Friendly Competition
That day at Thunderhead was the last race of the Pro Qualifier. I, being a Pro Amateur, was anxious to make it. If I did, I could finally call myself a Pro. I grasped my hand to my helmet and left the locker room, my black heels click-clacking behind me.
The path from the lockers to the track had a fork in it. One side, I supposed, was for the men and the other for the women. Sauntering from the right side of the fork was my favorite of my competitors in this race: Speed.
"Hi, Speed," I said, giving him a small wave. His face lit up as soon as he saw me. It was cute, almost like we were little kids again. He had his helmet under his right arm.
"Are you ready, Trixie?" he asked.
"I have to be, don't I?" replied I. He chuckled feebly, "I guess you do." He offered his arm, "Shall we?" I put my hand through the crook of his arm, "We shall." And together we went to face the crowd ahead.
Our cars were already lined up on the gray and orange start line. My TRX-1 was stationed to the right and slightly behind Speed's Mach 6. We threw our helmets over our heads and slipped inside our vehicles.
I took an opportunity to look at the scenery before we got going and it became little less than a blur. Thunderhead Raceway might have been called so just because it was so bright. There were neon lights and illuminated billboard advertisements that brightened the night so much it could have been broad daylight. Above our heads were balloons in the shape of people's heads.
"What's that about?" I asked no one in particular.
"3…"
The countdown was starting. I turned my key in the ignition. The engine started to purr. I made a satisfied chuckle.
"2 …"
Speed once told me that if I accelerated at just the right moment, I would get a boost, but I never did get the hang of it. Just for the hell of it, I started accelerating as the PA said 'two.'
"1 … GO!!"
My car darted off the start line at 380 mph! I couldn't see anything on either side of me. I wasn't used to such high speed so early in a race. I usually built myself up. Gradually, the track came back into view, and I could see Speed chuckling at me.
"You finally got it," he said, slightly stunned. "How did it feel?"
"I think I left all my internal organs at the start line!"
"They'll catch up with you pretty soon," he assured me. "And when they do … please turn to the other side of the track."
"We'll see," I replied. "Where are the rest of the cars?"
"Behind us," he said. I glanced in my rearview mirror. There they were. I felt rather accomplished in that moment.
"Turn!" he called. In unison we went into a drift to avoid hitting the side of the track. I am, if I do say so, a better drifter than Speed. I've always had more control. He scraped a bit on the neon side with flashing arrows pointing forward.
"Ramp jump!" I called moments later. We went into the air, side by side, it was rather romantic. We stared at each other, made unison 360° turns, and landed back on the track with a thump. The crowd started to chant, "SPEED! SPEED! SPEED!"
That kind of stuff always happened when Speed did a stunt. People loved him. He had natural charisma. Not like me.
But my self-pity was suddenly broken by the shout of some girl coinciding with the slogan on her hand drawn sign: "I LOVE YOU, SPEED!!"
"What?!" I shrieked, seething. I got so distracted that I pulled my car into an unintentional half-pipe jump. I cursed myself, "Oh great, just great!" I rolled through the air and back by Speed's side.
"Jealous much?" asked Speed.
"Oh, shut up and drive" I said. He did as I said, but he was still laughing like a hyena. I would have thrown my helmet at his head, but he was wearing one, too, and that would have kind of defeated the purpose.
"Fan girls," I muttered, wishing I could cross my arms and instead just sucking my teeth.
"You know I'm all yours," he promised.
"Yeah, sure," I replied. "I just wish they did!"
We came upon the finish line, he less than a second before me.
"And the winner of the Pro Qualifier is … SPEED RACER!" called the anonymous person over the PA. At the announcement, Mom and Pops Racer came running up to us.
"Oh, Speed, Trixie, we are so proud of you!" said Mrs. Racer. She brought a camera, "Smile, you two." I put up my black visor and the two of us leaned closer together. There were a thousand flashes that appeared in unison with Mrs. Racer's. Speed and I both turned away and blinked furiously. As if the track wasn't bright enough itself.
The next day we got invitations informing us we had been accepted into the Survivor Series. Speed was ecstatic. I mean, I was happy, too, but Speed looked like he could have bounced off the walls.
"Don't you see how big this is, Trixie!?" he asked. "It's the first step to this year's Grand Prix!"
"That's what you said about the Pro Qualifier," I reminded him.
"Well, that was like a baby step," he said. "This is a real step." I kissed his cheek, "Okay, Speedy, you keep stepping. I'm going to change for breakfast." I trotted up the stairs to my room. As I got closer to the top, I could hear voices. Then I heard the shouting of a monkey.
"Spritle and Chim-Chim," I said to myself. But it didn't sound like it was coming from their room. I went to my door and heard Spritle reading something aloud. It was something I remembered all too well.
"I don't know why I like him so much. He thinks we're just friends; I know it. He much rather race than be with me. I wish I could tell him how I feel, but I'm so scared. I don't want to lose Speed as a pal if I can't be his girlfriend."
He made a noise that sounded like vomiting followed by an utterance of, "Girls." The little brat was reading my high school diary!!
I burst through the door and yelled, "What exactly do you little sneaks think you're doing?!"
"Nuthin,'" said Spritle innocently.
"What's that book in your hand?" I asked. He looked at his palm, "Uh … this?"
"Yeah, that!" I screamed. "The book that clearly says 'Property of Trixie: Touch and DIE!'" Spritle looked at the front cover, "Oh, would you look at that …"
"AHHHHHHHHH!!" I screamed. Spritle and Chim-Chim glanced at each other and started to run.
"You get back here!" I yelled. "I'm gonna scramble you worse than eggs! You won't even be able to recognize each other when I'm done with you!!"
We ran by the kitchen table, past Speed, who was eating his breakfast pancakes. He had a piece on his fork and halfway to his mouth before he stopped to watch the three of us. He didn't seem to find any reason to stop me, apparently, because all he did was shrug, stick the fork in his mouth, and eat.
