daughter, who put me in a good position,” her dad said as she watched in the hauler. He also recognized the #17 and #33 teams. “They put up a real good fight, and I know they’ll be right in the thick of things the rest of the season and into next year.”

  Just like her dad, she thought. Always complimenting others and actually meaning it, unlike most of the guys who gave backhanded compliments like, “We just beat ourselves out there.”

  Her dad returned to the hauler with a few autograph hounds hanging on. Jamie came out to meet him, and a crowd gathered around both of them.

  “Is this the little lady who set the track record?” a bushy-haired man said. He wore a #33 hat and a #17 jacket. “You’ve got a good one here, Maxwell.”

  “Don’t I know it,” her dad said, chuckling. “Now if you’ll excuse us, we have some celebrating to do.”

  “Hold up there, Maxwell,” someone said in a gruff voice.

  Jamie turned and spotted the familiar black hat of Butch Devalon. He pushed past the others, banging shoulders with some, and walked straight to her dad. His teeth were on edge, and she could see a vein in the guy’s forehead pulsing.

  “What goes around comes around, Maxwell,” Devalon said. “You’ll find yourself left hanging out to dry pretty soon if you’re not careful.”

  “Butch,” her dad said in a friendly voice, “nice of you to come over and congratulate me.” He put his arm around Devalon and faced the crowd. “Butch and I go way back, folks. Back further than either of us wants to admit. It’s going to be a great chase down the stretch—”

  Devalon moved away from him and faced Jamie, pointing a finger at her. “You may think you pulled a fast one, missy. But you just got in more trouble than you know what to do with.”

  Her dad straightened and stepped between them.

  Jamie moved past her dad and stood toe to toe with Devalon. “Don’t threaten me or my dad. You’ve bullied your way around these tracks long enough. Time for somebody else to be top dog.”

  He wagged a finger at her again, but before he could say anything, the curly-haired guy spoke. “What’s the matter, Butch? You afraid this girl’s gonna beat you someday?”

  “Yeah, Devalon’s mad because a high schooler showed him up,” someone else said, and the crowd laughed.

  Devalon looked around like he was an animal in the wrong cage. He turned back to Jamie, and with more of a growl than a human voice he said, “You’ll pay for your insolence, young lady. And it might be your daddy who pays the most.”

  Before Jamie could say anything else, her dad had an arm around her and was guiding her toward the hauler. “Thank ya’ll for coming—we have to get inside out of the hot air.”

  Inside, her dad shut the door. T.J., the crew chief, was there, going over the race.

  “Top dog?” her dad said. “What’s that kind of talk? We’re lucky there weren’t cameras around.”

  “That’s the only reason he said that stuff,” Jamie said. “He knew there wouldn’t be cameras.”

  Her dad and T.J. laughed. It was the best sound in the world to hear those guys laughing and not stressed out because of the race.

  “Hey, Dad,” Jamie said, leaning forward and whispering. “You’re in the Chase. You old dog, you’re in the Chase, and you’re gonna be top dog before you’re through.”

  “Keep talking like that, missy,” her dad said, imitating Devalon, “and you’re gonna be up there on the podium with me accepting the cup.”

  Chapter 6

  Chatter

  JAMIE COULDN’T RESIST looking at the chat rooms of different racing sites. She couldn’t believe how mean some of the people on one of the most popular sites could be.

  From: Chatrbox2817

  To: Maxwellfan1414

  You really need to face the fact that Dale Maxwell is just a used-up old guy with no prayer of winning the cup. It’s a shame the officials let his daughter’s time stand and he got the pole at Denver. I don’t think he would have done as well at New Hampshire on Sunday if that hadn’t happened. Now we have to suffer through the last nine races with a guy whose last wins came 10 years ago. His only claim to fame is that he killed a gasman at Talladega. The only way Maxwell is going to win is if his daughter gets behind the wheel and shows him how to drive again.

  From: Maxwellfan1414

  To: Chatrbox2817

  That’s just plain cruel. Dale earned his spot in the Chase, and he’s already moved up a spot. When he’s in the winner’s circle at Homestead-Miami, maybe you’ll believe. Even if he doesn’t make it, he has more class in his little finger than any driver you support.

  From: Devalonracingfan13131313

  To: Chatrbox2817

  You tell them, Chatrbox. Maxwell was racing dirty in New Hampshire, and if Butch had a little help from his teammate or a friend, he would have caught him. I hate these whiny Christians who think they have some God-given right to win so they can talk about Jesus in the winner’s circle.

  From: BristolDixychik

  To: Maxwellfan1414

  I think it’s time we get a serious female contender on the track, and it looks like Jamie Maxwell is just the ticket. I know she’s young and she’ll need to prove herself, but I hope she gets a legitimate shot at it.

  From: TalladegaAl33

  To: BristolDixychik

  She’d probably be doing her hair in the rearview. No female will ever make it in NASCAR because it takes too much strength and brains. That girl may have some brains, but in the heat of the race there’s no way she can stand up to the other drivers. And I’m not some woman hater—that’s just the truth!

  From: BristolDixychik

  To: TalladegaAl33

  No, you’re not a woman hater. You’re just stupid. If that girl can win the pole at Denver, one of the toughest venues in all of racing, and win a license as one of the top drivers in that experimental school she attended, I think she’s only a couple of years away from being right up there.

  Some posts were so ugly that Jamie didn’t want to read them, but she couldn’t stop. One message made her laugh. The next made her so mad that she’d get halfway through typing a response and stop. If she ever told them who she really was, they’d never believe it and probably give her a hard time.

  Her dad always had a rule about defending himself to people in chat rooms or to columnists in the newspaper or even to other drivers. He said everybody was entitled to their own opinions, no matter how wrong they were. “I’ll do my defending on the track where it counts, not with a flurry of words going back and forth through the paper or the Internet or behind the garage.”

  Still, Jamie had a hard time not saying something to these people. Then she noticed someone new who had logged on to the conversation.

  From: CassieMaxfan

  To: TalladegaAl33

  I know both Jamie and her dad, and they’re not whiners. They prove what they can do on the track. Period. And as for Christians talking in the winner’s circle, I think it’s refreshing to hear someone giving the glory to God rather than some beer company. Don’t knock it until you’ve tried it. :)

  Jamie laughed, especially at the response of TalladegaAl33, who told CassieMaxfan to keep her religion to herself and he’d keep his Budweiser in his refrigerator—though he misspelled refrigerator badly.

  She dialed her
friend Cassie, who confirmed that it was her online. The two talked half the night about the boys they knew—Chad Devalon in particular—the kids in the youth group, teachers they liked and didn’t, people Cassie was praying for (it was almost easier to list the people she wasn’t praying for), and the upcoming races.

  “I really think your dad has a good chance,” Cassie said.

  “He keeps saying, ‘All you can do is all you can do.’ I wish I could have that attitude. Seems like inside he’s at peace with the whole thing. Whatever happens is okay with him.”

  “Doesn’t surprise me,” Cassie said. “Some drivers seem like they hang on until they get shoved out of the car. I think it could all end tomorrow for him, and he’d be okay with it.”

  The thought hit Jamie in the stomach. She’d thought of her dad as invincible—always young and driving into the sunset. But his hair was gray on the sides, and when he grew his beard out, it was silver as well. The fact was that her dad’s days on the track were numbered, and as she got older and better behind the wheel, he would lose a step. She wondered if there’d ever be a day when they would both be on the track in a race together.

  “What about you?” Cassie said. “What’s new with the Tigress?”

  Jamie laughed at the nickname and growled. “Dad got me into a Legends race at Hickory.”

  “But you sold your car, didn’t you?”

  “Yeah, but Scotty, our spotter, has one he’s willing to loan us for a weekend or two, so we’re going to Hickory. With Dad in the Chase, I don’t want to do too much, but I think it’ll be fun. It’ll keep me on the track.”