Free Lucky Seven by Matt Christopher

between the bushing and the wheel, unscrewed the wheel
     slightly, then screwed the nut tighter up against the loose bushing. He screwed the wheel back up to the nut, retightened
     the nut, and checked the gear mesh again.
    “Not bad!” he exclaimed with satisfaction. “Let’s see how she runs now!”
    He placed the Ferrari on the track, the flag in the slot, and picked up the controller.
    Ken flicked on the switch. Chick pushed the plunger down gently, letting the Ferrari takeoff slowly. Gradually he gave it more power by pressing down farther on the plunger. The car swung around the S-curve, sped
     down the straightaway, shot around the U and then screamed down the stretch in front of him. He sent it around the track twice.
     The shimmy was gone. The grating noise was gone.
    “I think I’ve got me a real bomb, Ken,” he said, a wide smile on his face. “Let’s race.”
    They conducted a five-minute Wildcat race, using a mechanical timer.
    Ken’s Ford GTP was ahead at the end of the first lap. Chick, anxious to catch up, gave the Ferrari full throttle on the long
     stretch, pushing the plunger down as far as it would go. Thumbing off just before it reached the U-curve, he gunned it, thumbed
     off and gunned it again as it came around the bend. Too fast. The Ferrari spun out and sat still, its flag out of the slot.
    He straightened the car, slotted the flag, and full-throttled the Ferrari down the long stretch toward the S-curve. As it
     sped in frontof him it clicked the score marker to 2. The marker on the opposite side read 3. A second later it read 4 as the Ford finished
     another lap.
    On Chick’s sixth lap he thumbed off too late at the S-curve, and the Ferrari sailed over the fence and crashed to the floor.
    “Track!” he yelled, filled with horror.
    He picked up the car, examined it carefully, and grinned with relief. “It’s okay!” he shouted.
    At the sound of the bell the race stopped and the boys checked their scores. Ken’s Ford GTP had finished with fifty-five laps,
     Chick’s with forty-six.
    “Man, I’m lousy,” said Chick. “You’d think I’d never raced before.”
    “Well, it’s the first time you’ve raced that bomb,” said Ken. “What do you expect?”
    “Better than that score, that’s what,” re-replied Chick determinedly.
    At one o’clock Chick and Ken registered their cars at
Mort’s Pit Stop
and paid their entrance fees. Mort Yates himself inspectedthe cars for length, weight and other technical specifications. Then Eddie Lane, Mort’s assistant, placed the cars on the
     long shelf among the other beautiful cars already there. By one-thirty, judging time for the Concours d’Elégance, there were
     eleven cars entered in the contest, including Jack Harmon’s yellow Lola T-70, Butch’s black Porsche and Ken’s two-toned black
     and yellow Ford GTP.
    Eddie Lane was the judge. He looked at each car and wrote down points on a scoring sheet. Awards were made by the number of
     points a car accumulated. The most points it could get were thirty.
    There were lots of things a judge looked and gave points for. General appearance, for example. Cleanliness. Did the car have
     a driver? Was he painted and in detail? Was there a steering wheel? An instrument panel? Exhaust pipes?
    Exhaust pipes? Chick’s heart fluttered. His red Ferrari didn’t have them. Few of the cars did. Would not having them ruin
     his chances?
    At last it was over. Eddie Lane checked the score sheet. Then he climbed up to the platform and spoke into the microphone.
    “Attention, everybody! The cars have been judged in the Concours d’Elégance and the top three winners chosen. These were judged
     on their general appearance, craftsmanship, and special ingenuity in making and installing the different accessories.”
    He cleared his throat. “Third prize—a blue ribbon and a set of trackside figures—to Mike Kotmel!”
    A roar resounded through the big room.
    “Second prize—a red ribbon and a