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The best way he can describe it is paint. Not the nice paint, though. Not the airbrush kind that his car designer uses to stencil out the finer details on his number nine, his surname—Innes—scrawled over the top of Clementine’s hood in slanted block letters. Not the soft, swishing, acrylic paint his dad had used for his one and only derby car, back when he was in Boy Scouts for all of half a year. He’d quit after six months, declaring go-karting as his new passion. His mom had sighed, weary of a seven-year-old’s ever-changing interests. His dad had been thrilled.
And Tommy? Tommy had been right.
Twelve years later, he sits in a race car and presses down on the throttle to boost him ahead. This is his passion. More than that, this is his lifeblood. This is just as much a part of him as his left arm is. Just as important as oxygen in his lungs.
This, a racer, is who he was always meant to be.
“Innes, are you being serious right now? You could have passed number seven a minute ago.”
And there, streaking through his ears and plastering over his vital organs, is the paint.
“What? Sorry,” Tommy asks, blinking and pushing the pedal down harder.
Ahead, sure enough, is number seven. They’re neon green and purple, annoyingly vivid against the gray Texas sky. They’re a little too far ahead for Tommy to catch, though, without using mass amounts of speed. Under normal circumstances, maybe he’d risk it, but the gray clouds above are already starting to spit down rain, and he’s wary of his fuel level, which has been steadily depleting for the past lap and a half. He can’t waste the fuel on a chase when he still has forty laps to finish, and he really doesn’t want to have a spin out as the rain slickens the track.
There’s a long, heavy sigh from the other end of his radio, and Tommy winces.
“You could have passed seven. Are you not paying attention? Speed up and you can swing by him.”
“Sir,” Tommy starts, aware that this rarely goes well. His hands tighten around the wheel. “Sir, I’m low on fuel, and it’s starting to rain out here. It’s not… it’s not really worth it.”
For a moment, there is dead silence from the other side of his comms, and Tommy knows he’s made a mistake.
“Not worth it?” his chief asks, and it’s light. Airy. As if he’s genuinely asking. Tommy knows better, though. He can already feel the paint—the sticky stuff, like tar—seeping in under his skin. “If it’s not worth it to you to win, then I see how it is. Maybe I should just stop—“
“No!” Tommy immediately exclaims, then bites his tongue and grits his teeth. “I mean, no, please, Sir. I– I need a chief. I can’t race without one.”
“It sure seems like you could, what with you making your own decisions out there. Not listening to what I say…”
“No! No, I’ll– I’ll listen. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it.”
There’s a heavy silence as Tommy whips around the corner of the track. The rain has started pelting down, but they haven’t raised any flags yet. Maybe Tommy really is just being stubborn by not listening.
“I know your fuel levels, and the rain is fine. I’ve driven in worse on a highway,” his chief explains, and Tommy decides not to mention how highways are very different from race tracks. “You can make it. Unless… unless you really don’t want to make it into NASCAR this season?”
That seals the deal for Tommy. He presses down on the throttle, and pushes ahead to get behind number seven. His fuel is dangerously low, and he knows it, but if he sling-shots around them it won’t take as much force on his end. Maybe that’ll help conserve it.
“Sling-shotting is like stealing air,” he’d explained to his dad, once, when he was much younger and they’d been watching the NASCAR Cup Series on TV together. “You draft off of them, sticking close like magnets, then when you suddenly break away, there’s a pocket of clear air for you to shoot through. It’s like moving through water instead of molasses.”
“That’s what I’m talking about,” his chief says approvingly over the line. “I told you you could do better. Didn’t want to end up a failure like my last rookie, do you?”
“No, Sir,” Tommy responds, quieter than before.
“Good.”
The best way he can describe it is paint. Sticky paint. Oozing tar that seals over his side like that nasty, fucking-awful tasting sealant stuff the dentist used to put on his molar teeth to keep away cavities. In his mind, the paint is either highlighter red or black, but he likes the black better because red is supposed to be his favorite color. It’s not supposed to be tainted by the words it’s used to spell. Too slow, and do better, and—his chief’s personal favorite—failure. Failure. Failure. Failure.
“Innes!”
“Sorry! Sorry,” Tommy splutters, realizing too late that he’s zoned back out and stopped pushing as hard on the gas pedal. He floors it again, and finally manages to shoot around seven.
Just in time, too. The finish line whizzes closer, and Tommy is prepared to place, prepared to finish, when—
A car zips around him, slamming on the gas and passing the finish line just half a second before him. Tommy gapes as their wheels screech against the slick asphalt, black hood tearing down the track ahead.
They’d just slingshotted around him. That was his move!
Tommy can’t tell if his chief saw that or not. His spotter hadn’t said anything, but he usually didn’t. Most of the time, Tommy relied on his chief as the sole communicator of information.
The track hums under Clementine’s tires, and Tommy’s chief sighs over the line.
“Bring it back to the garage,” he says, and Tommy can tell by his tone he’s not pleased. It doesn’t matter that he’d passed number seven. It doesn’t even matter that—Tommy is pretty sure—he’d still placed third.
Tommy swallows. “And then what?”
“You have a press conference. When you’re done, find me at the tunnel entrance to the speedway.”
That was it? No reprimanding about coming third? No questions about that car that’d passed him? No pushing for more practice time? Maybe his chief really hadn’t seen.
“O-okay?” Tommy says, and it comes out with a questioning lilt, but his chief doesn’t seem to notice.
The comm goes dead, and by the time Tommy pulls into the garage, his chief is nowhere to be found.
The press conference goes well. Tommy answers the questions posed to him with a polite sort of elegance he secretly thinks is more befitting a king than a racer, but that his chief always likes, and forces his limbs not to jitter excitedly as he sits in the chair. He likes talking about racing, when he’s allowed. If given the opportunity, he thinks he could spend a whole twenty-four hours just talking technique—and then maybe another month afterward discussing everything else. But his chief likes Tommy’s answers to be short and sweet, avoiding the rambling he’s so prone to falling into, so he doesn’t. He sits quietly and answers only when he’s asked. He wears a polite smile and keeps his tone level.
When he leaves, he thinks he’s done a good job. He performed exactly how his chief wanted him to.
He doesn’t expect his chief’s hand to land on his shoulder as soon as he walks out, and to be steered away toward the long, open tunnel that separates the track from the outside world. It’s where their cars are lead in and out for race day. It’s also, conveniently, the one place where no one will be around.
Tommy’s noticed, recently, that his chief’s voice gets louder when they are alone.
He swallows as they step under the concrete canopy, and the rain that had been sprinkling over their heads as they walked cuts off. Tommy’s chief had a poncho—plastic and clear—probably given to him by the race officials while Tommy was out on the track. Tommy has nothing.
“Tommy,” his chief starts as he stops to lean against the side of the tunnel, and for a second, Tommy wonders if maybe he’s actually read this all wrong, and he’s about to be praised. He’d done good, hadn’t he? He’d come third, which isn’t first, but it’s so close. It’s top three! He sat still in his interviews. He hadn’t rambled. He’d been everything his chief wanted him to be.
“Tommy, I am so disappointed in you.”
Paint, black like oil, begins dripping over his head like the rain outside.
“What?”
His chief pushes off the wall, and Tommy takes a step back. He doesn’t know why he does it. His chief has never hurt him before, and he knows he won’t now, but he still flinches like he will, still cowers. At the same time, disbelief wells in his lungs like the puddles outside. He’d done everything he was supposed to. How was he still not good enough?
“You didn’t listen to me on the track today,” his chief fires back, and Tommy’s eyebrows furrow. “I swear, sometimes it’s like you don’t even want me here.”
“No, I– I do.”
“You don’t sound very sure of yourself.”
“I do. Of course I do.” He has to. He needs him. He can’t race without a chief.
“Then why don’t you listen to me?” his chief asks, and it’s loud. It’s the loud that Tommy’s been waiting for, the loud that only comes out when they’re alone.
Something bitter and frustrated pulses in his chest. “I did listen to you. I passed like you asked me to!”
“And then you got passed back on the right by eighty-eight, because you weren’t paying attention to that side like I told you to!” his chief yells. Yells. A proper yell that echoes off the concrete walls and vibrates against Tommy’s skin. The rain pouring down outside keeps it trapped inside their little bubble, but even if it hadn’t been confined to the tunnel, the effect would have been the same. It feels like someone took some of that paint and splattered it across Tommy’s ribs, because he had listened. He’d done everything his chief told him to, and his chief had never told him to look out on his right side. He’d never warned him about eighty-eight.
Had he?
“God,” his chief continues, “I know you’re a teenager, but don’t you know how to listen?”
“You never said—”
“Tommy! You’re still not listening!”
His eyes sting. It’s barely for a millisecond, but he can feel the tears flooding up before he blinks them away.
His chief never told him to look out on his right side, right? Tommy can’t remember him saying that, but maybe he had. Sometimes, when Tommy was in the cockpit, it was like the whole outside world melted away. Maybe he’d hyper-focused too much and missed a direction. If he had, that would at least explain why he was being chewed out right now, even after being perfect. Otherwise, this didn’t make sense. He’d done everything he was supposed to, and still wasn’t good enough. How was that possible unless he actually did something wrong?
“If you’d looked out like I told you to, you would have won,” his chief said. “You need to learn to listen to me.”
“I—” I thought I did. Are you sure you said something? I listened to you, I swear! “—I’m sorry.”
His chief huffs, and Tommy practically holds his breath to keep himself from fidgeting. His chief doesn’t like fidgeting, or jittering, or how he occasionally flails his arms around while talking. He wants him quiet and still, level and precise—like a machine. Like a piece of car that he can dump paint over.
“‘Sorry’ isn’t going to be good enough to get you into NASCAR,” his chief says, and Tommy wilts. “If you want to get there, you need to pay attention. Do better.”
Tommy nods his head even as his stomach sinks. “Yes, sir.”
“Third place is a joke. And you trying to tell me you were listening when you obviously weren't isn’t funny either. This isn't some joke, Innes. Pay attention next time. No more funny business.”
Tommy nods and tilts his chin down to the ground. There’s a puddle at his feet, small and rippling every time his chief speaks. If Tommy looks hard enough, he can just barely make out his own reflection in it—warped and distorted, darkened by the shadows around them.
“Understood?” his chief asks.
“Understood.”
The puddle shakes as his chief steps closer, and Tommy looks up just in time for him to set a firm hand on his shoulder. He cringes, but doesn’t flinch away. He holds quiet and still, level and precise, and lets the paint slide over.
“I don’t expect you to make it into NASCAR first try, but I do expect you to at least try.”
I am trying, Tommy thinks. I’m trying so goddamn hard. All the time. Every day. Every hour. Every second. Every fucking breath.
Outwardly, he says nothing. His chief continues, “Run the simulator tonight. At least three hours. Then I want you on the track bright and early tomorrow for warm ups. Five o’clock.”
“Sir, if I run the simulator for three hours, it’s… it’s already eight. By the time I get back, it’ll be nine, and that’ll only leave me with five hours of sleep before…”
“You want to make it into NASCAR, right? You don’t want to fail?”
Tommy’s mouth clicks shut. He nods.
“Then this is the price you’re going to have to pay. Three hours, minimum. I’m tempted to make it four. Be ready by five tomorrow. Understood?”
Tommy’s shoulders sink. After the race, he’d been planning on going to his trailer, making dinner, and taking a hot shower for the first time today. He’s exhausted and sweaty, and hasn’t eaten since lunch at noon. His limbs feel like Jell-O, mind like mushed curry, and the prospect of going home and falling into bed had been his prime motivator for making it through that last interview. He thought he’d be able to sleep in tomorrow, just a little bit. They weren’t leaving the track until eight, and their next race wasn’t for a few days, so he thought he’d be given time to decompress. To relax. To call his mom, which he hasn’t done in who-knows-how-long.
He should have known better.
“Understood,” he mumbles, and his chief nods approvingly.
He removes his hand from Tommy’s shoulder and slides away, toward the exit. “Good. See you tomorrow, Innes.”
“See you,” Tommy calls weakly after him, and then he’s left alone, tired, sopping wet, and enclosed in a tunnel by a curtain of rain that just keeps pouring. When he looks back down at the puddle by his feet, he can’t see his reflection anymore. It’s all black. Like tar. Like oil.
Like paint.