Most Likely

Now that I was in the Pro ranks, I was aware that my Pro Amateur tricks were not going to cut it anymore. As such, during our week break until the start of the Survivor Series, Speed and I took the opportunity to work on our cars—okay, scratch that, I was working on the TRX-1 and Sparky was working on the Mach 6. Speed, bless him, was just sitting at the wheel.

I wanted to throw a wrench at him.

"Give her a go, Speed," said Sparky. Speed turned the key in the ignition. The Mach 6 gave a great roar.

"Oh, Sparky, she's a lion!" praised Speed.

"And what was she before?" asked I, coming out from under the TRX-1.

"Compared to this?" he responded. "A kitten."

I wiped my sweaty forehead with my arm. Only seconds after I did look at my hands and realize they were covered in oil. Of course. Stupid me. I growled at myself and then looked up to Speed. Seductively I said, "You know, golden boy, if you're not going to work on your car, you might want to," I looked away coyly, "I don't know," I looked back, "help me with mine?"

He snorted.

"Fine then!" I said in mock anger.

Speed leapt out of the car, held his hand out to me, and demanded, "Pass me a wrench."

"Huh?" I asked. I really hadn't expected that to happen. I admitted, "You know I was kidding, right? I wouldn't expect you to work on a car that's competing against you."

"Well, normally I wouldn't," said Speed. "But not every car that's competing against me has you in it."

"Oh …" I murmured. I picked up my oily wrench and handed it to him. As he reached to take it from me, our hands touched. We gazed into each other's eyes, totally absorbed in the moment. I really hoped he was looking past the smug of black on my face.

"Trixie, you know I—"

He was cut off by the opening of the garage door. Mom Racer, ever-chipper, clapped her hands and said, "Alright, mandatory break, you three. It's lunch time!"

"Coming, Mom," said Speed. He let go of the wrench and followed her back inside the house. Whatever it was he was going to say to me, he'd totally forgotten it.

Sparky followed Speed and Mrs. Racer. I was stuck in the garage alone, wondering what Speed could have possibly started to say. After a moment or two, I stiffened, shouted to myself, "I hate it when this kind of stuff happens!!" got up, and went to wash up.

They should give out medals for being able to wash off motor oil. After four attempts, I could still feel the sleek, greasy fluid all over myself, as if the soap and water had merely made it invisible.

"Sorry I'm late," I said as I jogged into the kitchen and took my seat at the table next to Speed. Just before I sat, I gave Spritle a flick on the head.

"HEY!" he yelled. "Mom! She hit me!"

"You're lucky that's all I did!" I exclaimed, pointing my fork at him. "Don't think I've just forgotten about what you two did!"

"Oh, don't worry," said Mrs. Racer. "They've been punished for that." She looked to Spritle and Chim-Chim, lecturing, "A diary is something very private and not something to be read by nosy little boys and their naughty monkeys!"

"If you don't want someone to read it, why would you write it down?" Spritle asked to no one in particular. Mom Racer and I glanced at each other, as if to admit to one another that he had a point.

"How's the work coming?" asked Mrs. Racer, apparently wishing to change the subject.

"It's going great," replied Speed. "They're not going to know what hit em when we get out there."

"That's right," said Pops, "my boy's in the Survivor Series."

"And Trixie, too," Speed reminded him.

"How do you two feel about competing against one another?" asked Mrs. Racer. Speed squeezed my shoulder briefly. "I feel fine. Trixie's a great driver. And soon she'll show everybody she's the best female Pro racer in the WRL."

"Best 'female' racer?" asked I. "What's that supposed to mean?" Speed could immediately that he said something wrong. He stammered, "W—well …"

"I take it you mean second best?" I asked. "After you?"

Speed's eyes shifted around the room.

"Hey, did anyone see this morning's paper!?" inquired Mrs. Racer, desperately changing the subject again. She pulled out a newspaper and placed it on the table, explaining, "I wanted to get you both in the same room before I showed this to you!"

Speed and I peered over our food to the paper. The front page had a picture of us on it, one of the many taken at Thunderhead, with a headline above it reading: "RACING'S NEW POWER COUPLE TEARS UP TRACK!"

"Cool beans!" I declared. I picked it up to take a closer look. Below our picture said: "Speed Racer and Girlfriend Prove a Force to be Reckoned With."

'Girlfriend,' they called me, like I didn't have a name! I suppressed a growl.

"Well, don't just stare at it!" said Spritle. "What does it say?!"

I cleared my throat and started reading, "Yesterday at Thunderhead Raceway, the participants of next week's Survivor Series were determined. Among them is, expectantly, last year's Grand Prix winner, Speed Racer. Joining him is his steady and chaste lady-love, Trixie Racer." I stared at the words, "Trixie Racer?"

"I guess we must be married," said Speed. "Hey, we should put a pillow under your shirt and go out in public and see if they think you're preg…" he saw his mother's less-than -amused face and slowly finished the word, "…nant." He smiled awkwardly, rolled his eyes, and looked back to the paper with me.

I continued, "The young lady has quickly climbed herself through the ranks of Amateur and Pro Amateur all the way to Pro in less than a year, proving herself no shrinking violet. The two are already becoming favorites to make it to the 92nd annual Grand Prix. Racing fanatics are hoping for a team up. If the two Racers comply, they could be the first husband and wife team in over two decades … And then it starts talking about Richard and Mary Parker."

"Didn't they get divorced?" asked Speed.

"Um … yeah," I said, skimming through the rest of the article. Their divorce happened soon after Richard won the Grand Prix.

Oh, that's a great story.

I handed the paper back to Mom Racer. She folded it and said, "I'm going to frame this up and put it up in your room, Trixie."

"Thank you, Mrs. Racer," I said. I wasn't going to tell her I really rather not have it there. It made me uneasy. Speed, on the complete opposite end of the spectrum, was totally fine and eating happily.

That night, at around two in the morning, I woke up from my slumber, rather thirsty, I felt for my doorknob in the dark, turned it, and snuck out my room. As I past Spritle's room, I could hear him and Chim-Chim snoring peacefully. Thank God!

I went to the kitchen, flipped on the light switch, took a glass, poured myself some water from the tap, flipped the switch back off, and started walking back to my room. While walking past Mom and Pops' room, I bumped into somebody. Scared it was an intruder, I gasped, preparing to scream, but he grabbed me and put a hand over my mouth.

"Shh, Trixie!" whispered a familiar voice. "I want to listen!"

"Speed?!" I asked, speech muffled behind his hand. He let me go and explained, "I heard my name. I think they're talking about us." He put his ear up to the door.

"Damn it!" he mumbled. "I can hardly hear anything!" I looked down to my quarter-full glass. I drank the last bit of water and handed it to him, "Here."

"Thanks," he said. He placed it up to the door and put his ear on the other side. Moments later he snorted, "Ridiculous."

"What?" I whispered. "What are they saying?" He pointed at the glass and said, "Listen for yourself."

I kneeled by the door and put my ear up to the glass. Mom and Pops were arguing … very rationally, I might add. When I was a kid, and still at home, my parents never argued rationally. There was always yelling.

"Come on, honey, give him a little more credit than that," said Pops.

"You know how competitive Speedy gets!" she retorted. "What if she starts winning and he gets jealous? What if she loses and he starts thinking less of her because she's not as good as he is?" She paused and sighed, "I just don't think any of it is a good idea."

I lifted my head from the glass. I held it tightly and removed it from the door. My head flew directly to Speed. I could barely see him in the darkness. To him I said, with less conviction than I was gunning for, "You're right. Totally ridiculous."

It wasn't ridiculous. If anything could tear me and Speed apart, it was racing. After all, in high school, I was voted "Most Likely to Get Dumped for a Race Car."

He sensed my worry, I think, because he touched his lips to the top of my head and held me close. He began to say, "Trixie, I …"

But then I started to cry.

I didn't want to, but I did. The tears hit his chest. Gently he put his hands on either side of my face to stare into my eyes. He wiped the tears with his thumb. "Hey, bright eyes, don't do that. We'll be alright. We're Speed and Trixie!"

"I know," I said, nodding. I threw my arms around his waist, holding him tightly, like if I loosened my grip, he would slip through my fingers like sand. Pushing him into my body, hoping maybe we would blend together and then I wouldn't have to ever worry about parting from him again.

There were nights where I didn't want to go to sleep. Instead, I wanted to stay up and live that day for the rest of my life. The day Speed kissed me at the Grand Prix was one of those. But, as much as I didn't want to, I always fell asleep and started a new day when I woke up.

That night, all I wanted to do was sleep. I wanted to sleep and store that conversation between Mom and Pops so far in my mind that I wouldn't be sure if it was a dream or not when I awoke. I wanted a new day to start right on the spot. But all I could do was think about what Mom Racer had prophesized

I never got to sleep.