"Mine are named María, Juanita, Ronaldo, and Debbie Richardson."
"What."
"Long story."
This is that story.
It's seven o'clock in the morning, and class doesn't start for another hour. The morning light is streaking the sky pink as the sun begins to rise, signaling the start of the day for the sleepy town. Well, it's a secondary signal anymore these days. Anyone within half a mile of the local school's track knows what time it is. Like clockwork, that Ramirez kid, up with the roosters, she's at it again.
She's the fastest kid in town.
It's the same forty-five minutes of ground-shaking, window-clattering exhaust resonation every morning. Lap after lap after lap, there's never a complaint. Not since old Carol from up the street moved out of town, anyway. It's refreshing, really, to see such energy come from a quiet corner of the state. For nearly an hour every weekday, up until the first bell rings to signal the start of classes, there's ambition and life echoing down the streets.
The bell rings, and Cruz reigns it in. It feels good. It's going to be a good day.
"Yeah, girl! You smoked it out there today!"
Cruz smiles at the familiar voice. Out alongside the stands surrounding the track, that sweet little pickup truck sits in the same place as every other day. It's their routine, meeting up at the first bell, pep talking for a few minutes, then going across the road to the school.
"Hey, Debbie! How're you this morning?" Cruz asks.
"Better than ever, but look at you!" Debbie responds candidly. "Consistent much? Those lap times were incredible!"
"Aw, well," Cruz shrugs it off as she comes to a halt before the snow-white Chevy. "You timed them?"
"I can't wait to see you try out at the qualifiers next month, you're gonna put those boys to shame."
"I don't know about that."
Debbie laughed. The sunlight glinted off her pristine paint and bent perfectly along her arrow-straight bodylines. Cruz wondered every now and again the aerodynamic implications of being less curvy. Would she go faster if she had a straighter body? Something about streamlining, right? Eh, physics wasn't her strong suit. Surely, the manufacturer knew what they were doing when they created her. Right? Maybe. Sure.
Cruz turns and slowly begins to drive away from the track toward the school. She's got ten minutes to make it to class now. Plenty of time to cruise and chat.
She slips into neutral for a moment while the daily sequence of events continue like clockwork. Crank-crank-crank. Silence. Cruz counts. One-two-three. One-two-three. Crank-crank-cra-vrrrrm. There, that's the sound an engine's supposed to make.
"There we go," Debbie mutters under her breath as she starts to move alongside Cruz.
Cruz had asked once, when they first met. It didn't seem normal to her, shouldn't an engine only crank a couple times before firing? Well, yes. But not everyone makes it off the assembly line with perfect parts. Defects happen. Sometimes more than one at a time. But Debbie always says "Defects aren't definitions. As long as you can start moving, you can do whatever you want. I drove across the country once, all by myself!"
"Everything going alright at home?" Debbie inquires, her voice changing ever so slightly into a more empathetic tone.
Cruz takes a moment to ponder the question, yet another in a series of conversations they'd been having for the last several months.
"Not really any different. Mamá is still working two shifts, little sisters are messy, brother is fussy, the usual."
"Mm-hm." Debbie takes in the information. "But you?"
"Yeah, yeah. I'm fine."
The Chevy waits patiently. She's not just there to listen because it's her job. She's been there, in these situations, the truth bubbles out eventually. Admitting it openly is half the battle, and Cruz has been doing great.
"I don't know if I can make the qualifiers next month."
"Oh?" Debbie responds calmly.
"I just... They're so... Fort Worth is so far away and there are so many ready-built racers out there these days and – "
"What was your fastest lap time today?"
"Uh, a 34.24."
"And last month?"
"... 34.47 I think. I don't remember."
"And the average Piston Sippy Cup racer's lap time around the speedway in Fort Worth last year?"
"Okay, okay. I get it." Cruz shakes herself as if to shed the negative thoughts like water.
"Logic is a powerful thing, ain't it?" Debbie asks, as though she's asking herself as well.
"I just gotta keep my mind on the lap and my tires on the track."
"Atta girl."
They're silent for a moment as they cross the street to the school property. Students are trickling in slowly, yawning more than talking. It's definitely a Monday.
Cruz picks up on a ticking sound coming from the engine bay of her companion. Hmm. Had she heard that before? She can't place it, but Debbie doesn't seem concerned. The truck is instead watching the students in front of them carefully, as though she can feel their emotions and auras simply through proximity. It's those unrivaled empath abilities that make her such a great guidance counselor.
They enter the building side by side. Cruz takes a right as Debbie swings left toward her office.
"Alright, now, have a good day, Cruz, if you need me you know where I am!"
"Bye Deb- er, Ms. Richardson!"
Debbie smiles, winks at her, and disappears down the corridor.
___
"I just – I feel like I need to do something to help," Cruz says as she stares up at the ceiling. "He just sits there in the back of the class all day and doesn't talk to anyone, and everyone needs a friend, right?"
She's backed into her favorite cushioned parking spot, next to the potted aloe plant that helps vary up the otherwise dull counselor's office. Off-white walls, a few paintings of poorly coordinated colors that the school corporation surely paid too much for, and some personal photos behind Debbie's desk were the only decorations.
"Does he seem upset or sad?" Debbie asks, intently watching Cruz's every reaction.
"Well, no. Just quiet. Is that normal? For cars to be quiet?"
"Some more than others, yes."
"Doesn't everyone need a friend? I don't know that I want to be his friend – I don't really know him. What if he's a creep? What if he doesn't actually want to be around someone else?"
"What's holding you back from finding out?"
Cruz stops and thinks. Is it plausible rejection of a friendly gesture? Embarrassment? Potential, though unlikely, endangerment? Think, Cruz, use your logic.
"I guess... nothing. I guess a "hi, how are you" never hurt anyone, huh?"
Debbie smiles. Cruz is so easy to work with; she solves most of her own problems. The power of listening and asking the right questions – who knew?
"Give 'er a shot! And lemme know what happens," she requests.
"Absolutely." Cruz resolves, tapping the floor firmly with her front left tire.
Cruz is halfway to the door when she comes to a sudden halt, her tires squeaking against the freshly waxed floor.
"Oh! I almost forgot." She turns around. "The whole reason I came in here to see you – look!"
Cruz puts a folded piece of paper on the desk and tries unsuccessfully to hide a huge toothy grin. She's vibrating with excitement.
Debbie knows what it is before she opens it to read it. She, too, can barely contain her excitement.
"I got in! They accepted me!" Cruz squeals.
"Yes! Yes!" Debbie exclaims. "I knew it! See! You've got this in the bag, Cruz!"
"Next weekend, top ten fastest lap times move on to regionals. I'm really going! The qualifiers!"
"Next weekend?" Debbie clarifies. "That's coming quicker than I thought, I'm so excited for you!"
Cruz lets out another squeak and starts to make for the door again. "I should probably go back to class, but I just had to tell you!"
"Of course, of course! Would you like me to come?"
"To Fort Worth? Really?! You'd do that?"
"Heck yeah, girl. I believe in you! You've got your number one fan right here, and I wouldn't miss this if it killed me."
___
Tomorrow is it. The big day. Get these laps in. Keep those times consistent.
"Yes! 34.22! New personal best!" Cruz shouts as she spins in a celebratory donut into the infield.
Even the back runners in the Piston Sippy Cup would have a hard time getting a lap time like that. Cruz takes a moment and closes her eyes. She can feel it. Hot, sticky pavement under her tires, the wind blowing over her, the stands surrounding the track. The screens, the pylons, the everything. Someone is coming over the intercom with a 'Quick tiiiiiiime!" The fans are screaming. Her fans.
She opens her eyes.
Huh. It's 7:45. She's the only one on the track. She's the only one near the track. The bell rings at the school across the road.
Wait, no, there's someone. Coming across the road from the school. Dark, blue... Mr. Lanesly? The principal? Cruz feels herself rolling towards him.
"Ms. Ramirez?" Principal Lanesly calls to her.
Cruz stays silent. She notices a growing, icy cold within her. She notices the blue sedan contrasted against the grey sky. The grey earth. The grey.
"Cruz, can I talk to you for a moment?"
"Where's Debbie?" Cruz blurts. "She should be here."
"Cruz, I know this is going to be hard for you, for all of us, but – "
Cruz knows it is coming. She feels it the way she's always felt it. Something was off. Something was wrong this whole time. An engine shouldn't take three or four good-effort tries to start. Rod knocks and ticking noises aren't something to ignore. Defects aren't something to ignore.
" – engine fires are hard to stop, by the time anyone could get help it was too late."
Cruz shifts her gaze from a distant, hazy point back to her principal. What? What did he just say? She quietly stares at him as an eternity slips by.
"I'm sorry Cruz, she's gone."
Cruz shakes herself. "No, no, no. No."
"I'll excuse your absence today, go ahead and go home if you like," the sedan says quietly.
Go home. Home? At a time like this? No, she promised she'd come to the qualifiers!
Cruz suddenly finds herself on the highway. The shouts of the principal advising safe driving are long behind her. There's nothing but pavement and speed and cold wind and –
She takes a left turn too quickly and slides into a stranger's yard. It doesn't matter, she keeps going. A mile or so down this road is her best friend's house. Her number one fan. The only person to truly support her. She's there, she's got to be. Probably just having trouble getting started, right?
There it is, that little yellow and blue house with the rose bushes out front. So cute, so quaint. They'd had movie night there just last week. Right there, projected against the side of the house, on that perfectly manicured lawn, and they'd forgotten to turn the sprinklers off beforehand...
She's never seen so many cones before in her life. Blocking the yard, the driveway, even the culvert, it's all roped off by police. Halfway down the driveway a large, darkened splotch of pavement disrupts the pristine property. Traces of running fluids and molten plastic are visible from the road. When had this happened? Yesterday everything seemed fine. They'd just booked their hotel rooms in Fort Worth. They'd just memorized the maps on how to get there. Now everything - the ambition, the confidence – swallowed up and burning away in the shadows of that massive scorch mark.
Cruz stops and sits silently at the end of the driveway. Her best friend and most valuable asset, gone? It finally sinks in.
She doesn't remember being escorted home. How long has she been crying? Has she slept? Fainted? Why is someone knocking at the door telling her it's time to go? Go where? Qualifiers? Texas Motor Speedway doesn't exist if Debbie doesn't exist, right?
Mamá is yelling. It's time to go. No options. "Time to learn a lesson," what does that mean? How is she suddenly in Fort Worth?
Wait, who's going to be there to believe in her? To track her lap times?
Who's there?
She's alone.
___
They were all bigger and stronger...
I just left.