The Lovely Reckless(65)

“Not always. Fear makes the wrong thing seem right sometimes.”

I walk over to the table in front of his desk and sit on the top. “What do you mean?”

“Fear is like a tencent magician. If you watch the trick a couple of times, you see the flaws and you know how the magician is doing it. But the first time, that same trick looks good. When we’re scared, we don’t always think things through. We react. It’s human nature. Fear can make the wrong decision feel right.” He runs his fingers over the patches on his NASCAR jacket. “By then, it’s too late.”

I point at the NASCAR patch toward the top. “Why did you leave?” I immediately regret asking. The question is too personal. “I’m sorry. That’s none of my business.”

He holds up his hand, indicating that it’s okay. “I gave up too easy. Remember when we talked about shifting gears when a car’s on a hill?”

I nod.

“I guess you could say I slid backward and crashed.”

“How?”

He takes off his hat and shapes the bill. “Lost a driver. The best one I ever crewed for.”

“He died?” I swallow hard.

Chief shakes his head. “No. But he killed his career, and it was my fault.”

“What happened?”

“That boy could drive a stock car like nobody I’d ever seen. But he was young and hotheaded. He wasn’t ready for NASCAR, not up here anyway.” He taps his head. “I hadn’t crewed for anyone that good in a long time. I pushed him too hard and threw him into races with seasoned pros before he was ready. I loved that boy like a son, and I should’ve been thinking about what was best for him.”

Chief frowns and tugs his hat on again. “My driver had a bad race, a real big loss. He blamed it on another driver—one who put his car into the wall and cost him the race. He threatened to tamper with the other guy’s car. It was just talk, but in organized racing, that’s as good as a death threat.”

This story is headed somewhere bad. “What happened?”

“The NASCAR commission banned him from racing. I tried to tell him there were other kinds of racing. I even offered to go with him. But he didn’t see the doors open to him, only the one that was shut. He went back to where I found him racing as a teenager, and I followed him. Decided I was done teaching kids how to race, and I started teaching them how cars work instead.”

Chief pauses and looks at me. “I’ve only seen one driver with as much natural talent behind the wheel. His son.”

My mind spins, and the pieces click into place. “Wait? You’re not talking about Marco, are you?”

“Wish I wasn’t. Marco’s life would’ve turned out a lot different if I hadn’t made so many mistakes with his father. I failed Marco’s dad the same way I failed Deacon. And myself. Like I said, I gave up too easy. In life, a person has to fight for the things that matter to them—and that includes yourself.”

“Why are you telling me this?”

“Marco will fight for his sister, for his friends, and I’m willing to bet he’d fight to the ends of the earth for you. But he won’t fight for himself. He only sees one door, Frankie. He needs someone to show him the other ones.”

*

The conversation with Chief leaves me reeling. Marco’s dad wasn’t just a monster who taught his son to street race so he could make money betting on Marco’s races. His father raced professionally—at the highest level. Why didn’t he teach Marco how to race on a track, or ask Chief to teach him?

Marco loves cars and he’s smart. He could’ve followed in his father’s footsteps and raced legally. Instead, he’s street racing and stealing cars.

With the exception of a few people rifling through their lockers or sitting on the floor doing homework, the hallways are still empty. I push through the double doors and cross the quad.

I feel around inside my backpack for my cell phone and walk toward Lot B. Marco is usually here by now.

Deacon’s hunter-green Firebird sits at the far end, parked diagonally across two spaces. Typical. I’ve never seen him on campus before, and I’m not thrilled to see his car. I turn around, still watching the Firebird, and I smack right into someone.

Hard blue eyes settle on me. From this angle, Deacon’s scars look straight, like one smooth slash instead of lots of jagged cuts. He rolls the toothpick in his mouth with his teeth.

“Have you seen Marco?” I keep my tone light.

He tips his chin toward the opposite end of Lot B. “Something wrong?”

“No. I just wanted to talk to him before first period.”

Deacon watches me, slow and lazy like a tiger before it pounces on an antelope and tears it apart. His neck muscles twitch down to his shoulders.

“I’m thinking it’s better if you don’t.” He studies me from under the curved bill of his baseball cap. “Talk to him, I mean.”

“What?” I laugh, pretending that I think he’s joking.

Deacon turns the toothpick. Wearing a ribbed white tank without his hoodie, he looks bigger than he did the night of the street races. “You’ve been doing too much talking, and now you’ve got my boy’s head all screwed up.” He winds his finger in a circular motion next to his temple.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”