Free Yellow Flag by Robert Lipsyte

doesn’t mean”—he searched for what he meant—“I’m not still a band fag.”
    She laughed. “At least you haven’t lost your sense of humor,” she said.
    â€œI better get some sleep,” he said. “Sorry I woke you up.”
    â€œGood luck tomorrow.” She sounded like she meant it.
    â€œThanks.” He wanted to say more, but she hung up.
    He suddenly felt very lonely. He listened to Kris snoring. The wheezing and moaning had stopped. He wished Kris would wake up. They could talk about tomorrow’s race. He knew the track.
    Maybe I’ll surprise them tomorrow.
    Yeah, right. Maybe I’ll wreck. Maybe I’ll start the Big One.
    Got to try to sleep.
    He forced his mind away from racing, away from Nicole, and it settled into “Pavane for a Dead Princess,” and he was hitting and holding that beautiful line, his fingers on the cool mother-of-pearl buttons, his lips vibrating with the good pain that made pure sound.
    The sound filled his head until the drums came in.
    There were no drums in this piece.
    Dad was knocking on the door.
    The big day had begun.

FIFTEEN
    He had never gotten this kind of attention before, not at ten when he won the county quarter-midget title for twelve-and-unders, not at eleven when he won the state for under-fourteen, not at fifteen when he was running in the top ten in modifieds and sprint cars against drivers Dad’s age, just before he tried late models and then quit. The attention embarrassed him, but he liked it.
    At breakfast Uncle Kale, Jackman, and Dad moved around the table so Winik and Sir Walter could sit on either side of him. He was glad Kris was still upstairs, sleeping. He might feel bad. Replaced.
    When the waitress spotted Sir Walter, she rushed over with a pot of coffee. “Fresh brewed, Sir Walter.” Shegiggled like a kid. She could have been Sir Walter’s age.
    â€œWell, thank you”—Sir Walter squinted at the name tag on her chest—“Sheri. But today the race driver gets served first. Say hello to my grandson Kyle.”
    â€œHi, Kyle.” She poured his coffee. “Got enough cream, sugar?”
    When everybody laughed, Kyle realized she was calling him Sugar. “Take it black.”
    â€œJust like Sir Walter,” she said. “Hope you drive like him.”
    â€œGive him time, Sheri—he’s gonna be better.” Sir Walter waited until she had poured everyone’s coffee before he reached into the shirt pocket where he kept his Sharpie pens.
    â€œI wasn’t gonna bother you,” said Sheri.
    â€œNever a bother.” Sir Walter slowly signed a menu for her in his elegant handwriting. For Sheri, Jump start your life, Sir Walter Hildebrand, No. 12 .
    What happened to Keep your eyes on the road ahead ?
    Family Brands happened.
    Sheri pressed the menu to her chest, blew Sir Walter a kiss, and ran off.
    Winik nudged Kyle. “Work on your penmanship.”
    â€œSure Kris can’t make it?” Uncle Kale sounded pissed off.
    â€œLet’s go check tires,” said Dad, standing up, signalingKale to come with him.
    â€œAin’t had my breakfast,” said Uncle Kale.
    Wouldn’t hurt you to miss a few meals, thought Kyle. Uncle Kale glared at him as if he had read his mind, then glared at Dad, who was gathering up his laptop and binders. Uncle Kale was the older brother, but Dad was the president of Hildebrand Racing, in charge of everything that didn’t have to do with the car and the race itself, which was the crew chief’s domain. They usually worked out their differences privately, but this was starting to look like a public tug-of-war.
    Sir Walter cleared his throat. “Billy will make you something at the garage, Kale.”
    Uncle Kale stood up and said, “See you all over there.”
    Sir Walter waited until they had left the dining room before he turned to Winik and said, “Crew chiefs get used