Shift

4 YEARS AGO

The trip from our hometown of Camp Verde to the track south of Tucson is always miserable. It’s a long drive, yeah, but it’s also littered with traffic, even at the crack of dawn. The constant starting and stopping has made my stomach turn over at least a dozen times, and Tommy keeps trying to force me to sit up in the cab of the truck with our dad. I probably should, but if I move up there, I won’t be able to hear my brother and Dustin talk. The growl of the roadway is too loud to hear people in the camper through the small window from the cab.

That’s probably exactly what Tommy wants. My brother is fourteen and a freshman, so he’s into girls and smoking weed and looking at porn. The last two things he doesn’t know I know about. He’s been going back and forth with Dustin for the last hour telling super dirty jokes that my dad would hate. I think the two of them are trying to make me blush, but instead I keep laughing, even at the ones I don’t understand.

I don’t get embarrassed. Not easily, at least. I think I owe that to the fact that most of my life has been spent under the wings of these two. If I’m a hard nut to crack, it’s only because they made me one.

Tommy’s phone battery ran out about halfway here. He never leaves his phone on the charger overnight, and he always asks to borrow mine when this happens. My brother would never take my phone from me, though. He’s actually very protective when it comes to anyone threatening me physically. That doesn’t mean he won’t resort to a classic guilt trip. He almost had me giving in about fifty miles ago, with his sad puppy eyes and promises to let me drive the kart through the dirt hills at night next week. Dustin made him stop pressuring me before I gave in. As protective as Tommy is over me, Dustin’s sense of duty is even stronger. I think it’s because he sees me as an extension of his best friend, and he’d do anything for my brother.

The truck chassis dips and I knock my head into the back window from the harsh bump in the road as we turn off the highway, finally reaching the track. The sun is up, and we’re later than my brother and Dustin like to be for the event.

“I told you we should have left at four,” my brother shouts, pounding his fist against the glass that separates my dad from us. My father turns to the side and glares at my brother with a weighted brow, a warning shot to get his temper in check if he wants any semblance of freedom this weekend.

“You know he hates this drive,” I say in defense of my dad, and maybe a little to admonish my brother.

“You know he hates this drive.” The voice Tommy uses to imitate mine is shrill and nasally—and nothing like me. I flip him off as my dad lowers the tailgate.

“You see that?” Tommy points over his shoulder at me as he slides out of the back.

“Yeah.” My dad sighs. “I’m sure you deserved it.”

I pucker a smile at my brother, but it fades under my dad’s shadow as he peers under the camper shell to stare at me.

“Sorry,” I mutter.

He shakes his head and leaves the back end of the truck open for me to gather my things. I’ve learned to bring my own chair for these races. I end up following my dad and the boys all over the place, but mostly, it’s a lot of standing. I learned fast that I prefer a lot of sitting.

I pile my blanket and backpack on my chair inside the foldable wagon we use to haul our cooler and water for the day. The boys are already disco

Most girls my age would probably be pretty bitter about spending their thirteenth birthday in the middle of a dirt track with their brother and his best friend all day, but I can’t think of any place I’d rather be. Besides, I like the hot dogs the food trucks make at these things, and my mom’s making my favorite cake for when we get home. This is kinda my dream birthday lunch and di

Despite the long drive to Southpointe Raceway, this place will always be my favorite. Maybe because it’s the first place my brother and Dustin ever raced. They were seven; I was six. We’ve come a long way from the kiddie karts they started in. They’ve graduated to the biggest tracks they can get on before that next big step—stock. That’s always been the dream. I’m not even sure who came up with it first, Dustin or my brother. I only remember they started messing around with an old kart my dad picked up at a rummage sale and days later, this long-term vision was locked in.

There was also never any question that Dustin would drive. Not that my brother can’t drive; he just doesn’t have the edge it takes to win. Dustin, though? He’s all edge. My dad told me that most people are born with their own limiters, just like cars. His and Tommy’s, and even mine, are set a little higher than average. We like to compete. Dad says his passion for wi

Dustin? He lit the rulebook on fire the moment he was born. If the rule is “no ru

“Short-sighted.” That’s the one phrase I remember my dad lecturing him about when he came in third last month. My brother tunes out the things my dad says during our drives home, but not Dustin. He’s engaged the entire way, even if he’s mad as hell about losing a race. That’s what gives him his edge—he’s willing to listen to what he did wrong. He’s not willing to change, though. Sure, he’ll shave off a bad habit here and there, but when a race comes down to the wire, his instinct to become ice cold takes over and nothing can stop him from driving his way.

“Hey, you’re that kid’s sister, that Tommy kid or whatevah, right?” I turn toward the voice barking at me from above. There’s a huge bar in the middle of the racing complex with seating around the outside. It’s a great view, but every time I try to sit up there someone kicks me out.

“I’m Ha

“You tell Dustin I showed up . . . like I said I would.” The man looking down at me has a shaved head and a long beard that twists to a point at the base of his throat. He pushes his reflective sunglasses down his nose to peer at me over the tops with his deep black eyes that somehow look like holes under the dawn light. His white T-shirt isn’t very clean, and neither are his jeans, kinda like he’s been walking around the track in them for a day or two. Maybe he lives out here.

“Who are you?” I bunch up my mouth and cock my head to the side as if I’m actually the tough girl I pretend to be. I certainly dressed the part today, wearing a pair of Tommy’s old jeans with holes in the knees and my gray Thrasher hoodie. My muscles are primed to drop my wagon handle and sprint toward the boys if I have to. I wish I had gum in my mouth; I look tougher when I’m chewing gum.