Free Lucky Seven by Matt Christopher Page A

clear plastic Marauder body—to Duane Chris-man!”
    Another roar resounded. Then silence.
    “First prize—a white ribbon and a brass tube frame—to Chick Grover!”
    “Yaaaaay!”
    “Congratulations, Chick!”
    Chick stood, almost paralyzed. He was looking at Eddie Lane and Eddie was lookingat him and smiling. “Here you are, Chick,” he said, holding out the ribbon and the prize. “Come and get it.”
    Chick broke out of the spell, stepped forward and accepted the ribbon and prize. “Th-thanks,” he said.
    When he turned, Butch and Jack were waiting for him with outstretched hands. “Guess I don’t know what it takes to be a winner,”
     said Butch. “That’s why I never win a Concours.”
    “You sure turned my old heap into a beauty, Chick,” said Jack. “I’m glad it won.”
    “Thanks, guys,” said Chick proudly.
    He entered the first two-minute Crash-and-Burn race with Ken, Butch, Jack and four other guys—including fellows much older.
     Since there were only eight lanes on the track, not all the entries were able to race at the same time. The winner would race
     the three remaining cars.
    Chick gooped the Ferrari’s rear tires on Butch’s goop pad, set the car on the Number 4blue lane which was assigned to him, then waited for the count from Eddie Lane, the race director. Jack’s Lola T-70 was on
     the red lane on his right and Butch’s black Porsche on his left. Somehow he wished Jack’s car were in another lane.
    The race drivers started with their thumbs down on the controllers. At the count of “Three!” the race director turned on the
     switch and the race was on.
    Chick kept the Ferrari at full throttle down the long straightaway and was careful as could be at the curves and bends. One
     deslotment in a Crash-and-Burn and you were eliminated.
    He eased around the curves, noticing other cars speeding by him. But he ignored them. Two years of slot car racing had taught
     him never to look at the other cars. You had to watch your own. It was often at that fraction of a second, when you took your
     eyes off your car, when it would spin out or deslot.
    One car stalled before it completed its first lap, eliminating it from the race. Another spun out on its second lap. Down
     the straightaway,around the bend, under the overhead, up and around the S-bend, down the long stretch near the wall in back, then the wide
     banking U-curve, the sweeper, that led once again into the long straightaway. Around and around they raced, the best drivers—and
     the luckiest ones—staying in there.
    “One minute’s up!” announced the race director.
    Chick’s hopes climbed. He was still in there. So were Ken, Butch and Jack.
    “Track!” someone yelled. The power was shut off. The cars stopped dead. And Chick saw that Ken’s Ford GTP had overshot the
     sweeper and gone sailing off into space and to the floor.
    Five cars left on the track. Chick felt his pulse speed up as the race started again. The controller was hot in his hand.
     Hot and wet from his sweating palm.
    Stay in there, you little red bomb!
he pleaded.
Stay in there!
    Then it happened. On the sharp S-curve past the overhead at the left side of the track.The red Ferrari was making the sharp turn when up from its right side a yellow Lola T-70 came bursting at breakneck speed.
     Its tail spun out just enough to hit the Ferrari’s nose, de-slotting the flag.
    Chick jerked his thumb up but it was too late to save the Ferrari. It skidded over the lanes, crashed against the high wall
     and shuddered to a dead stop.
    “You—you—!” Chick glared at Jack Harmon. “You nerfed me! You nerfed me on purpose!”
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    Chick drew back his fist, but Ken grabbed his arm. “Hold it, Chick, or Mort will throw you out for good.”
    Jack’s attention was on the Lola T-70 speeding around the track.
    “It was an accident!” he said. “I didn’t mean to nerf you!”
    “Like heck you didn’t!”
    Someone came and stood at Chick’s elbow. Someone big and