Shift

“With Dustin driving? I’d sure hate to be in one of the other cars.”

I chuckle against the can and meet my dad’s sideways glance with my own. He winks as the race kicks off and we both consume ourselves with the track below. Fifteen laps for qualifying. It’s twenty-five for the final. I know Dustin and my brother are going to be doing this with bigger cars one day, the sponsorship sticker-covered kind that get hauled around the country on eighteen-wheelers. I bet Dustin will have his own life-size cutout one day, too.

As expected, Dustin cuts his way to the front of the pack before the second lap is done. He’s sitting comfortably in fourth, and though one more spot might get him a better start for the final, he doesn’t need to do more than finish where he’s at. Dustin likes starting from behind, though.

“Kid’s a chaser, and he likes to have an enemy,” my dad always says.

I always thought that made sense with the competitive side I’ve seen of Dustin at school during recess kickball games or when we got older and he played flag football with my brother. He’s always an impossible defender, fast enough to run anyone down. But now that I’ve seen the guy who might be his dad—and stared into his dark, coal eyes—my dad’s words conjure a different meaning. Maybe Dustin has one enemy, and I’m not so sure he’s chasing him as much as ru

This is the part of the race when I can usually sit back and relax, but my dad is still poised, leaning forward and surveying every camp spot around the track. It’s making me do it too. I’m not sure whether it’s good or bad, but as Dustin finishes his twelfth lap, my eyes land on our target.

“I found him. Dad!” I point as my dad leans against my shoulder to follow my sightline, and as soon as he sees the man I’m signaling to, he hops over the short embankment wall in front of us and jogs down the hill to where my brother is cheering on his driver.

I glance around at our stuff. We don’t have anything worth much except the binoculars, so I stuff those in the front pocket of my hoodie and head down the hill in my father’s footsteps. The sun is finally warming things up, and my dark hair sticks to my neck and face. I’ll be melting under the sweatshirt soon, so as I walk I pull the string from the hood and use it to tie my hair back before freeing myself of the sweatshirt, opting to carry it like a bundle. I step up next to my dad and set my things on the ground between my feet, looking up as Dustin whips by at the final curve.

“Go, Dustin!” I shout as he passes. He doesn’t balk. He says he can hear me, though, even with his helmet on and the rumble of the track drowning out the world, so I always cheer.

My dad digs his feet into the gravel and folds his arms across his chest. His sunglasses are the kind that wrap around his face, which makes it hard to tell what he’s looking at. Based on the flex of his biceps and the way he positioned himself between me and the bearded man walking our direction, I have a pretty good idea where his eyes are fixed.

“You must be Tom,” the man says, reaching to one side and hitching up his slouching jeans as he walks. He runs his palm along his hip before holding it outstretched. My dad pauses for a second before gripping it.

“Colt, right?”

My dad’s forearm is flexed.

“Riiiiiight,” Colt answers, dragging the word out as a smirk takes over his face. Both men let go from their shake, their faces reflected in each other’s lenses.

I lean forward to look around the standoff at my brother, hoping he has a better idea about what’s going on, but he’s more focused on Dustin’s route. I have a feeling he’s trying to ignore our guest, and I wonder how much he knows about Dustin’s parents.

“You living down here now?” my dad asks, pulling my attention back to their conversation. I tie the sleeves of my hoodie around my waist and pull the binoculars out to make myself look busy while I listen. I follow every curve Dustin takes, all the inches he shaves off of the next guy’s lead with every line he makes on the track. I could get lost in watching his details but I’m only halfway invested because of the conversation happening a few feet to my left.

“Oh, here, there, a little bit of everywhere.” Colt coughs through his laugh and I note that my dad doesn’t make a sound.

“I hear Trisha’s got a job,” he says.

“Mmm, yeah,” my dad responds. Trisha’s Dustin’s mom. I’ve seen her a few times at school for pick up and drop off. Seems she’s always working because every time Dustin spends the weekend at our house it’s because his mom has a shift. She works at the gas station convenience store right off the highway. It’s the only thing open twenty-four hours a day along the route up north.

“That’s good. Good,” Colt says.

I hold the binoculars out a fraction, giving myself enough space to look to my side and study Colt and his movements and expressions. He’s jerky, his face constantly moving with these slight ticks, and he keeps stretching out his jaw, moving the bottom half of his mouth around as if it’s some independent piece he can snap in and out of place at will.

I miss Dustin’s next pass at our curve because I’m so busy inspecting the man who’s supposedly his father. I refocus my attention to the track but my ear stays tuned on the conversation taking place next to me. My dad sounds angry. Not irate angry, the way he gets when Tommy comes home with an F or when one of us leaves the milk out on the counter, but a low-key kind of simmer . It’s obvious my dad doesn’t like Colt. But his tone says more than simple dislike—I get the feeling my dad doesn’t trust him, which makes me not trust him either.

“He’s making a move,” Tommy shouts back toward us over his shoulder. My brother’s moved closer to the track and I join him, abandoning my eavesdropping in favor of rooting on my friend.

“Come on, Dustin. Come on!” I growl loud enough for Tommy to hear but nobody else. Not even Dustin, this time. He’s going too fast to hear anything other than his own voice telling him what to do, where to cut, and how to get what he wants.

This is when he’s at his best. Two laps. Eleven turns on the track. Three cars in front. In theory, he’s only racing the clock right now. It’s a qualifying heat. But for Dustin, there’s always someone to fight, to be better than.

My dad moves into the space next to me, and I breathe out a short sigh in relief. Short, because Colt steps in on my father’s other side. He hasn’t moved on or gone to watch from somewhere else. He’s settled in. Attached himself. As if he’s maybe staying awhile.

A long stretch of straightaway points right at us, and I count in my head the turns Dustin has left before he heads our way. My brother’s fists are clenched, as if he’s guiding the kart himself, holding the steering column taut and praying the tires hold their path.

“Come on, Dusty. Come on,” my brother grits out.

I hold my breath as our friend finishes the final turn and manages to gain half a length on the kart in front of him. The euphoria is fleeting. Dustin never makes eye contact with us while he’s driving. It’s been that way since he hopped behind the wheel in their very first kart and practiced driving down our street. He’s always been a natural, focused to a fault. But something has his eyes today. Through the slit in his helmet, I can tell his eyes are not narrowed on the road. They’re locked on us—or rather, the man standing alongside us.

My brother somehow knows Dustin’s speed and angle are off and calculates the situation with only a second or two to spare.