Free Checkered Flag Cheater by Will Weaver Page A

the fuel cell.
    A tech approached with a handheld device that looked like a meter reader; it was attached to a small, silvery container the size of a coffee cup.
    â€œOctane analyzer,” Harlan said to Trace. Harlan took off his sunglasses. With pale white eye sockets and squinty eyes, he looked smaller, less certain.
    The gas guy pumped fuel into his container, then set the whole device on a stainless-steel counter and punched some buttons. Several tech guys gathered around.
    After a few moments, the gas man turned toward the car. “It’s 109 octane,” he said to the chief tech guy. “The rule is 110 or under.”
    â€œWell, hell—we paid for 110 octane from your speedway supplier,” Harlan said as he put his sunglasses back on. “We should get a discount.”
    â€œDon’t press your luck here,” the main tech guy said evenly.
    â€œAnything else?” Harlan asked.
    The main tech guy looked at Trace and the blue Super Stock, then turned to Harlan. “Not at this time. But we still don’t like the way your car ran away from everybody,” he said, wiping his hands on a clean rag.
    â€œNo legal Chevy motor runs like that,” Jason’s father muttered.
    â€œMoney talks and bullshit walks,” Harlan threw back at the older Nelson. “Next time protest our engine. We’ll be happy to take your money.”
    â€œOkay—we’re done here!” the chief tech said, and motioned to clear the building. “You’re free to go,” he said to Trace.
    When Jimmy and Harlan had finished putting the top end back together, Trace fired the Super Stock motor and chirped his tires on the way out of the tech shed.
    Back at the trailer, Tasha was waiting. “What was that all about?” she asked.
    â€œWhat, the tech inspection?” Trace said as he pulled himself upward through the window.
    â€œNo. That stuff over in the stands.”
    â€œYou mean, people not so happy that we won?” Harlan asked.
    â€œYes,” Laura said. “The ‘cheater’ thing.”
    â€œLocal cowboys,” Harlan said with a dismissive wave. “They root for the hometown racers, and they hate it when somebody from out of town takes their money.”
    Trace was silent.
    â€œHey, kid—our first feature win of the season!” Harlansaid. He threw a beefy arm around Trace. “Did y’all see his move on the last yellow flag?”
    â€œYes. Pretty cool,” Tasha said.
    â€œHe’s the real deal,” Harlan said. “There’s plenty more checkered flags where that one came from.”
    From the hauler came the faint sound of Smoky closing his little window.

6
    For their meeting, Tasha joined Trace in his cabin. She sat on the pull-out couch; Trace leaned back on his bed.
    â€œSo,” Tasha began.
    â€œI know, I know,” Trace said. “I’m behind at MOHS.”
    â€œThe Phantoms,” Tasha said. “It’s a sweet name for an online high school mascot, but from what I gather, you’ve been taking it literally.”
    â€œWe don’t have to show up,” Trace replied.
    â€œYou know what I mean,” Tasha said. “Your counselor tells me that you haven’t been turning in your online work, you won’t take her calls, you don’t respond to her e-mails.”
    â€œI’ve been racing a lot,” Trace began.
    â€œDon’t kid me,” Tasha said. “At most you race threetimes per week. You’ve got lots of off-hours while you’re traveling. What are you doing with all your time?”
    Trace shrugged.
    Tasha looked around his cabin. Her gaze went to his gaming collection and his Xbox. She reached over and picked up two empty cases. “GTA IV. Warhammer,” she said. “Great.”
    â€œJimmy and I play some,” Trace said. “He’s good.”
    â€œWhat does that tell you?” Tasha said.
    Trace shrugged