Free Yellow Flag by Robert Lipsyte Page A

to a driver. Hard to make a change.”
    â€œJust for one race, right?” said Winik.
    â€œRight,” said Sir Walter, but it didn’t sound convincing to Kyle. What did he know? “Now, let’s order, Kyle. We need to stop by the Family Brands tent, visit with the folks, take some pictures.”
    Kyle wasn’t hungry. He picked at his omelet, pushed home fries around the plate. People stopped to talk to Sir Walter, ask for an autograph, and he made sure tointroduce every one of them to Kyle. One woman pinched Kyle’s cheek, and Sir Walter laughed out loud.
    On the way out, Sir Walter whispered, “You should eat, but you have to drink water. Gonna lose a lot in the car.”
    A Family Brands van was waiting for them outside the motel. It took a back road to the speedway to avoid the traffic, and went in through a gate marked NO ENTRANCE . A state trooper dragged away a wooden saw-horse barrier to let them through. They drove beyond the parking lots to an exhibition area, dozens of trailers selling caps and die-cast cars, a village of big white tents where the sponsors, UPS and Miller Lite and the Air Force and Kellogg’s, entertained their guests. Bands played and balloons bumped against each other in the gentle morning breeze. Winik led them into the Family Brands tent, big as a school gym. People piled their plates at a buffet breakfast spread before taking them to long tables. A bluegrass band strummed on a small stage.
    Sir Walter put his mouth to Kyle’s ear and said, “All you got to say, ‘Thanks, I’ll do my best for my family and Family Brands.’ Got it?” Before Kyle could nod, Sir Walter clapped his shoulder and pushed himself up on the stage.
    The band gave Sir Walter a fanfare. He waved whileWinik put on a number 12 cap, grabbed the mic, and shouted, “A great honor to give you a great driver, a great American, and a great representative for a great company, Sir Walter Hildebrand.”
    Sir Walter took the mic, smiled, and nodded at the stomping and hollering crowd. “Pleasure to visit with you folks—makes me feel like part of your family, too. Know you got some serious eating to do this morning, so I won’t take but a minute more of your time to introduce the face of the future, a fourth-generation racin’ man, my grandson Kyle Hildebrand.”
    Kyle nearly tripped getting up onstage. He stumbled toward Sir Walter, who handed him the mic, which almost slipped out of his sweaty hand. Could it get worse?
    But once he had the mic in his hand, staring out at all those smiling faces, he settled down. Just like taking a trumpet solo in the auditorium.
    â€œThanks. I’ll do my best for you out there today, for Hildebrand and for Family Brands.” And then, before he thought about it, he shouted, “Jump start your life!”
    The crowd yelled and clapped. Grandpa squeezed his shoulder, and Winik looked up at him across the stage and raised a thumb.
    Felt good.

SIXTEEN
    He sensed the freeze right away as he walked into the big room off the official inspection garage for the drivers’ meeting. He was surrounded by Dad, Uncle Kale, and Jackman, but they couldn’t shut out the low grumbles and the hard stares. Nobody likes rookies—Kyle knew that. They are unpredictable, they make mistakes, they get in the way, they cause wrecks. The track tapes a yellow stripe across a rookie’s back bumper as a warning. Stay away from this one; he doesn’t know what he’s doing.
    Last year Kris had worn his yellow stripe like a screw-you bumper sticker, daring other drivers to mess with him. He won more races than anyone else that season, the first time a rookie ever did that. Do they wantto take it out on me? They should be glad it’s me they have to race against instead of him, Kyle thought. Hey, that’s not constructive thinking.
    Jackman shouldered open a path toward the front of the garage. Drivers and