June 2004.
"Do you think I could be a pilot?" I ask, pretending to hold a steering wheel in my hands.
My dad, who's sitting on the opposite side of the couch, puts down the newspaper he was reading and thinks for a second, lost in thoughts.
"I think you'd be an excellent pilot. Although I wouldn't want you to become one" comes his response.
"Why ? That's what you do !"
"It's a merciless sport. A merciless environment. The slightest mistake can cost you your life. I would hate to see you lead that kind of life."
"Why do you do it, then" I reply, scoffing.
"I wish I could stop, but I'm too deep into it. I feel like it's become part of my DNA. I breathe, eat, sleep, thinking about my next race. I'm done for. But you," he says, pointing at me. "You, stay away from this world. Promise me."
•
June 2019.
The text came on a Monday morning.
It was barely 9 am and I had already been lying on a wheeled wooden board for several hours, alternating from one car to another, my back begging me to stretch. I feel my phone vibrating in my pocket and contort myself to reach it. Squinting at the overly bright screen, it took me a few seconds to decipher the notification that had just appeared.
"Hey, I'll be around this weekend for the French Grand Prix. Would you like to attend ? I could get you a pass. Pierre."
Unsure of what I've just read, I try to sit up, but my face hits the chassis of the car under which I was working. "Ah, fuck," I curse as I emerge from under the vehicle, holding my nose, phone still in hand.
"What's wrong with you?" comes my brother's voice from the other side of the room.
It had been two weeks since he had returned to Monaco, and it felt good to have some company in the garage, even though I had to endure his ridiculous music blaring from the speakers all day long... and his unhealthy curiosity.
"Nothing, mind your business," I reply, eyes still glued to the screen. I don't even hear him coming up behind me and snatching the phone. "Who's Pierre?" he asks, clicking on the notification. "Don't click on it! I don't want him to see that I've read it!" I yell, jumping in the air to retrieve my phone from my brother's outstretched arm. Despite my best efforts, the bastard has thirty centimeters on me, and my arms flail in the air without even coming close to the phone. I watch horrified as I see him click on the WhatsApp profile picture of my correspondent, and he suddenly stops, eyes wide with disbelief.
"Are you for real right now... I leave for three weeks and I come back to my sister texting motherfucking Pierre Gasly?" he almost shouts as I finally manage to grab the phone, yelling. "I said mind your own business!"
"I have so many questions I don't even know where to start."
"Well, don't start then", I retort, turning on my heels to go wash the grease off my face.
"Camila Galliano! You better make yourself very clear," comes the voice of Andrea, following close behind me.
"Listen," I start, stopping dead in my tracks. "I bumped into this guy once, I helped him out because he had a problem with his car. I gave him our card, that's the only reason why he's got my number. He's never messaged me before today, and I don't plan on replying. Is that clear enough for you?"
"And why the fuck would you ignore a message from a world-renowned pilot inviting you to a race ?"
"Because I don't give a fuck about racing" I scream back, furious.
"That's just not true. That's in your DNA," declares my brother, rolling his eyes and turning on his heels, leaving me alone in the back of the garage, nose still dripping with grease.
•
As my idiot brother had decided to open Pierre's message, I spent the rest of the day pondering a credible excuse to give to the driver. It seemed kind of awkward to claim that a family dinner or dog-sitting would be a more interesting way to spend my Sunday than attending a Formula 1 race. I thought I had come up with something that was at least halfway decent when I received a second message, almost ten hours later.
"If you don't feel like seeing me again, that's fine tho :)"
Shit. The last thing I want is for this guy who has always been nice to me to think that I didn't appreciate the little time we spent together. I open the conversation again and without even thinking, my fingers glide effortlessly on my screen.
"Sorry, long day at work. I'm busy that day, shopping with my sister. Thanks for the very kind offer though!"
I press "send" and exhale with relief at having managed to get rid of the driver. Or so I thought, as my phone rings again.
"Bring her along! I can easily get you two passes" Damn.
"She hates crowds" I reply automatically.
"I was thinking VIP passes... Not a problem"
I'm starting to feel trapped. I feel like if I come up with one more excuse, I'll offend the driver. I feel stupid, stupid for coming up with a lame lie, stupid for always being afraid of hurting others and getting myself into trouble instead.
"That's really kind. I'll check with her" I reply to the driver and lie down on my bed, frowning.
I'm so fucked. Not only do I have no more excuses to skip the race, I'm also going to have to take my sister, the only person on this earth more averse to Formula 1 than me. Grabbing my phone again, I rummage through my contacts and tap on my screen again.
You, 7:06pm : B, I have some bad news
B, 7:06pm : ?
You, 7:06pm : We've been invited to attend the French GP in Le Castellet this WE
B, 7:07pm : Who's we?
You, 7:07pm : You and me
B, 7:07pm : Absolutely not
You, 7:08pm : Bianca, trust me on this one. I know I screwed up but you have to come
You, 7:08pm : Or I'll look like a complete idiot
B, 7:08pm : Since when do you care about that
You, 7:08pm : I don't
You, 7:09pm : But I've been invited and I CAN'T say no
B, 7:09pm : Who even invited you?
I take a minute to think about my answer, balancing wether I should tell her or not.
"One of the drivers" I finally send, biting my lip.
My phone remains silent for a few seconds and I start to think that my sister has given up, desperate, when the iPhone starts vibrating, her face appearing prominently on my screen. I accept the call, bracing for impact.
"What the actual fuck, Camila ?"
"I know, I-"
"What's gotten into you ? Weren't you the one who swore to never set foot on a circuit again ? Where did you even meet this man!"
"I... live in Monaco" I half whisper, aware that it doesn't answer the question at all.
"You've got to stop being such a people pleaser," my sister snaps, making me wince. "Just say no!'
Just say no. Must be the sentence I've heard the most in my life. My mother, my brother, and my sister took turns using these words on me throughout my childhood to try and "toughen me up".
A boy from school that's been harassing you for years suddenly asking you out? Just say no.
A girl from your dorm asking once again if you could send her your notes because she was too hungover to make it to class on time? Just say no.
An annoying customer asking if they can drop off their car at the garage outside of opening hours? Just say no! But I never say no. I smile, embarrassed, and I say yes. Every time. I hate going against people, disappointing them, hurting their feelings. So I say yes, and I hurt mines. Every time.
"If you're planning on lecturing me, don't bother. I'm just asking for one favor! Please come with me on Sunday, you don't even have to watch the race. Just watch Netflix on your phone or something."
The line is silent for a moment, and I close my eyes, preparing myself for another wave of criticism.
"You're such a disaster, Camila. You better pick me up on Sunday, you know I hate driving" comes the final response of my sister as I breathe out a sigh, relieved.