"Can I come in yet?" Cal asks.
"No!" came the response.
He hears shuffling behind the closed door. An enthusiastic 'hrmph' as something thuds in the room beyond makes Cal smile. His kid had worked hard and long to get this far. Well, as hard as a young, newly manufactured adult could in his first few months of conscious life.
Adam's hard work had paid in dividends – it was clear there was a lot of Weathers mojo coursing through him. He's a natural winner, a good sport, and most of all, a kind soul.
And now, it's time.
"Alright," Adam calls through the door, his voice muffled. "Open sesame, old man!"
Cal lets out a laugh. "Old man? I ain't that old. I'm gonna come in there and give you some perspective, kiddo."
He pushes open the door and comes to a halt. The room is… clean. Yesterday it had been plastered with old, wrinkled posters. You would have never been able to tell who his favorite racer was, as he represented them all. But now the walls are barren, save a tasteful Dinoco neon clock, some genuine race memorabilia, and a new set of shelving. Heck, even the bed is made.
"Wow." Cal compliments him. "I don't think this room has been this clean since we moved in here – that was before your time. I'm impressed!"
"Yeah? I thought it was time."
Cal then realizes that Adam isn't actually in the room. His dampened voice is coming from the closet. Cal rolls his eyes and grins.
"Well, you gonna keep me hanging or what? Let me see it!"
The closet door nudges open to reveal blindingly bright neon orange paint, accented with white and blue – Dinoco blue. A styled number '45' and a genuine set of sticker Lightyear racing tires finish the design out nicely.
Cal's smile widens into a beam. It's contagious. To be honest, Adam hasn't stopped smiling since he left the paint booth uptown. This is it – this is what it feels like to be one step closer to his goal.
"Dang, son." Cal evaluates him, drives around him, and stops to stare again. "Dinoco looks good on you! The Piston Sippy Cup ain't ready for this."
"Yeah?" Adam looks down at his hood. "You don't think the color's too much?"
"You're a racecar, Adam, racecars don't care what sort of obnoxious colors they wear."
"Sponsors gotta market."
"I think it looks good, though. Suits you until you earn the blue for the Piston Cup."
Adam's brown eyes lift from his hood to his father. The pride between them is tangible. This is part of why he does what he does. Racing, making the family proud? It's everything.
"But, anyway," Adam redirects Cal's attention away from his new outfit. "Do you like what I did with the shelves? Thought they made a nice trophy case. For starters, anyway. I plan on adding more, obviously."
Cal looks beyond his son. The kid's makeshift trophy case isn't half bad, it's much better than what had once been a pile of awards and accolades collecting dust in the far corner of the room. Adam had polished them and organized them earlier – the most pertinent ones now boasted the forefront while the others created a busy backdrop.
"Still awful proud of that Dirt Bowl Series championship, kid," Cal says more seriously. "When the Piston Cup announced a dirt track series, I never thought the inaugural champion would be one of my own."
"Geez, dad, don't get all sentimental on me," Adam cringes a little. "We're the Weathers' – winning is what we do. That's one championship trophy, and there's more to come."
"I'm just sayin', looks nice up there with all the others. I'm proud of you."
Adam takes a moment and relives that victory. His entire family had been there – even his great uncle. The trophy shines as bright in his memories as it does on that shelf in the direct light.
It's going to take a lot more than tarnish to wipe that memory.