Free Braking Points by Tammy Kaehler

emotions, you mean?”
    I considered. “Put that way, I sound like an idiot.”
    â€œNo, you sound like a guy. It’s no surprise, Kate. You work with guys, hang out with them. The racetrack isn’t a place to get all Maury Povich and talk about how you feel . But sometimes you have to. For those times, I’m here for you. Also to drag you shoe shopping.”
    I laughed. “Thanks.”
    After that, I was ready to face the music. Using Holly’s smartphone—and swearing to get one of my own the next day—I checked racing news and blog sites, and found my name had gone from mud to something lower. I was being trashed in the comments on articles, with one in two comments on every article using the word “bitch”—when they were being polite. Any supportive voices among the mob were vilified in my stead. It took me two hours to gather my courage to look at the Racing’s Ringer blog.
    Racing’s Ringer, whoever he—or she—was, posted information in two categories. “Eyewitness accounts” comprised two-thirds of the blog posts and contained anecdotes, incidents, or stories he or one of four trusted sources saw or heard personally. Those were marked with an icon of the word “eyewitness” under a cartoon of a pair of eyeballs in a car. “Unconfirmed reports” were little more than gossip, apparently gathered from any and all sources via a prominent “Send Me News!” link on every page. Those were prefaced with the word “unconfirmed” and followed by the Ringer’s spin and judgment. All posts were accompanied by a photo or video.
    I read through two dozen short entries, many of them unconfirmed, about past accidents I’d been in (whether I’d caused them or not), reporters or fans I’d snubbed (by mistake), and assorted misdeeds and misbehaviors (everything from wearing sweats while picking up dry cleaning once, to gloating over another driver’s misfortune that allowed me to win a race…when I was twelve). He used two unflattering images of me in rotation.
    By the end of five pages containing multiple blog posts, I wanted to pound on the dashboard, throw something, or scream. Each story from the Ringer and every comment from a blog post or article felt like another pebble placed on top of my chest, making it hard to breathe. Crushing my spirit. I was exhausted, yet frantic—and I, too, thought this Kate Reilly person was lower than pond scum.
    I twisted in my seat to face Holly. “Why does Racing’s Ringer hate me? Some of this is true, but most of it is willful misreading of situations. When do I catch a break for being human?”
    â€œMaybe you should ask him. I don’t mean defend yourself. But ask why he’s so set against you.”
    â€œHe’d make fun of me. Then again, how could he get worse?”
    I faced front and wiggled the seatbelt to a more comfortable position, sifting through my emotions. I was furious at being falsely accused and made a spectacle of, as well as scared about the drama damaging my career. I felt helpless, at the mercy of faceless hordes who only saw or read part of the story, which made me mad again. Underneath it all, I was hurt that someone I didn’t know—I assumed I didn’t know—hated me that much.
    I stuck with rage, because dwelling on the pain might make me curl up into a whimpering ball of self-pity.
    â€œI’m doing it.” Before I changed my mind, I typed a note in the comment form: “Dear Racing’s Ringer, Why do you dislike me so much? You take delight in reporting mistakes and missteps in my career, and I’d very much like to know why. Kate Reilly.”
    Maybe I’d get something to work with.
    The next task was my voicemail. After the first two post-race calls from reporters, I’d sent my grandparents and other key people e-mails telling them I was fine, but not to call. Then I’d put